by RC Boldt
But what he doesn’t know—what no one knows—is that I never stop killing for them, either.
Chapter 12
Kennedy
“Great job as always, Kennedy.” Police commissioner Charles Lowry offers a hearty handshake, his beefy hand swallowing my small one whole. “You had ’em eating out of the palm of your hand within seconds.”
“Not exactly everyone, but I’ll take it as a win.” Especially since a good number of detectives had stayed after I’d finished to ask a few questions.
“I’ll let you in on a secret.” Charles shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray slacks that match the color of his hair.
The man is far too jovial for someone who rose up the ranks and is famed to be one of the county’s greatest detectives. He solved some of the most gruesome cases before he became commissioner.
I arch an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“You wowed them with your intelligence and your confidence.” He grins. “You don’t take anyone’s shit, pardon my French, and that speaks highly of you.”
“I appreciate that, Charles. Thanks again for having me.”
“Pleasure’s all mine.” His features sober, and his lips press into a thin line. “They need to understand that working together doesn’t mean they lose the pissing contest. It means these victims get justice when we coordinate our efforts and bring in an expert like you.”
I nod and murmur my thanks with a polite smile because I don’t do well with compliments. It’s not that I think my skills don’t deserve to be commended. It’s that I don’t.
I don’t do this for accolades or pats on the back. I don’t do it for the awards or to be touted as “law enforcement’s not-so-secret weapon against pedophiles” as Law Enforcement Today recently claimed.
I do this because I must. It’s the only way I can manage to sleep at night, knowing I’m giving my all.
Charles’ phone chimes with an incoming call, and he excuses himself, waving goodbye and wishing me safe travels to my next job. Once he exits and the auditorium door falls closed behind him, I exhale a slow breath.
Today’s been difficult because I sense doom on the horizon. It’s unnerving as hell, as if bugs are crawling along your skin, but every time you try to swat at them, you find there’s nothing there at all.
Eleven years ago today, I escaped. But the thing about being a survivor of something like that is…there’s a part of you that never truly survives. A part of you that’s unable to be revived.
Those monsters drained my world of color. It’s not even black and white for me; it’s merely the blandest shades of gray.
They eviscerated any dreams I had for a normal future—one possessing an ounce of happiness. That’s what happens when your mind, body, and spirit fall under attack and are slain before your eyes.
I’ll never get back what was stolen from me—never. But you better believe I’ll get all the fucking revenge I can in the meantime.
Not only do I have a new nose, chin, and veneers to throw off any potential facial recognition surveillance, but I also have a new name and all the proper documentation to go with it.
These days, I’m Dr. Kennedy Alexandre. My first name is an ode to the former President John F. Kennedy, a hero in his own right, while my last name is an ode to Alexandre Dumas, the author of The Count of Monte Cristo.
It’s an epic tale I relate to more than any other since the main character, Edmund Dantes, hunts down each individual responsible for his false imprisonment and for ruining his life.
Kat and John gave me a choice on that day I arrived at their home.
She sat across from me at their dining room table while John sat to my right. She held my gaze, and it felt as if she were staring right through to my brain, attempting to read my mind.
“You can start a new life, average and not noteworthy in any way, and leave your past behind once and for all...” She trailed off, and my body grew tense because I knew there was another option, but it would potentially mean risking even more.
Even so, my mouth parted, and I prodded, “Or?” Because something deep within me knew that the other option was what I needed to choose.
John leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table, those blue eyes locking with mine. “Or you start a new life and prepare yourself for war. Prepare for the moment you bring the war back to them and drop it right on their fucking doorstep.” He paused to let his words sink in. “But you’ll need to prepare yourself in ways you never imagined.”
I understood what he meant. I’d be pledging my new life to singlehandedly taking on my demons. If I chose to do so, I could never look back.
It was a no-brainer for me.
Once I healed from the cosmetic procedures, Kat and John made me train. And although I may have been in my late teens, they put me to shame in the beginning.
What I learned from them was plentiful. Knowledge truly is power. I learned to never underestimate someone strictly based on their appearance. That became evident when they initially kicked my ass in hand-to-hand combat training and endurance drills.
They taught me to always be aware of my surroundings. To let vengeance fuel me but not blind me to everything else.
Admittedly, the latter is steadily my greatest challenge. Vengeance is like quicksand, sucking me in until there is nothing else left of me. Although, I suppose I should credit my thirst for revenge for propelling me through school without a single distraction.
I had no time or interest in socializing. No parties, no sororities, and no actual friends aside from a few familiar faces in classes here and there. I was simply there to do well and succeed in eventually gaining an internship.
After graduating with my undergraduate and graduate degrees in forensic anthropology, my plan was to follow in the footsteps of Professor Anika Jiles.
