KILL LIST
VICKI FITZGERALD
Contents
Prologue
1. EMILIA
2. EMILIA
3. EMILIA
4. EMILIA
5. EMILIA
6. DI CARMICHAEL
7. DI CARMICHAEL
8. EMILIA
9. DI CARMICHAEL
10. EMILIA
11. DI CARMICHAEL
12. EMILIA
13. EMILIA
14. DI CARMICHAEL
15. EMILIA
16. EMILIA
17. EMILIA
18. EMILIA
19. EMILIA
20. EMILIA
21. EMILIA
22. EMILIA
23. EMILIA
24. EMILIA
25. EMILIA
26. RICHARD
27. DI CARMICHAEL
28. DI CARMICHAEL
29. EMILIA
30. EMILIA
31. RICHARD
32. EMILIA
33. EMILIA
34. EMILIA
35. RICHARD
36. DI CARMICHAEL
37. EMILIA
38. DI CARMICHAEL
39. EMILIA
40. DI CARMICHAEL
41. DI CARMICHAEL
42. EMILIA
43. DI CARMICHAEL
44. DI CARMICHAEL
45. EMILIA
46. EMILIA
47. EMILIA
48. EMILIA
49. DI CARMICHAEL
50. DI CARMICHAEL
51. EMILIA
52. EMILIA
53. DI CARMICHAEL
54. EMILIA
55. EMILIA
56. EMILIA
57. EMILIA
58. EMILIA
59. RICHARD
60. DI CARMICHAEL
61. EMILIA
62. EMILIA
63. EMILIA
64. DI CARMICHAEL
65. DI CARMICHAEL
66. EMILIA
67. EMILIA
68. DI CARMICHAEL
69. ANNABELLE
70. DI CARMICHAEL
71. EMILIA
72. DI CARMICHAEL
73. RICHARD
74. ANNABELLE
75. EMILIA
76. EMILIA
77. ANNABELLE
78. CLAIRE
79. EMILIA
80. DI CARMICHAEL
81. RICHARD
82. ANNABELLE
83. EMILIA
84. RICHARD
85. EMILIA
86. ANNABELLE
87. DI CARMICHAEL
88. DI CARMICHAEL
89. DI CARMICHAEL
90. RICHARD
91. EMILIA
92. DI CARMICHAEL
93. EMILIA
94. EMILIA
95. EMILIA
96. DI CARMICHAEL
97. DI CARMICHAEL
98. EMILIA
99. RICHARD
100. EMILIA
101. EMILIA
102. DI CARMICHAEL
103. EMILIA
104. EMILIA
105. EMILIA
Acknowledgments
Also by Vicki FitzGerald
Also by Vicki FitzGerald
Kill List. Copyright© 2020 by Vicki FitzGerald
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author.
Edited by Darren Bane, Andrew Ramsay,
Andrew Marshall, James Cowling, Beth Muirhead
ISBN 978-1-970157-26-0
Story Merchant Books, 400 S. Burnside Avenue #11B, Los Angeles, CA 90036
www.storymerchantbooks.com
First Edition
KILL LIST
Vicki FitzGerald spent nearly a decade working as a journalist before establishing her own Public Relations firm. She now writes full-time and lives in the West Country with her two children.
Kill List is her third novel. She is also the author of psychological thriller, Briguella, and her memoir, Still Standing.
Find her at
Facebook @vickifitzgeraldauthor
Twitter @AuthorVickiFitz
Instagram @vickifitzgeraldauthor
For Simon, the love of my life
‘When there was darkness,
you brought rays of sunshine,
joyous laughter & love.’
Prologue
Chains shackle me to the past - to that night where my life was destroyed. Depraved things happen to good people. Fact. That can consume your mind and turn a good person bad. I never asked for any of this. I don’t want to be immoral. But when everything has been stripped from you, darkness falls. All you have left is retribution. Damaged people are dangerous. I’m not the person I was after what happened to me. I am the person they made me become – a killer. Do not judge me until you know my story...
1
EMILIA
SATURDAY 28 JULY 2018
Emilia Francis is dead. Darkness destroyed me.
I’m still Daddy’s little girl, but I’m no longer the innocent child that once bounced upon his knee. I am an unrecognisable creature, one hell-bent on vengeance.
I’ve acquired a dark hobby - killing. I will rid the world of evil and dispose of the monsters who stole my smile.
I can still feel their greedy hands on me and recall their merciless carnal groans. Scars are etched on me like a chaotic Tube map, evidence of their twisted, Dark Web game.
Everything is not forgotten, and time does not heal. It makes you stronger and prepares you for the day of reckoning.
