Killing Mary Jane: A Dark Romantic Thriller

by Amarie Avant

  “Where the hell did you learn how to drive?” Wulf felt inches away from puking as they tore down the highway.

  “Grand Theft Auto.” Glenn smiled. “I beat all of the games.”

  Wulf nodded. His mouth tensed, considering a strategy to get her back. If Mary Jane’s abductors took her to The Petting Zoo, there would be more men for him to fight in order to save her life.

  Save her life. Damn! Isn’t this like déjà vu?

  Mary Jane reminded him of another misguided young woman who got mixed up in a bad world.

  The other girl died.

  He noticed the F-250 about a block ahead. “There they are. Slow down.”

  “Why?” Glenn turned to him again.

  Instead of telling Glenn to keep his eye on the road, he said, “Mary Jane is in the bed of the truck. Those guys are ruthless. No matter how fast you can drive, if they see us following, they’ll drive crazy.”

  12

  In a cream suit and Italian loafers, Beasley walked down the hall between marble statues of Greek goddesses. He stopped in front of the door of his meeting room. A maid in a white-and-gray uniform opened it. Beasley stepped in the yellow room, rimmed with white French windows.

  A breath of fresh air, Diamond wore tights and a flowing blouse at the opposite end of a long marble table. He smiled at her with pride.

  Yes, she was so fucking innocent. The Zoo loves her. Too bad she wouldn’t retain that innocence when The Petting Zoo became her permanent home.

  Sunlight streamed through the open shutters, playing off the flutes of vintage Dom Perignon before thirty men. The men sat with their eyes glossed in fear—except for his trusted second, Jake. Jake’s glass was empty. The rest of them sat there as if Diamond had topped off the champagne with gasoline. Diamond sat at the head of the table with the black tin box and the bottle of Dom. Noticing Beasley, she began to pour his drink.

  “Give Jake a refill, w-won’t you?” Beasley stopped talking as anxiety clawed at his lungs. He forced himself to breathe.

  Concern brimmed Diamond’s beautiful eyes.

  So innocent. She cares about my pain, no matter how I treat her.

  Beasley gripped the back of the chair toward the middle of the table. His heavy breathing slowed as he thought about his benefactor. The man who owned Mary Jane had gifted the other women to him. And this operation was just the tip of the iceberg. The scientist had a knack for brainwashing folks. The most beautiful, Beasley bought and used until he consumed every ounce of their looks. Truth be told, he spent more on having his women trained than he made off of them.

  He loved playing God. He was a god to Diamond and the others. They did his bidding. Mary Jane, well, he did not own her. Once her brain was totally erased, the scientist would give her a new identity. Beasley could only presume that Mary Jane would be more agreeable. He was unaware of exactly why the scientist had given him the girl, because the scientist had taught Lyle, Beasley’s most trusted, to clear their brains within a month.

  And when their brains were fully erased from the past, they got to the good part. The women were given a new identity, one that guaranteed allegiance. However, Mary Jane was more important than all the whores in The Petting Zoo put together. He had no idea why the mad scientist didn’t do the deed himself.

  Beasley continued toward his pet. Diamond hastened out of the head chair. Beasley claimed the seat. She placed the box in front of him and slowly opened it with delicate, manicured hands.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering why we’re celebrating, since Mary Jane has gotten away.” Beasley tried not to become riled. His doctor advised against it. “Whose idea was it to place her name in the local news?”

  No one spoke up.

  Beasley looked to Diamond as she stood next to his chair. “You’re dismissed, Diamond. Now, you need to head to The Petting Zoo.” He nodded toward the man to the left. “Gus, escort her.”

  Catching the slight roll of her eyes as she walked away, he pressed the timer on his Armani watch. His hand slipped inside the black box and onto the trigger of the forty-five-caliber gun. He pulled it out and shot.

  The hydro-bullet rippled through the back of Diamond’s silk blouse.

  The force propelled her forward.

  Her body slid across the marble floor, leaving a bloodied trail.

  He smiled, having always loved the effect of hydro-shock bullets. Such a magnificent slug made an entry wound smaller than a marble and an exit wound larger than a grapefruit. He knew those precious breasts were all but blown to smithereens. Oh, well.

