by Lane Hart
“My little sister wasn’t a trophy.”
“No. You’re not understanding me. Men like Milton and his…friends,” she stresses the word, “they have particular cravings. Pushing boundaries and getting away with it… Well, it excites them. Gives meaning to their mundane lives.”
“How can you be so cavalier about kidnapping and raping young girls?”
My question makes the driver and the man to my right uneasy. They’re privy to the interworkings of Jennifer’s company but, unlike her late husband, she doesn’t surround herself with sadists and deviants.
She’s smarter than that.
That’s why she’s the queen.
“Honestly,” she finally replies, “I’m anything but cavalier, Luke. I didn’t make the rules in this world. I’m not the first to capitalize on this particular trade and currency. Women have been selling their bodies since the beginning of time. That hasn’t changed, and it won’t change any time soon. It’s simple supply and demand. You can see me as the villain here, or you can point the finger in the right direction.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Point it at yourself,” she says. “Point it at every man. Without demand, there’d be no supply. It’s always men. This world revolves around the desires of men. I’m an entrepreneur. There was already a market there, I just made it more efficient. Now, as for your sister…” She trails off, a forced sympathetic tug at her lips.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” she continues. “For that, I am truly sorry. But see, I’m efficient in every aspect of my company. I made sure it wouldn’t happen again. I didn’t want to get rid of Milton. I did love him. But punishment wouldn’t be enough. You made sure of that. You forced my hand. I say we’re even.”
“You’re saying my sister and your husband is tit for tat?”
She shrugs a slender shoulder. “I wouldn’t put it exactly that way, but yes. We both lost someone due to selfish men and their insatiable appetites. And now they’re gone. We can both move on.”
But she has no plans for me to move on. I’m not leaving Seattle. I probably won’t even leave this car, except in a box.
I peek at the hired gun beside me. The silencer digs into my side as he turns to look out the window. As Jennifer rambled on, she didn’t notice the detour.
“Mrs. Myer, we’re going the wrong way.” The gun in my sides slips an inch.
“Ben, why are we on the five-twenty?” Jennifer glances at the exit sign as we pass it on the highway. “Take that exit. Head back into downtown.”
But Ben doesn’t take the exit.
“Call your security detail behind us,” I say to her. “Tell them you’ve had a change of plans. Get rid of them.”
A flicker of incredulity creases her too-smooth face. “And why would I do that, Luke?” But she doesn’t expect an answer. She directs her immediate attention on the driver. “Take the next damn exit. Now.”
We are creatures of habit. We might think we like change and spontaneity, yet we gravitate toward what we know, what is dependable. For Jennifer Myer, that’s the people she depends on to keep her safe.
For me, it’s risk. I avoid risk by always having a detailed plan. I might flaunt a coin toss in Fate’s face to skirt the line of my nature—but there are never any unknown variables in that toss.
Until now.
To get this close, I had to go in blind. I had to risk it all.
The guy seated beside me becomes distracted with Jennifer’s annoyance, and I act. I send my elbow into his kidney and then slam his head against the window.
The gun goes off.
I don’t hear it—I feel it.
A sharp pinch in my thigh, then enough raging adrenaline to numb the pain. I smash his head against the window again, and knock the gun to the floorboard. He lands a solid punch to my ribs before he comes at me with both hands.
I slide across the backseat and wedge my foot between us, holding him back. Then I kick his face. Blood splatters the cream seats, a fine mist coats my boot. He’s stunned for long enough that I get in position and anchor my arm around his neck.
Through the pulse-thumping whoosh filling my head, I hear Jennifer’s frantic voice.
The guy grunts as I choke up on his neck. I kick off the console and twist. Hard. His head snaps right. I feel the resounding crunch as his brainstem disconnects from his spine.
Breathing hard, I shove him against the door.
“You’re making a dire mistake.” Jennifer is saying this to the driver.
I glance behind us, at the car still trailing too close. “Call them off.”
She faces forward stubbornly.
I slip down and scoop the gun from the floorboard. The driver already has one trained on her, but I doubt she fears he’ll use it. I push the silencer through the console and seat, nudging her arm.
“I have no reservations about putting a bullet inside you,” I say. The bullet in my own leg is starting to throb.
After a pause of silent contemplation, she makes the call. She tells her security detail that there’s been a situation, but now it’s handled. She directs them to return to her mansion.
“They don’t believe me,” she says. “I’ve trained them for situations like this.”
