The human neck is a complex, vital, miraculous thing.
To think I made it in my womb is wild. The arteries, the nerves, the muscles, the wind pipe, the esophagus. The spine.
Humans can’t survive if the neck is breached properly. When done with homicidal intent, slicing through the front of the throat opens up vital arteries and severs the wind pipe—which makes it impossible to get breath to the lungs.
And without breath, well, you can’t do much except die.
The two security agents breath steadily, safely sedated in the sitting room of Richard Chiles’s suite. Blue and I enter the darkened bedroom. The drapes are pulled, the streetlights outside haloing the edges. I close the door with a soft click. Blue’s nose swipes my fingers. I stand there for a long moment, letting my eyes adjust.
A bed forms out of the shadows—a king with four posts...perfect for tying my victim to. I cross the plush carpeting.
“Vital signs?” I ask.
“You could perform surgery on him and he wouldn’t notice.” Mulberry’s voice comes through the earpiece.
“I’d want him awake for that.”
He laughs softly, the sound so close it feels like Mulberry is there, lips pressed to my ear.
Richard’s chest rises in deep even breaths. His face is slack and soft in sleep, skin pale in the darkness.
Robert once told me he knew I trusted him because he could watch me sleep—a creepy but apt observation. We are the most dangerous of predators but also easy enough prey. Humans have none of the thick skin or sharp teeth and tusks of game designed for survival. We are soft. Smart but soft. What we have is our big brains and honed instincts.
It’s obvious Richard is drugged because I’m standing over his bed, my gaze on his face, and he isn’t even twitching. The prey animal who lives inside all of us would stir if it sensed me here.
Placing the backpack on the floor, I’m careful to be quiet even though it’s not necessary. Opening the front pocket, I pull out a pair of surgical gloves. Their packaging is already open…again for a quiet we don’t really need. I pull the thin blue gloves on, the unique sweet scent of latex perfuming the air.
I find my four coils of rope—looped and tied off in soft knots easily undone—in the main pocket of the backpack. They feel sticky against the latex gloves, catching on them in a way that didn’t happen with my skin. Which is why Simon had me practice with my gloves on.
Circling the bed, I tie a rope to each post, using the constrictor knots Simon taught me. Knots so hard to undo they usually need to be cut off.
I return to the top of the bed, to Richard’s right side. He’s splayed in the middle, his hands curled softly on top of the covers. A feathery dusting of black hair coats a bare forearm. There’s a scar on the pale underside, it’s fresh, still bright pink. A slash, like someone scratched him deeply. Maybe it was a cat. Maybe it was a little girl he was kidnapping to manipulate a Homeland Security agent…
Wrapping my gloved hand around his right wrist, I pull the arm closer. Richard doesn’t stir. The warmth of his skin seeps through the latex barrier between us. His breath continues in deep, even swells.
I wrap the rope around his wrist twice, careful to keep the coils close. Holding the working end, I cross it over the top at the center of the two loops before sliding it under the coils and pulling it through the other side. I bring the end over the top again, tucking it under the first pass. Pulling the rope taut cinches down the knot on his wrist, pressing into his skin.
The constrictor knot should never be used on a consenting partner since it can be impossible to untie…but Richard isn’t consenting and cutting off the circulation to his hands and feet won’t be his biggest concern. The blood gushing from his carotid arteries will likely overshadow the unpleasant numbness of his fingers and toes.
I move down toward his feet. When I push aside the thick duvet his feet flinch, like little creatures who don’t want to be disturbed in their warm burrow.
Gently taking hold of his right ankle, I drag it toward the post. The warmth of his skin and the steady beat of his heart leeches through the latex. I tie another constricting knot around his ankle, and continue around the bed to repeat the operation on his left leg and arm. Blue’s nose brushes my hip as I finish with his left hand.
Stepping back, I pull off the Prada coat, laying it on the dresser. Returning to the backpack, I pull out the painter’s onesie—white and made of some material that blends plastic with cotton so that when paint…or blood…splashes on it your clothing is protected. Wouldn’t want to stain my T-shirt, even if it’s only Fruit of Loom from a three-pack.
Pulling the hood of the painter’s onesie up, I secure it over my hair and ears so that just my face is exposed. The material crinkles as I bend down to remove the syringe in its black leather case. Laying it on the floor, I take out the hard plastic scalpel holder.
Rising to stand, I carry both cases over to the bed, each step crinkling. Richard lies spread-eagled, the thick cream-colored comforter still covering the bulk of his body—but his arms and legs are exposed, secured to the dark wood posts with the blood-red rope.