  The time continued to click on his watch as he fed off the fear in his goons’ eyes. With a grunt, Beasley stood, sidestepping the smeared blood. His soulless eyes glared at the lifeless body.

  Five maids hurried in, three of whom got bloodstains on their uniform dresses as they hefted the body and carted it away. He glanced at the other two, who knowingly came in, toting buckets of warm, soapy water. They knelt on the floor and cleaned the marble. A flurry of pink suds mixed into the bucket as the maids rinsed their sponges and finished cleaning up the red, goopy mess. Their pace reminded him of a NASCAR pit crew.

  When the process ended, Beasley pressed the stop button on his watch. “See how effortlessly that little bitch has been disposed of? Yet, seven dead bodies made it in the news! This process took one minute, thirty seconds. Seven dead bodies.” He calculated the number. “Ten minutes, thirty seconds. That’s the time it should’ve taken for the other trash to be disposed of!”

  His hand went to his chest. Two men hastened out of his way in the expensive leather, rollaway chairs, giving him room to lean against the cherrywood table.

  “Local only, sir.” One of the men spoke up as the wrenching in his heart decreased.

  Fire overtook his eyes as he looked around. “Who said that?”

  “I did.” Jake stood up.

  Beasley’s eyes narrowed, and he stood up straight. Jake had always been his right-hand man. He didn’t want to think about having to murder and replace him.

  He mentally recited his ten favorite brews of beer like his doctor had instructed. By the time he got to one, Beasley had had a moment to collect his thoughts. “Hmmm. You’re correct. Mary Jane’s ‘victims’ only made it on the local news.”

  Though Beasley didn’t want to think the worst of the man who kept his whole operation in check, he had to ask. “Jake, did you allow this to happen?”

  “Nah, sir. I’m only mentioning that those deaths appeared on the local news. People don’t talk. I reckon you’d rather it not have happened. It’s impossible to erase the broadcast, but don’t go having a heart attack over it.”

  Thick silence ensued.

  A minute later, the left side of Beasley’s mouth curved upward. He walked toward Jake. Stopped behind the man’s chair and slapped his wingman on the back. “Touché, my friend.”

  Beasley turned back to the quiet crowd of men with a genuine grin, as always impressed by Jake.

  “As I’ve said, we observed how easy it is to clean up one dead body. Seven’s not much more, but there are a lot of you, so I assumed you could handle it. Now, who’s the one who allowed the news coverage?”

  “I did.” Lyle stood slowly, using a cane. “Th-the news reporter came while I was waiting for more men. I was the only one there, being fixed up in the back of an ambulance. The EMTs begged to take me to the hospital, bu-but I waited for more men like your protocol calls far. You had left. Jake had to round up the girls for the night. There wasn’t enough time to clean up all them bodies outside of the church.”

  Beasley nodded, mulling over his words.

  Lyle’s sunburned face brightened. He pointed to his leg. “The doctor said, if the shot was an inch—”

  Beasley raised a hand, putting an end to Lyle’s ramblings. He went to the head of the table and sipped from his glass of champagne. Lyle sat slowly. On cue, everyone else drank, believing he was satisfied with Lyle’s excuse. He poured another glass. The bubbly stop
ped halfway. Beasley slammed the bottom of the empty bottle on the edge of the table. It sent shards across the marble tabletop and floor. Tight-fisting the neck of the bottle, Beasley watched as maids again entered with brooms and dustpans. He’d trained the maids well, but the men had yet to learn.

  Lyle began to sob on key.

  Beasley walked past the maids, his alligator shoes crunching over fragments of glass.

  “I-I-I fucked up, Beasley,” Lyle blubbered.

  Snot ran down Lyle’s mustache and crusted mouth as he begged for forgiveness. Beasley sighed, stopping behind Lyle, tuning out his pleading, crying, and sniffling.

  “The anticipation of death is growing, ain’t it?” Beasley began. Lyle immediately closed his mouth, whimpering in silence. Beasley continued with a mere monologue of ideas. “I suppose if I had a choice, I’d rather know when and how I was going to die. Lyle, my friend, I present you with that gift.”