My predators thought they got away with their crimes. They did, in the eyes of the law. I’ve an alternative punishment - death.
Savage beasts need slaughtering. I will soothe my unbearable rage and make each sick opponent suffer; watch them take their last breath until their game is over.
On the surface, I mimic the qualities of a timid kitten shying away from danger. Underneath, a sinister layer lurks; one that screams ‘you fucked with the wrong girl’.
It is time to play.
Dressed in an exquisite diamante Adrianna Papell black dress, I enter The Woodlands, an 18th century Wrington country estate.
I glide elegantly across the vast, sweeping drive in stilettos, admiring pristine landscaped gardens and ornamental sculptures.
Dusty Springfield’s sensual tones break the silence of Barley Wood, her raspy voice performing, ‘The Look of Love’.
Black-tie servers present Champagne flutes on the terrace. I smile, acquire a glass, and admire the beauty of the Mendip Hills.
The setting is aristocratic, the jet-set affair brimming with model-perfect women striding in cocktail dresses and designer heels. Looks can be deceiving.
The host, Crown Prosecution Solicitor (CPS) Hugh Baldwin, is, in fact, holding a masked Bunga Bunga soiree, an exotic term for a ‘sex party’. I’ve witnessed previous gatherings from the shadows.
Hugh looks aesthetically pleasing in an uber-chic satin- trimmed tuxedo, silky bowtie, and taut white shirt. He exudes charm, but underneath the surface lurks the devil, who enjoys macabre violence.
The ‘perfect gent’ flirts with a blonde, his fingers grazing down the nape of her neck. He is assessing his options. Make no mistake about it, the only woman getting his full, undivided, attention tonight is me.
I saunter closer and catch a glimpse of my graceful poise in the glass, identity shielded with an ornate Anastasia-style lace masquerade and lashings of Chanel Passion ruby rouge.
Golden curls cascade over my tanned shoulders. I ooze confidence and a sultry self-possession
like a ‘Bond Girl’. It is all a lie, but tonight is about painting the perfect picture.
I catch Hugh’s eye. I offer a radiant smile and a flirtatious, playful, lip bite to evoke his inner desires before slipping inside the Baroque manor.
Flames dance from candelabras. A grandfather clock and a wicker deer offer striking showpieces. Two women drape over chaise lounges beside the log fire, awaiting companions.
Heartbeats hammer inside my chest, nerves simmering. I slug down my Champagne and acquire a second glass from an attentive server in the drawing room.
Burlesque dancers, clutching feathers, pirouette sensually in jewel-encrusted bikinis. Centre-stage is an exotic 1960s-style dancer, twirling in a water-filled giant Martini glass, cherry- polished toes pointed toward the chandeliers.
I allow my body to feel the music, hips swaying seductively to Aretha Franklin’s ‘Natural Woman’. I capture the attention of a cluster of men who watch my every move.
Hugh arrives on cue. The men are not about to stand in his way, and they avert their eyes.
I step it up a notch, a gentle hand sweep across my shoulders, and down the sides of my breasts, oozing explosive sexual charisma.
Hugh stares enamoured, fingers grazing his chiselled chin. He has no idea who lurks beneath my mask.
It’s time to reel in the prey and make him believe he’s in for the night of his life. He is, it’s his last.
2
EMILIA
SATURDAY 28 JULY 2018, 10.45 PM
The game is in play.
I’ve acquired my target and lured him into a false sense of security. He has no idea what is in store, sex is the only thing on his mind.
Clutching a vintage bottle of Champagne, I follow Hugh’s lead, passing a wicker bear statue in the hallway, to a secret set of stairs.
Hugh wants total privacy assured, as do I. He glances over his shoulder, peering through his leather mask, and offers a smile. I return the gesture.
My stomach somersaults as his brogues ascend the stairs, a flashback flickering of my assailants’ shoes walking away, leaving me for dead. I shake the image away.
We climb three floors and negotiate five interlinked rooms to a secret boudoir, draped in black satin sheets.
Hugh locks the door behind us. His eyes cruise my figure as he unknots his bow tie.
“Sit,” I instruct confidently.
Hugh licks his lips and flops onto the four-poster bed. I deduce he’s the type of man who likes to play games, a bachelor whose choices are endless.
“Alexa, start my playlist,” Hugh orders, unbuttoning his shirt.
I catch my reflection. The new Emilia exudes confidence, yet inside I’m a nervous wreck.
The old Emilia wouldn’t have devised or executed this plan. She erred on the side of caution, was chic and sophisticated; the type of girl they could tarnish.
Hugh relaxes, fishes his hands in his pockets, adjusting his crotch. I detect my sultry presence has kick-started a wave of testosterone.