A well-known and respected forensic anthropology professor in England, Professor Jiles became a legend amongst her peers for her expertise in identifying the bodies of victims of war crimes.
But that’s not why I was so hell-bent and determined to gain an internship with her upon finishing graduate school in record time.
It’s because of her other specialty.
Professor Jiles spearheaded vein-pattern analysis studies and placed a spotlight on the discovery that vein patterns in hands are anatomically unique and identifiable in ways that fingerprints are not.
She’s assisted countless law enforcement agencies by offering irrefutable evidence that helped them put away a vast number of pedophiles.
By working my ass off and proving myself to be on par, if not even sharper than my mentor in some cases, I’ve made a name for myself here in the US.
Looking back on the last time I saw Kat and John, there was no mistaking how proud they were. They celebrated my achievements with a special dinner, and the heartfelt affection etched on their faces was evident.
The two were undoubtedly a myriad of contradictions. They held themselves to impossibly high physical standards for individuals their age. Though they never divulged anything, I inherently knew it was because of their pasts.
The details didn’t—and still don’t—matter to me. I don’t need to know what they did before. Who they killed. Who or what they ran away from and remain steadfast in their vigilance against.
All that matters is, they took me in and enabled me to start over. They trained me—both physically and mentally—to prepare me for what was to come.
And they never once judged me.
They knew what my endgame has always been: to inflict pain and suffering on those who play a role in the depraved abuse on the innocent.
And I’ll do anything to get there.
Even if it means dying.
Chapter 13
Kennedy
I slide into the LYFT driver’s back seat with my laptop briefcase and offer a quick greeting. In the next instant, my phone pings with a notification of an incoming text.
Withdrawing it from the slim outer p
ocket of my briefcase, I freeze at the sight of the message. Because Kat and John rarely touch base.
It’s not that they don’t care because I would bet hard money they know exactly where I am and what I’m up to. They simply respect my wishes to go this alone.
It doesn’t mean they don’t keep me apprised every now and then.
Unavailable Number: Incoming.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end because this means Kat has very bad news.
The next message she sends contains a link to a news channel out of D.C., citing “Breaking News.”
I cast a glance at my driver and click on the link, first checking the date and time on the article and noting that it was posted a mere two minutes ago.
Everything around me seems to freeze when I spot the headline, and ominous dread floods me.
Decorated Navy SEAL found dead
As soon as I read further, my brain turns muddy as if it, too, refuses to believe the words, and my breath suspends painfully in my lungs.
Former Navy SEAL James Gallagher served eight years in the military on SEAL Team Four and received multiple commendations for his service.
After more than a decade of employment in the security sector, Gallagher was found dead by suicide in the early morning hours Wednesday.
Authorities discovered a note that said, “Please forgive me.” Sources also claim Gallagher’s laptop was filled with “disturbing” child pornography, most of which he’d filmed himself while having sex with unidentified underage boys.
In an ironic twist, Gallagher had been vocal, alongside former FBI Director Javoris Gasden, in spreading the conspiracy theory alleging that elite individuals in D.C. partake in pedophilia and share pornographic material depicting themselves in the acts with underage victims.
To date, no evidence that would corroborate these allegations has been uncovered.
My stomach plummets, and I swear the car seems to sway beneath me as if I’m on board a boat on choppy seas instead.
I brace a hand against the back of the passenger seat to steady me as I scan the words once again. Agony lances through my chest as if I’ve been pierced by the lethal tip of a sword.
It can’t be.
After the third re-read, I succeed in drawing in a breath to relieve my burning lungs while I switch off my emotions and turn on my analytic brain.
Child pornography. Suicide.
The man who risked everything to get me out of there years ago… There’s no fucking way he did any of that. A laptop filled with child porn?
No. Motherfucking. Way.
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw begins to ache while anguish batters at me like a treacherous hurricane pummeling any sand dunes that dare to stand in its way.
Suddenly, panic assaults me with the strength of a tsunami. What about—
My phone pings again with another message.
Unavailable Number: J is safe. Just got confirmation.
I stare down at the words, and even though I’m relieved as hell that Javoris is safe, I can’t believe they got to James. That they killed him.
Unavailable Number: We’ve been digging all day. Nothing’s come up.
That means they haven’t found anything to indicate that anyone discovered that James played a role in helping me escape.
Unavailable Number: Remember—be safe and be smart.
Me: Can’t make promises for the former. As for the latter, always.
Unavailable Number: Always here if you need us.
Bringing up the article once again, I scowl down at it because this means that James had enough dirt on them, and they found out. Those damn motherfuckers killed him because he likely had a shit ton of evidence and planned to leak it.
And they staged his suicide in order to cover up their filthy sins.
I’m torn between self-inflicted anger that I haven’t been able to extinguish all of them yet and regret that I wasn’t there to help him. My conflicting emotions unfurl until rage overflows, and I know I need an outlet…and quick.