  On Beasley’s signal, the two men sitting on either side of Lyle held his arms down. He rammed the jagged edge of the broken champagne bottle into Lyle’s neck, twisting it and turning it, tuning out the shrill, gurgling cry coming from Lyle’s mouth as he wriggled in his seat.

  Blood spurted on the table, Beasley’s hands, and ruined the arms of his suit and cufflinks. The warm, sticky wetness gushed on Beasley as he worked the bottle tip deeper into Lyle’s neck. Lyle’s screaming dimmed. The two men let go of his noodle arms. Beasley, in a state of total euphoria, didn’t notice.

  Finally, feeling a prickle on his knuckles from a shaving of glass, Beasley took the bottle from Lyle’s neck. The man instantly slumped forward in his seat.

  Lyle’s skin had been pulled through a human meat grinder.

  Blood dripped from Beasley’s hands as he watched the maids re-enter. He recalled each of their startled appearances on their first day of work for him. The money they received trumped their disgust, and more importantly, their fear. Now, they poured the contents of the broken glass into a nearby trashcan and again scurried around with buckets of sudsy water. A few hauled out Lyle’s body. Their swift movement—how remarkable.

  The Rottweilers would eat well today.

  Beasley touched one of the women’s shoulders as she began cleaning the leather chair.

  “Just toss it,” he said with a smile. “Order a new one and tell Diamond, uh…tell Sugarland to get dressed. She needs to work the prime shift at The Petting Zoo tonight.”

  The maid nodded and bustled toward the door.

  Beasley began to loosen his cufflinks. “What are we going to do about Mary Jane?”

  “Wyatt and Cody left a text while you were dealing with Lyle.” Jake glared at the seat being carted away. “They have her.”

  13

  Foam from turquoise waters receded out to sea before rushing to shore again. Anya laughed as the salty water swished around her legs. She wore a bikini with a colorful ankle-length skirt that was drenched with salt water. Her feet were caked with sand and the gold ankle bracelet around her leg stuck to her skin. She picked up the length of her olive-green skirt and moved away from the water.

  The setting sun trailed the waters and sent a glint in Trent’s gray eyes as the handsome biracial man handed her a fruity drink with a cute, little umbrella.

  “No, thank you,” Anya said.

  Trent’s lips curved into a devilish smile. “You don’t trust me?”

  “You can regain my trust.” Her full lips turned into a wide grin.

  “C’mon, Anya.”

  Anger flashed in his eyes, and just as quickly as the waves coasted, his angular face softened. Anya was overcome by his movie-star good looks as he said, “There are no extradition laws here, Anya. You can’t take me back, sweetheart.”

  “True. But I also can’t be intoxicated while attempting to escort you back to America. I had high hopes that you’d come willingly.” She hid the flustered feeling that always consumed her as his hands trailed up her bare arm to the nape of her neck.

  Slowly, he pulled her into him. “Remember those sprints we would go on? I would always let you win.”

  “Oh, you let me win under the guise that you couldn’t keep your eyes off my ass.” She tried to be nostalgic but worry still consumed her.

  He pawed at her ass. “Yes, beautiful. I always let you win.”

  Trent’s lips claimed hers with a kiss so familiar. He made her forget that they were on a tourist island with families and lovers surrounding them. All of the training, all of the ranting she’d done to her superiors to bring Trent Winehouse back to America—unharmed, because she loved him—every thought faded away as she was kissed for the first time in ages. Thinking of Trent, thinking of the bad man before her, overcoming her, Anya pulled away.

  “Damn it, Randolph!”

  “Damn, Trent, you only use my last name when pissed.” Anya smiled. Instantly, the smile fizzled. This wasn’t really a laughing matter. “I guess, since we’re on formalities, allow me to tell you how things are going to proceed.”

  “No.” Trent turned away from her. The rogue federal agent trudged through the sand toward the beachfront hotel, leaving her to watch the soft curls at the nape of his neck and his ruggedly strong shoulders as he walked away.

  Her head tilted somewhat, but Trent didn’t stop walking. She called after him, “I can help you clear your name, Trent!”

  “No, thank you, Randolph,” he tossed over his shoulder.

