Hell Hath No Fury

by RC Boldt

  “My husband’s into hunting, so I was looking for some new knives for him.”

  “I must say, your husband’s a lucky man to have a wife who’d willingly come in here looking for hunting knives.” His condescending tone grates on me. “Most wives hate the hobby that takes their men away from them.” He cocks his head to the side. “What does he normally hunt?”

  “Big game, mainly.”

  A hint of confusion edges its way onto his face. “Like deer?”

  “Mmm, like that.” I point at the cases of knives, quickly shifting his attention from my response. “Maybe you could help me choose?”

  “I’d be happy to.” He leads me over to the glass-enclosed cases. “Now, these are what we recommend…”

  He explains a few, and I ask to see one still sitting in the case that he hasn’t shown me. As soon as he lays it on the glass surface, I know it’s the one.

  “I think I like this one best.” I catch Jeremiah’s eye and tack on with an innocent half smile, “For my husband.” My attention returns to the sharp, sleek edge of the knife. Picking up the Ka-Bar Becker, I admire it, turning it slowly, carefully.

  Placing it back on the glass top, I trace a fingertip along the flat side of the powder-coated, anti-reflective blade, designed for slashing through heavy materials. “Perfect for skinning the animal.”

  I catch Jeremiah peering at me with an indecipherable look and offer him a smile. “I’ll take it.”

  “Great. Card or cash?”

  “Cash.”

  His eyes light up, and I have a feeling I know why. Because he plans to skim again.

  Hmm, I wonder if he skims from their money-laundering operations, too.

  He hands me my change and receipt before offering the knife safely enclosed in its packaging. “I’m sure your husband will be impressed with this.” His eyes travel down the length of my body, and I grit my teeth to keep my polite smile in place. “Come back again and see me.”

  With a simple nod, I turn and head toward the shop’s exit. Each step I take, I feel his eyes boring in the back of me.

  How poetic, I muse cynically. You just invited back the person who plans to kill you.

  Because he was the fourth man that night. The one who drove the getaway car. Which makes him just as responsible for the murders of my family as the others.

  And he’ll pay for it.

  In blood.

  17

  Her

  “Hey, Mama, guess what?”

  Willow beams up at me, her eyes shining with unabashed happiness, small mouth spread in a wide, carefree smile.

  “What’s that, baby?”

  “I love you!”

  “Oh, you sweet thing.” I scoop her up and hold her tight, smothering her cheeks with so many kisses, and her giggles make me smile even bigger. When I set her down and say, “I love you, too,” she backs away as a thick fog sweeps in.

  Panic courses through me when I lose sight of her. “Willow! Willow!” I rush forward, trying to find her, unable to see anything through the fog.

  Once it finally clears, I see Willow lying on the ground, blood pooling beneath her small body, sightless eyes staring up at me.

  “Willow! No!” I scream, trying to reach her, but some invisible force restricts me from touching her.

  I jackknife up in bed, sweat pouring off me, my chest heaving with ragged breaths. The worst part about these nightmares is that they’re also a reality. It’s not like watching a horror movie and simply having an overactive imagination once you fall asleep.

  These nightmares are what I have to live with. But I can’t resent them wholly since they also serve as a reminder of what I need to do.

  My family deserves to have their murderers—to have each person linked to them—pay the ultimate price.

  Swinging my legs over the bed, I set my feet on the floor and heave out a sigh. I gather my hair into a ponytail and use the hair tie cinched around my wrist to secure it. Dragging on black athletic pants, a long-sleeved moisture-wicking shirt, and a black hooded sweatshirt, I attach a sheathed knife to my ankle. Then I tug on my sneakers and quietly exit the house.

  I’ve heard it said that you can’t run from your past. It doesn’t mean I won’t continue trying. Running has become something crucial to me. It started during my initial training.

  “A body in motion is a harder target. Your body is a lethal weapon. A lethal weapon can never be sluggish.”

  Kru Namsaknoi made me run more than I ever had in my life. At first, I hated it. Then he told me that running was only a tool.

  “When you run, what do you think of?”

  “How badly I hate it,” I’d groaned.

  He gave a terse shake of his head. “You do it wrong. In your head, while you run, think.” He tapped the side of his temple for emphasis. “Think of everything you hate. What you love. What you want to do. Then”—he placed two fingers on the center of my chest—“feel it here.”

  Use the hate, the love, the emotion welling up inside me to fuel my strength. That’s what he was saying.

  Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever run out of hate. It seems to have melded itself into the marrow of my bones, infused in every molecule of my being.

  The paved street is quiet, and I use the hate to fuel me with every stride. With my hood drawn up over my head and the long pants and plain black sneakers, I know I appear to be a tall, thin man. My lack of curves works in my favor.

  Once I hit what I estimate to be six miles, I slow my pace down to an easy walk. Sweat gathering at the base of my spine grows chilled when a gust of wind rolls through. The weather is turning much colder, but it’s to my advantage. No one thinks twice about a man wearing a thick hooded sweatshirt, bundled up against the cold. No one thinks to look for telltale imprints through clothing indicating concealed weapons.