Pillows support his head and pile against the bed frame. I pull them away, tossing the pillows onto the floor. His head flops back, exposing his throat. A thrill runs over my body at the sight.
Grabbing the comforter, I yank it off him. Richard is wearing a pair of boxer briefs and nothing else. His chest rises and falls gently even as goose bumps raise at the sudden brush of cold air. His broad shoulders are bunched from the angle of his arms. Dark hair spreads across the sculpted muscles of his chest, thickening as it crosses his stomach and then disappears into the waistband of his black shorts.
I climb onto the bed, the mattress depressing under my knee. Straddling Richard, I settle my weight on his hips and open the syringes’ carrying case. The medication inside will counteract the drugs already in his system—bringing him back to the world of the living so that he’s conscious when I send him permanently to the land of the dead.
I plunge the needle into his neck. He winces and takes in a sharp breath. Depressing the plunger, I watch the liquid empty into him. Pulling it out, I return the syringe to its case before pulling out one of my scalpels and pressing it against his throat.
“Wakey wakey,” I say, giving his cheek a little slap with my free hand. Richard’s eyelids, heavy from the medication, struggle to lift. He licks his lips as his eyes flutter.
It takes a long moment for them to focus but when he finally sees me hovering over him, his body jerks, bringing his neck against my blade. “Shhhh,” I soothe. “Relax, we wouldn’t want to accidentally cut your throat. How would you tell all your lies?” His eyes flick around his bedroom. “No one is here to save you,” I say.
“What do you want?” he asks, his tongue still thick from the drugs but his eyes starting to clear.
“We will get to that in a minute. First, tell me, did you really expect to get away with blaming Joyful Justice for your acts of terror?”
His heartbeat thumps against my knuckles where they touch the side of his neck. “What?” he asks, anger sparking in his gaze. We had a deal.
“I said, did you really expect to get away with blaming Joyful Justice? Haven’t you heard about us? We’re not to be fucked with...I’m pretty sure that’s our tag line, though I’ll admit PR is not my department.” He stares at me, not getting my jokes. “I’m in the break into senators’ bedrooms and flay them department.” His eyes widen at that. He doesn’t get my jokes, but he does get my threats. Noted.
“I told you, I was just using the intelligence we had. We had a deal.”
“Really, Dick? And what about when you kidnapped Consuela’s niece. What intelligence were you using then?”
“I didn’t—”
I press the knife hard enough to bead blood, shutting him up. “I hate liars. It’s a pet peeve of mine.” He swallows. “I know what you did. Murdering Eunice Jackson isn’t a crime I can let slip.”
“What do you want?” he asks again.
“I want you to die...painfully.” Something flickers behind his eyes. He’s starting to cotton on to my plans. He’s also starting to sober up.
Richard’s arms tense against the ropes. His abs flex under my thighs. “You won’t be able to escape,” I tell him. “And there is no one coming to save you. Because Robert Maxim gifted you to me. As an anniversary present. He’s such a thoughtful husband.”
The whites of his eyes flash, realization striking that Robert set him up.
“He never said Joyful Justice had his protection.”
“It doesn’t.” I shake my head, my smile growing manic. “But it has mine. And I’m much more dangerous than Robert Maxim.” His name comes out a hiss—I am a snake coiled to strike.
“Think about the power.” It comes out a rumble—a deep yearning vibrates in Richard’s voice. But I don’t want power the way he wants it. It’s not a possession to me. It’s not a toy. To me power is the ability to exact justice. To him it is a raw, wild thing to tame and use as one wishes. Which is why I’m the one about to cut his throat. I am the raw wild thing. But I cannot be tamed.
“You tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.” His tone is not edged with desperation. He assumes there is a way out of this—he assumes he’s not about to die. “Your friend, Dan Burke. You want him. I can get him for you.”
My jaw tightens. I do want him.
“Where is Dan?”
Richard swallows, his throat bobbing under my blade. “You won’t be able to get to him without me.”
“You don’t think Robert can help me?”
“The question is whether he will.”
Oh Dicky, you are good… “Why wouldn’t he?” I ask. “He gave me you; what makes you think Robert would deny me anything?” The fact that Robert did not agree to me killing Richard is not important in this moment. I’m just supposed to scare him…talk with him. Show him a little of monster, not let the creature gorge.
“Have you asked Robert?” Something comes into Richard’s gaze, like he’s found a chink in my armor, a crack in my relationship with Robert that he wants to shove a crowbar into and heave.
“Tell me where Dan Burke is, and I’ll kill you quickly.”