I tug the mask ribbon and let it fall to the floor. Hugh smiles as I saunter closer. He studies my face, eyes probing me as a fervent admirer. He doesn’t recognise me.
He wastes no time, delving straight into the trap, fingers grazing my inner thigh like a bee to honey. Inwardly, I flinch and recoil from his unwanted touch, but I keep up the pretence.
“You haven’t forgotten me ... have you?” I whisper.
“Of course not,” he replies confidently.
He has no fucking clue who stands before him, the lying bastard.
“Are you sure? You’re looking at me as though you’ve forgotten my name.”
“OK, I’m sorry ... I can’t lie to you.” Palms up, face crimson.
“I’m rubbish at names, though I remember our time together.”
“Do you?”
“How could I forget those sexy legs? I wish you’d come back sooner.”
I grin, face beaming with false excitement. “Really?”
“Oh yes, this is a wonderful surprise.”
The accomplished actress in me continues, fingers exposing black stocking lace.
Hugh pulls me close and kisses my neck.
“Come on ... try to remember.”
His aroused eyes watch my breasts rise and fall. Sweat gathers on his temples. The subtle frown lines indicate he’s ransacking his mind for answers.
“I’ll give you a clue.”
His eyes wander as I pull the dress thigh-split upwards. His stare is glued to the lace and suspenders.
“Want a better clue?”
He nods eagerly, legs spreading wide open.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, please.”
I trail my hands along his thighs closing the intimacy gap and watch him fixate on my cleavage.
Hugh lets out a groan of anticipation as my breaths warm his ear. I restrain his hands with the bowtie.
“I’m the girl that you killed inside.”
3
EMILIA
SATURDAY 28 JULY 2018, 11.12 PM
Hugh’s eyes cloud with confusion, my beauty replaced with hatred.
He grimaces as my dress falls, disgusted pupils dissecting the roadmap of scar tissue littering my body, all irrefutable evidence of his crimes.
“Don’t you like what you see?”
A kiss of fear is etched on his lips; body poised as a timid puppy.
“Look at me!”
His eyes obey and stare with defiance into mine, face twisted, mind in turmoil.
“This is mistaken identity.”
My nails dig inside balled fists and draw blood.
“Oh Hugh, cut the bullshit. You remember me now don’t you ... and our special night.”
He’s stunned by my outburst, heart working overdrive in sync with mine.
Beads of sweat congregate on his forehead, saturating his gelled hairline.
“I’m Emilia, the girl who you stripped of her dignity and helped to learn how to please.”
His face inches closer, eyes bulbous as he vomits.
“Now that’s nasty. Nice men are punished when they’re nasty!”
“Please, I’m not the man that you think I am.”
I want him to offer a crumb of remorse, not denial.
“I’m not sure who did this to you, but it wasn’t me.”
“The video proves otherwise,” I say, coldly.
His face shoots up. The fox is frozen.
“I’m sorry.” His face crumples, voice lacking sincerity.
“You’re sorry?”
“All that is behind me ... it was a mistake. I’ve changed.”
“Liar!”
“Please.”
“My pleas went unanswered. I begged you to stop.”
“You need help.”
“You’re right, I need you to help me understand how it feels to hurt a person. I want to experience the gratification you felt, when you raped me and shoved the knife in.”
“I’m sorry ... I’ll hand myself in.”
“Come on, Hugh, we both know that’s a lie.”
I cock my head, examining the pitiful beast before me. His breaths quicken, shifting his confidence. Nasty eyes cast on me, his dark side surfacing.
I want to pummel his face. I knew the beast would come out to play.
“You couldn’t hurt me, you’re weak and pathetic.”
I refrain from telling him to go fuck himself. His lips slit with a twitch of a sneer, veins becoming infected with bile.
“You were a play toy. One we disregarded. Look at you ... you’re disgusting.” Face grimacing as though I’m a hideous creature.
“Who would want you now? I should have slit your throat when I had the chance.”
I want to wrap my fingers around his neck, wring it of air to silence him.
He finds my body repugnant, even though he was the one who sullied the canvas.
Rage engulfs my entire being. I snatch my patent stiletto, and lunge at him, impaling his
neck.
Blood spurts from his artery, alarmed eyes brimming with shock. I withdraw the shoe, a river of blood flows like lava. It seeps from his mouth and trickles over his chin.
Hugh’s eyes mist, chest exhaling a disturbing death rattle.
It comes once again, the feeling of revulsion. My frenzied hands prick his chest like a microwave sleeve. Warm blood splatters on my cheeks and then there is only darkness.
Kill List Page 1