I watch the black car turn onto the exit. They won’t go far. They’re tracking her right now. But I don’t need much time.
Jennifer glances over at Ben. “I’ve trained them to handle situations exactly like this,” she reiterates.
Which means, Ben is a dead man. But, ten million dollars is enough for some people to trade their life for. For Jennifer’s right-hand man—the guy that is seen with her everywhere—it was the magic number. It was as easy as a phone call and setting up a bank account for him.
There was a chance this would go badly. That Ben would be loyal to his queen. That I would’ve ended up in a box—and I still might. Makenna might stay sealed inside the cellar with a grotesque and tortured Hudson.
If I make it out of this part alive, I’ll pay for what I’ve done to her. I never questioned that. Makenna is justified in her revenge.
I slip my hand into my jacket pocket and touch the coin as I try to ignore the pain in my leg. Maybe she won’t go with heads or tails—she’s proven to be exceedingly stubborn. There’s a chance—a slim chance—that she won’t stick a knife in my gut. But what then?
There are no white picket fences in our future.
But it’s the question of what if that gives me hope.
What if she’s enough to silence the hunger, to kill the beast.
I shove the thought far, far down. It won’t do anything but make me weak right now, and I need every last bit of fire to get me through this.
The driver pulls off the highway. He takes the agreed upon route toward the car I have stashed beneath an underpass.
“Killing me won’t bring her back, either,” Jennifer says. Then to Ben: “Whatever he’s paying you, you know I’ll give you more.”
Greed is a powerful influence. It also makes us stupid.
I get out of the Lexus and pop the trunk of my Impala. My blood is in the backseat of the Lexus, and there’s no time to clean. I grab the cloth and haul out the gas can from the trunk. Fire has never disappointed me. It’s quick and thorough.
“Give me your phone.” I hold out my hand to her.
She hesitates a moment until I shove the gun in her lower back. I don’t like using guns. Too many things can go wrong. Like Ben now, holding his on his boss. I can see the indecision in his eyes; he’s wavering.
Jennifer hands over her phone, and I toss it into the backseat. Then I douse the seats and the dead guy with gasoline. “Take off,” I say to Ben.
He doesn’t move, his eyes shifting back and forth between me and his boss. I don’t have time for greed and indecision. He turns his weapon on me, and I take aim and pull the trigger. The bullet banks in his throat, where he grabs his neck, eyes wide, before he drops headfirst into the front seat.
; Jennifer curses. “I’ll give you more. Anything. Whatever you want.”
I stow the gun behind my back in my waistband. Then I grab her arm. “Don’t start begging this soon. It’s unbecoming of a woman of your stature.”
As I force her into the passenger seat of the Impala, she puts her hand out, preventing the door from closing. “I’m not like them,” she says. “I didn’t hurt your sister, or any other girl.”
I dip my head down, putting my face close to hers. “We both know that’s not true.”
“I swear,” she pleads.
“What about Makenna Davies?”
The silence that follows is answer enough.
“This will be easier if you go to sleep.” I douse the cloth with gas and smother her face. She struggles, shiny pink nails clawing at my hands as the rag covers her mouth and nose.
She’ll have a bitch of a headache when she wakes up, but she’ll wake up.
Once I get Ben’s limbs completely tucked into the Lexus, I strike a match. I drop the flame in the front seat and wait for it to catch fire before I slip behind the wheel of my car and leave the scene.
I catch a glimpse of the blaze in my rearview mirror. An ominous sight, like literally watching your life blaze out of control. Only one woman can quiet the roar.
A bullet in the thigh makes for a painful getaway. It makes every damn move painful. But I manage to lug Jennifer Myer through the garage and down the spiral staircase. She starts coming to when I drop her to the cold slab before the cellar door.
I reach inside my pocket for the key ring, and look down the warren, to the door where Makenna waits. I leave Jennifer where she is.
Some things have to be dealt with before you can move forward.
I link the same cuff used on Makenna around Jennifer’s ankle and chain her to the spot. “I won’t be long,” I say as she groans awake. “One way or another, you’ll get what you deserve.”
Whether that’s death, or a trip to prison dealt by Makenna, I’m not sure.
I make my way toward the concealed torture room, and take a moment to admire the artistry on the door. Makenna was right. There’s always something left behind. A killer can’t part with his trophies. He has to keep at least one reminder.
I insert the key and turn the lock.
There’s a suspended breath where the door clicks open and I wait, before I push the door all the way open. I imagine her tiny body jumping out at me, knife plunged into my neck.