  As I make my way to the old house I’m renting, I slow my pace further, sure to canvass the area and take notice of anyone lurking.

  The home is situated between an abandoned gas station and a one-story subsidized government housing building. Bars on the windows of homes, a common “accessory” around here, are a bonus because it means fewer possible routes of entry.

  When I showed up with cash in my hands as an advance payment for six months’ rent and appeared harmless, the grandson who inherited the house had practically shoved the key in my hand, too eager to rent out the furnished place than to worry about running a background check.

  Satisfied when I don’t detect anything suspicious around my place, I’m nearly halfway past the run-down building when raised voices catch my attention. The brutal reality about the shitty subsidized housing here is it should’ve been condemned long ago, but no one pays any attention to the condition of the building as long as rent’s being paid.

  Cops don’t like to bother with this place either because it’s a hassle and a ton of paperwork for nothing. They know these people will simply post bail and get right back to doing whatever shitty-ass thing they’d been doing.

  With the building’s paper-thin walls and doors, there’s no way anyone in a one-mile radius hadn’t heard the altercation, and it pisses me the hell off. The yelling appears to be coming from unit 5. Tawnya lives here, and she works full-time down at Cut & Curl. Nice lady. Terrible taste in men, evidently.

  “You’re a fuckin’ slut, you know that? You’ve been textin’ him while you’re with me! You motherfuckin’ cunt!” The sound of something slamming against a hard surface is followed by a female cry that has every fiber in my entire body going stiff.

  “Yeah, what’d ya think about that?” A loud slap and a gasp colored with pain come next.

  Goddammit. I hover outside their door, hesitating until I hear her cries, the sound so defeated that it makes my insides shrivel.

  “I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t do anything wrong. He just wanted to schedule a haircut.”

  She’s fucking apologizing. Dammit. My fingers curl into tight fists as rage takes over, pulsing through
my veins like heroin to a junkie. Drawing to a stop in front of the door, I pound my fist on it in two loud thumps.

  The stomping comes next, and I expect to be faced with a grown man who’s having a full-blown tantrum before he even whips open the door.

  “The fuck you want?” He sneers at me, eyeing my hoodie and long shapeless pants with distaste.

  I peer past him, searching for Tawnya. The instant I find her cowered in the corner of the living room, with a combination of fear and defeat etched on her face as she holds her wrist to her chest, I know what I need to do.

  Fixing my eyes on him, I adopt a casual tone. “I’m looking for an asshole who beats up women.” My eyes go wide with faux innocence. “Any idea where I might find one?”

  He immediately steps forward, crowding me, but he’s eye level with me, and I can tell it bothers him. A lot.

  Homeboy doesn’t like going toe-to-toe with anyone his own height.

  His breath reeks, and when he snarls at me, spittle flies with each damn syllable. “Mind your own business.”

  “Your business was so loud that it spilled out the front door.” I offer a fake smile. “That’s when it became my business, too.”

  “Listen, fuckwad—” His retort is cut off when I surprise him with a palm strike to his nose, and the sound of bone cracking from the impact of the heel of my palm is ridiculously satisfying.

  The unexpected hit has him staggering back, his hands flying to his face as blood pours from his broken nose. I step inside and close the door behind me. Slamming a knee between his legs hard enough that his knees buckle, sending him to the floor, I grip him by his dreadlocks. I force him to stare up at me by jerking his head back and settle my foot over his groin.

  “You listen to me, fuckwad.” I pause, tightening my grip on his hair. “You’re gonna leave this place and never show your fucking face again.”

  If his eyes could shoot fire, it would happen right now. His gaze brims with anger, and even with blood pouring from his nose, he still manages to piss me off. “What the fuck you gonna do about it?”

  This motherfucker wants to test me, it seems.

  I punch him in his broken nose, and he howls in pain. Pulling the Ka-Bar from its sheath, I trace the tip along the front of his neck before pressing it against the base of his throat, just enough to draw a little blood. He pales, going chalky gray. “I’ll cut out your fucking throat. Then I’ll cut off your fucking balls.” I lean closer. “And that’s only the beginning. Are we clear?”

  So afraid to nod for fear of causing my knife to drive deeper into his throat, he answers with a quick, “Uh-huh.”

  I frown sternly. “What was that? Now, surely, you were raised with manners when speaking to a lady.”

  He struggles to mutter, “Yes, ma’am.”

  My smile brightens. “That’s better.” I slowly ease away. “Goodbye, fuckwad.”

  His eyes never veer from mine as he rises. He looks at me as if he’s seeing the antichrist in the flesh.

  Perhaps that’s what I am these days, but this antichrist isn’t about to stand by while someone gets beaten for no reason.

  Raising the knife, I lock eyes with him and smile. “Remember, you don’t want me to use this on you in the future.” He scowls as he backs away for the door. “I’d enjoy it far too much.”

  With a barely audible grumbling of something that sounds like, “Fuckin’ crazy,” he rushes out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

  I slide the knife back in the sheath before addressing the woman without turning around. “Not the first time he’s hurt you, is it?”

  There’s a millisecond pause. “No.”

  “Is it broken?”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  “You should go to the ER.”