His handsome face contorts—eyes tightening, lip raising to snarl. The muscles in his arms bunch, the shoulders bulging. Between my thighs his abdomen contracts again. His neck grows taut but he can’t raise his head. Not without slicing himself. “Consider it an act of mercy you can buy if you provide the location of my friend.”
“Your mercy is pretty fucking brutal.”
I just smile. Not in the pleasant, happy, feminine way that man at the airport asked me to smile. No. In the vengeful, manic, killer way that fits my face so well.
“Sydney.” Mulberry’s voice in my ear. “A couple just pushed the button for your floor. I can’t see either of their faces—they know there are cameras and are avoiding being seen by them.”
I don’t respond, I’m too busy joker-grinning down at Richard but my heart rate picks up. “Tell me where he is,” I say.
Richard’s eyes narrow, like he’s trying to see through me, see what he can do to control me. “If I die there will be no one protecting Dan. I’m the only thing keeping him alive.” It sounds like a lie, but he’s not showing any tells.
Blue lets out a low growl.
“Syd, they are heading down the hall,” Mulberry’s warning comes through the comms unit. I press the blade, it starts to penetrate Richard’s skin.
Blue’s growl deepens, rumbling a loud and clear warning. He leaps up onto the bed, his warmth at my back, standing over Richard’s spread legs as he faces the door.
“Syd, you’ve got incoming.”
I look over at the bedroom door as the lock beeps a welcome in the sitting area. The heat of Richard’s blood warms the tip of my finger. Footsteps thud. The bedroom door swings open and Declan Doyle steps in, gun up, eyes on me. Consuela Sanchez follows right behind him, her pistol gripped in two hands and aimed at my head.
“Drop your weapon!” Declan booms. A laugh tickles up my spine but I don’t let it spill out. “Now!” Declan demands. I meet his gaze. His eyes are hard wood—but mine are steel.
“Listen to the man,” Richard says, each word felt against my knuckles pressed to his skin. “We can still make a deal.”
I don’t look at him. My gaze flicks to Consuela instead. She’s focusing on me so hard it’s almost like she’s trying to send me a physic message. “Drop it, Sydney,” she says. It’s not the same boom as Declan.
There is something else there.
She won’t shoot me if I end Richard. Consuela may have a gun on me. She may be threatening my life but we know my death would be avenged. I don’t think Consuela wants to kill me—her heart is not so cold that she could murder me after what we’ve been through together. And she doesn’t want to die. “This is the only way,” she says, her voice steady. “Blue can come. We won’t hurt either of you.”
“I won’t ask again,” Declan warns.
I return my focus to him, the pieces of this puzzle starting to come together. There is no swat team. They are trying to quietly take me, probably to wherever Dan is—they want to disappear me. Add me to their collection of vigilantes. Is this Robert’s doing? He knew I’d try to kill Richard…
Mulberry’s voice in my ear. “Sydney.” A brief pause. “I trust you.”
I look back down at Richard. He thinks he’s been saved. “If you don’t drop it they will kill you. Think about your son.”
My lips curl into a smirk. His eyes narrow. My muscles ache from the adrenaline. I let out a slow long breath and on the inhale I run my blade across his throat, digging it in deep, cutting through the veins, the nerves, and the throat, leaving him gasping for breath. Blood spills over my hand.
I continue my arc, drawing the blade across the pillow, and extending my arm so that the bloody tip of my scalpel is pointed at Declan’s face. His eyes meet mine, and we both know that if he pulls the trigger, it’s his own life that ends as much as mine. Richard gasps between my thighs, blood spattering with each desperate attempt to suck air into a broken system.
“Drop it,” I say, my voice soft.
Declan lowers his weapon, eyes tracking to Richard’s shaking body. Consuela’s aim drops to the carpeting as she lets out an unsteady breath. Declan swallows, throat bobbing, eyes riveted to the soon to be corpse still trying to live. I let my blade fall to rest on my leg.
Richard’s body calms, stills, transforms into that strange wax like husk we all leave behind. Blood is caught in his lashes, framing empty eyes. Red droplets freckle his cheekbones and dot his open lips. Blood soaks his chest hair and the sheets. My painter’s onesie is a macabre Jackson Pollack painting. Declan moves, drawing my focus. He crosses to the bedside to stare down at the corpse.
“We could have taken you to Dan,” he says.
“I don't want to go to Dan,” I say. “I want him free. And I wanted Richard Chiles dead.”
Declan meets my gaze, a spark of anger in his dark eyes. “You can’t get everything you want, Sydney,” he warns.
“Watch me,” I say. And I smile.
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