With a polite, “Thank you,” to the driver as he stops in front of my condo building, I haul myself from the vehicle and stride up to the entrance. Swiping my fob for entry to the lobby, I make my way to the stairwell door with quick steps.
The silence is deafening when the door slams closed behind me, but I welcome it along with its eerie quality. Ascending rapidly to the fifth and top floor, I arrive at my door in no time. To my temporary haven.
I have a few apartments and condos in a few key states where I tend to receive more consultation requests. None of these places are fancy; they simply serve their purpose. They offer enough space to have a bed and a place to whip up a quick meal.
Once inside, I set my briefcase on the flat cushion of the oversized armchair and pull out my laptop. Carrying it to the small kitchen counter, I slide onto the lone barstool, and a few quick keystrokes is all it takes to get me to the hive of information.
It’s amusing how many are quick to dismiss certain postings about pedophile rings as “conspiracy theories.” One group garnering more attention lately is the Anons.
Sure, some of them may be passionate in their belief that the earth is flat and NASA is a hoax, but most of them are simply devoted to spotlighting pedophile activity and in keeping children safe from any harm.
They want justice to be served, and on that, I agree with them wholeheartedly.
Anons on Instagram have been posting with increasing frequency, remarking on the number of pedophile suicides. One particular Instagram account I keep tabs on has posted a screenshot of a news headline with the caption, And another bites the dust. Fuck yeah!
The comment section serves as a testament of their “thirst” for the scum of the earth pedophiles to be eliminated.
God’s way of taking out the trash.
I think someone’s out there blackmailing these fuckers and they’re taking the easy way out.
Still gotta tackle the top dogs of that elite circle tho. Those rich fuckers need to be dealt with.
A grim smile teases at my mouth. I’m working on it, people.
Moving on, I quickly navigate to the uncensored site 8chan, which has proven to be the most useful over the years.
When I see the post, it’s as if someone somewhere heard my inner thoughts, pleading desperately for an outlet.
Motherfucker uploaded videos to this porn site. The angel of death who’s helping to silence these fuckers needs to take out this one. One of the videos has a poor nine-year-old boy. Did some digging and you’re gonna shit yourself when you see what I found…
Within twenty minutes, I’ve uncovered everything I need. Erasing my tracks, I shut my laptop and slide off the barstool. Moving over to my mini indoor greenhouse, which contains my most important and critical weapon, I unzip the transparent layer and peel it back.
Moist, warm air kisses my skin like a familiar friend, and I reach out with a careful finger and stroke along the outer edge of a delicate petal. Fresh drops of moisture from the automatic watering system cling to the flower.
These small greenhouses I have in each of my apartments provide water and the light and the nutrients they need. It’s all essential to my “cause.” Because this isn’t just any rhododendron flowering plant; it’s a rare one found in the jungles of Costa Rica.
I discovered how to pulverize the flowers and stems into a viscous fluid without decreasing its toxicity. It took time, but I perfected it.
Rhododendrons are toxic to both humans and animals, but this particular one I cultivate is far deadlier. By injecting it directly, it causes paralysis of the entire body. However, the beauty of this is that the death displays evidence of cardiac arrest and not poisoning.
Even better, it’s undetectable in any toxicology screening.
“We’re going to kill another monster tonight,” I whisper to them.
They say that talking to your plants helps them thrive. No one ever said it has to be a normal conversation, though. I
like to think that my flowers are mercurial like me. That they support my mission, and that’s why they flourish, even amidst my erratic schedule.
Or maybe I’m just crazy. I don’t give a fuck, though, because I believe in what I’m doing.
Sometimes, it takes becoming a monster in order to kill one.
Chapter 14
Kennedy
Needle sinking into the tender skin of his thumbnail, his body jerks before going eerily still as I expel the poison into his body.
I can’t resist the tradition. Watching as the poison overtakes his body, I sing softly, “Hush, little monster, don’t you cry. I’m gonna make sure you will die.”
Unblinking, Justin Hesson stares up at the ceiling just as his phone lights up with a text notification.
Nancy: Great seeing you the other night. Hope to see you soon. xo
Perhaps it’s a testament to how twisted my mind is because I find it ironically humorous that the founder of the blockbuster social media app Keep In Touch, won’t be able to do just that.
Not anymore.
I withdraw the needle and cap the syringe, carefully sliding it into the zippered compartment of my oversized purse. Slinging the straps over my shoulder, I stride out of his penthouse condo with my oversized sunglasses adorned with gaudy gemstones, concealing my eyes, and stumble to the elevator. It’s all for show—for the camera surveillance out here.
The arrogant assclown I just left behind doesn’t have surveillance inside because he believes he’s invincible. As they often do. I know this all too well. It’s because they’ve gotten away with high crimes for so long.