  Tawnya exhales loudly before muttering, “My insurance is shit.”

  Fuck. “You know the clinic on South Fifteenth and Church?”

  “Yeah?”

  “They should be able to help you there. If you can make it in the morning, first thing when they open. Ice it and pop some ibuprofen until then.”

  “But…I don’t get paid until—”

  “The doc does a lot of volunteer work. Sometimes people pay him in trade with things like gift certificates or oil changes. Shit like that.” I stride toward the door. I’ve already stayed too long, said too much. “Go see him if you want that wrist to be right again.”

  “Why’d you do this?” Her question, posed with a mixture of amazement and confusion, has me immediately stiffening because I assume she’s pissed at me for sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.

  Laying my hand on the doorknob, I pause. “There’s a saying that evil prevails when good people do nothing.” Then I backpedal because the last thing I mean to do is paint myself as some sort of saint. “People shouldn’t just stand by and not help.”

  Tugging the door open, I step through when she pipes up with, “How do I repay you?”

  “By not letting that, or any other asshole, pull that shit ever again.”

  Closing the door behind me, I rush off, grateful for the cover of darkness, and escape to my place.

  18

  Her

  Visiting an old friend

  It’d been far too easy to get the abandoned car I’d discovered up and running again.

  Thanks to him.

  Deacon had always loved tinkering with cars. He’d continued to do it on the side when the local economy hit a rough patch one year in particular, and the shop wasn’t bringing in as much income. He’d fix transmissions, carburetors, change filters—just about anything under the hood.

  The memory bombards me like the strongest gust of wind because it had been back when our marriage had been alive and thriving.

  The sun is low, casting the sky in a gorgeous array of orange, red, and golden hues. Inside the garage, Deacon’s hands are braced on each side of the vehicle’s propped-open hood as he studies it, seeming lost in thought.

  “Hey, babe. Still hard at work?”

  He turns, and the instant his dark eyes lock with mine, his mouth curves into a smile. “This damn thing’s been giving me grief.” He’s been working on Billy Spears’s car for a few hours now. The faded paint isn’t much to look at, but it’s otherwise in good shape.

  I sidle up next to him, and he grabs a rag, wiping his hands before turning to face me. I step closer and rest my palms on the soft, well-worn cotton shirt covering his hard chest.

  He raises his hands with a grimace. “I need to clean up.”

  Rising to my toes, I speak against his lips between light kisses. “I like it when you get me dirty.” A few more kisses. “And Dad won’t be back with Willow for at least another hour.” I back him up against the vehicle.

  With his mouth against mine, he murmurs, “Mmm. You got any ideas on how to spend that hour?”

  With another soft kiss to his lips, I back away with a smile and walk to the side of the garage to hit the button to close the automatic garage door. Deacon’s smile grows wider, his eyes darkening with arousal as he watches me approach him.

  My fingers find his jeans just as the garage door settles closed, and I quickly unfasten and unzip before diving beneath the denim and boxers to wrap my hand around his hardening length. His sharp intake of breath sends a surge of wetness gathering between my thighs.

  “Caitlin.” The way he says my name empowers me as much as the love shining in his eyes does. When I shift to lower to my knees and take him in my mouth, he stops me, carefully, gently guiding me back a step.

  He shuts the hood before spinning me around and planting me on the smooth surface, stepping between my legs. His mouth crashes down on mine in a kiss that’s filled with hunger and passion, and I clutch at him, hands fisting the cotton of his shirt.

  “Not sure if Billy would approve of this.” My voice is breathless and ragged as he trails kisses along the side of my neck. When his hand glides up one of my bare thighs, shoving the hem of my simple sund
ress out of the way to delve beneath my panties and find where I’m wet and aching for him, I can’t hold back a faint whimper of need.

  “Billy won’t find out what I’m about to do to you on his hood.” He leans back a fraction, and his eyes gleam with sexual heat and intent that has my breath lodging in my throat with anticipation. His calloused fingertip traces my entrance and my nipples peak. The edges of his mouth tip up slightly.

  “What’re you going to do?”

  Deacon leans in and presses a hot kiss to the side of my throat before he answers, his voice a low, husky rumble that sends shivers skittering through me. “I plan on making my wife come all over my tongue while she’s on this hood.” Another wet, hot kiss to my throat before he adds, “And then all over my dick.” He presses his thick finger inside me, and I clench around it, my body arching instinctively.

  “Deacon,” I whimper.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin as he leaves a trail of kisses to my collarbone. His finger eases in and out of me in a slow, agonizing pace that has me rocking my hips.

  When he eases me farther back, using his other hand to tug my panties to the side and lower his head to place his mouth on me, I splay my palms flat on the hood. My eyes fall closed as he loves me with his lips and tongue, driving me mad with need.

  He’d followed through on his plans. We barely got our clothes on in time for my dad to return with Willow in tow. The night had been filled with sly glances between my husband and me until the others had gone to bed. Then Deacon had worshipped my body once again in our bed.

  Mentally, I shake off the memories and concentrate on getting off the correct exit for Southport. I haven’t been down here since I’ve been back, and even though I know it’s risky, I need to see her.