The neighborhood was quiet at 3:00 a.m. Bugs flew in the yellow halo around the street lights, and the half moon gave a gray cast to the coveted homes along the Boulevard. It was the kind of home his mother had dreamed of having, the kind that had always been out of her reach.
The air reeked with greed and ambition. The Avenger, as he liked to call himself, walked in front of those houses, carrying his load in a backpack, thinking maybe he should double back just to blow up some of the BMWs parked in the driveways. Wouldn’t it be a thrill to watch from somewhere on the street as businessmen came out of those houses, briefcases in hand, and slipped into their cars? If they all went up at the same time . . . mushroom clouds of fire whooshing over each house in choreographed order . . .
But that was a fantasy for another day. Today only one car would go up like that.
The Avenger strode around the corner to a street where smaller houses lined the road. Though they weren’t as expensive and extravagant as those on the Boulevard, they were still out of his mother’s reach. Destined to live in a rotting rat hole, she papered her moldy bathroom with pictures from Southern Living. These weren’t mansions, but they were big and new. He was sure no mold grew on the attic walls. No cracks ripped the sheetrock in the living rooms. No paint peeled. No sounds of rats scratching through the walls. The people who lived here probably weren’t business owners. They were the goons who worked for them, but they were still snotty and superior.
Steam fogged in front of the Avenger’s face with every breath as he approached the Covington house. One lamp shone in a room on the side. Out of sight, he’d followed twenty-year-old Emily home a while ago. Now she probably lay tucked in her bed with some feather comforter that cost a mint, smug about her sobriety. Oblivious.
Like always, she hadn’t pulled her car into the garage where her mother’s car sat. Hers was on the driveway.
The Avenger set his package down beside her car.
Right here, under the wheel well . . . that was the best place. He took the jar half-filled with gasoline and the roll of duct tape from his backpack and ripped off enough to tape the bottle under the car, careful not to cover the lamp cord coming from the hole he’d punched in the jar’s lid. The gloves on his hands made it difficult work, but he didn’t give up. When he’d gotten the bottle in place, he checked to make sure it wasn’t leaking. The small amount of gasoline seemed stable. The bottle was angled so it wouldn’t leak.
Now if he could just find the right place to connect the other end. He pulled the lamp cord out from under the front of the car, then quietly opened the hood. It made a clicking sound. He froze, looking from left to right. No one stirred at this hour. He shone his flashlight to the place where he needed to connect the cord.
He held the small flashlight in his teeth as he found the spot in the wiring that would ignite his bomb.
The Avenger chuckled to himself as he closed the hood as quietly as possible, pressing down until it engaged. He checked to make sure the cord coming from under the car into the motor wasn’t noticeable. If someone knew to look for it, it might be. But he doubted Emily would see it walking out to her car.
If this worked the way it was supposed to, the bomb would explode when Emily started the car. She would probably escape, but hopefully, she’d be wounded or burned. And she and her family would be terrorized. He’d make them homeless by making them fear their home, and that would just be the beginning.
He chuckled as he gathered his equipment. Then he dropped his gloves into his bag and walked slowly back up the street to where he’d left his car. He reveled in the sense of power his actions had given him. He would never be powerless again.
Too bad he hadn’t had an audience tonight. That would have made it so much sweeter. But manipulating victims like chess pieces was almost as good.
It was cold, but the thrill of victory warmed him. He thought about the stash he’d left in his glove compartment, his reward for carrying out his plan. He’d wait until he got home, to the privacy of his basement, and when he was high, he’d go back and carry out the rest of his plan. And what a genius plan it was.
Headlights turned onto the street, illuminating him like a stage star. He pulled up his hood and looked down at the sidewalk as the car slowly passed. As soon as darkness enveloped him again, he broke into a trot back to his car.
There was still so much to do. He had to go take care of Devon, put a gun to her head, watch her bleed. He’d planned it for weeks, waited for the right mixture of courage and cockiness. He’d found it tonight. Freedom had been birthed inside him with one act of will. Now he could set everything right. He’d continue exacting revenge on all those who’d messed with him. So much fallout. So many consequences.
He was the great Avenger.