  She winced. His use of her surname twice indicated that he was livid. A slight breeze flowed through her wavy hair as she watched him pass through exotic plants and onto an open balcony.

  Licking the kiss off her lips, she reminded herself of the vows she’d made to the Agency, and to herself, as she followed. Vibrant colored toucans chirped in the palm trees as she passed. She stepped up onto the balcony. Sheer curtains swayed in the wind. Cautiously, she peered through them.

  She wasn’t dressed properly to conceal a gun. Wouldn’t think of it. She’d bring Trent in willingly. Her ex-partner deserved as much respect, especially since he was her best friend in college. So many hours of strip poker while they studied, and he prompted her toward grades that the FBI would surely be interested in. And then they’d been sought after by the Agency. She knew he’d get in. Yet, they’d wanted her too.

  After years of secret missions, something had changed. The years were sweet to them, romantically. However, she’d felt a pull, a slight tug, an ebb, before the Agency indicated Trent Winehouse had gone rogue. They wanted her allegiance, which she’d spent ten years proving.

  The day he disappeared, her heart had stopped beating. Anya had agreed to take down the man she loved, if only to talk some sense into him or to see if he was being coerced. Today, three years later, she’d found him. Fortunately, she could breathe again. Her heart began to beat once more. Now, all she needed to do was set her heart on autopilot, bring him in, and…hope for the best.

  Only her breath slowed as she slipped through the sliding glass door and into an ultra-luxurious living area with plush, white couches and silver accents.

  Shoulders tensed, she jumped as he called, “I’m in here.”

  Slowly, she stepped inside. The air in her lungs expelled.

  On the center of the king-size bed, amongst the feather duvet and plush pillows, Trent lay. His tanned body etched with muscles. So beautiful.

  “How am I going to take you in like this?” she murmured.

  “Come again?” Trent asked, eyebrow cocked ever so sexy. “Come as many times as you like.”

  She took a step back and her eyes averted away from the tent in his pants. Every angle of his thick, fat cock was engrained in her memory. And she’d be damned if sex would weaken her resolve. Trent had fucked her over. Anya’s heart was stitched up tight and would stay that way.

  “Tell me why you went rogue, Trent,” Anya begged. “I have to know. We were working the diamond heist and you…did you betray me for money? Money?”

  He climbed out of bed as tea
rs streamed down her cheeks. He stood in front of her. She felt the warmth and remembered the feeling, even before his calloused thumb touched her cheek. Trent caressed the tears, not allowing one drop to fall onto the floor.

  “I love you, Anya Randolph,” he whispered into the top of her hair as he inhaled her.

  Even though she wouldn’t say it, they both knew just how much she loved him.

  She loved him more than he could ever love her.

  Mary Jane’s body went airborne from the bed of the F-250 before slamming back down. She rolled over and looked out the back of the truck. She reached out her hand. She could’ve sworn she …no, it wasn’t Trent. The man she’d imagined twice now. One on a run through the forest and the other just now. It wasn’t him, but the snake. Wulf! Either she was hallucinating, or the uptight cop sat in the passenger seat with Glenn.

  Her head snapped forward as her body continued to jerk inside of the black frame. She turned around to see two creepy rednecks inside. The driver had incredibly large shoulders. The passengers were comparatively minuscule. She looked to the left and her eyes damn near popped out of their sockets.

  A train.

  Physics implied that they would not make it.

  I’m not even in a seat belt. At least I’ll die knowing who I am.

  I am Anya Randolph, aka Mary Jane.

  I am a secret agent.

  Toggling with the stick shift, Glenn’s skater shoe slammed on the brake. The Grand National skidded on the unpaved road. The rear of the car lifted in the air as it came to a halt, so close to the passing train that tiny bits of gravel ping-ponged against the hood of the car. The back tires slammed back down on the pavement.

  “What the fuck, Glenn! Drive!” Wulf commanded, his body finally settling back in the seat as burnt rubber swished in the dust around them.

  “W-we wouldn’t have made it,” Glenn said, gripping the steering wheel.

  “They made it. We could have too!” Wulf stopped ranting, knowing they would have been flesh and confetti if Glenn had pushed it to the limit. Quincy’s goading permeated his brain, warning Wulf that he’d gotten too close with another woman.