But as my gaze roams the room, I find her banked against the wall. She holds my hunting knife in her lap, her finger tracing the heart charm, her gaze intently focused on Hudson. He’s still alive. Barely. I can see his chest moving, but he’s not conscious.
“He’s lost too much blood,” Makenna says.
I start to take a step toward her, then halt. The files that covered the walls have been removed. They’re stacked into a pile next to her.
“You didn’t kill him.”
“I didn’t save him, either,” she says.
Murder in its own right.
She won’t look at me, and she doesn’t have to. Off to her right, I spot Hudson’s opened file. Maybe if she hadn’t read it, seen the vile images and read the sadistic descriptions within, she could’ve slid the blade across his neck. Given him a mercy killing.
But she couldn’t. To do that, she would have to forgive him. Instead, she’s watching him suffer as he dies a slow, slow, painful death.
“Give me the knife, Makenna.” For her, I’ll end this. It’s gone on long enough.
She drags her feet up and links her arms around her knees. “I want to watch.”
After a few minutes of listening to her partner struggle for air, a bang draws her attention, awakening her from her trance. She finally turns her gaze my way. “You brought her here.”
There’s an accusation in her statement, a question as to why Jennifer is alive.
I’m not entirely sure how to answer that charge.
“Is it because she’s a woman?” Makenna asks. “Because you failed to kill me?”
“Yes,” I say, letting that be my answer. Though I’m not sure it’s true. “Or maybe I fear what happens when this ends.”
Holding me captive in her gaze, the way she did just the night before, when I lost control of my whole damn purpose, Makenna climbs to her feet. She looks at the bleeding wound in my thigh. “You’re hurt.”
“Flesh wound,” I say, but it’s no flesh wound. I’m losing a lot of blood.
She gathers the files under her arm and approaches me with determined steps. “Give me the coin.”
I hesitate only a second before I slip the quarter into her open hand.
“What do you want?” I ask her.
She walks around me. “To let her decide.”
She doesn’t look back. She leaves the room without a backward glance to Hudson. He’s dead to her.
I close the door, sealing him inside.
Before she reaches Jennifer, Makenna studies the woman who hired her. Jennifer’s gaze rakes over Makenna. Even now, even dethroned and powerless, she can’t disguise the loathing she feels for her own sex.
“How did I not see that you two were involved in this together,” Jennifer says. “Of course you are. Dead girls and dead lovers. The perfect matchmaking recipe.”
After she lays the files at the base of the staircase, Makenna turns toward Jennifer. “How many?” she demands.
Jennifer raises an accusatory eyebrow. “How many what, Ms. Davies?”
Makenna steps closer, and Jennifer shuffles to stand, forgetting the chain linked to her cuffed ankle. She stumbles and reaches a hand out to right herself. “Shit. How many fucking what, Ms. Davies?”
“How many girls have you sold into slavery?”
She crosses her arms. “You won’t like the answer.” At Makenna’s disturbing silence, Jennifer sighs. “Too many to count. It’s not about quality. It’s quantity.”
I park my shoulder against the wall, needing the support to hold me upright.
I thought I’d seen the bottom of the abyss—that I’d stared into the eyes of devils. But this woman is evil in its purest form.
Jennifer watches me. “Shocking, Mr. Easton? It took how many years of you killing off my employees before you found me? Why do you think it took so long?” She lifts her chin in defiance. “Because you couldn’t fathom a woman running Phiser, that’s why. It’s the perfect set up. My late husband agreed, too, the idiot bastard, before his dick got in the way.”
Makenna is the one to respond. “And Detective Royce Hudson worked for you.”
A dark glint sparks in her eyes. “He enjoyed company benefits the most.”
Makenna palms her stomach; Jennifer’s words a dagger.
“At least Hudson was neat and tidy. Milton got sloppy. Men shouldn’t be given any power when it comes to sex. They can’t help but to shit where they eat. They’re like animals.” She turns toward Makenna. “Hell, I believe Ms. Davies said something to that effect when I hired her. Unfortunately, that check has bounced. You understand. You didn’t do what you were hired to do. Be a witness to my husband’s death.”
“That’s not why I was hired. I was supposed to die.”
“Waste not, want not. I’m a minimalist.”
I push off the wall and walk toward Makenna. “She likes to ramble. I say this is done. Right now.”
Makenna shakes her head. “I can’t fathom it,” she says. “I can’t conceive of how a woman can be so…” She trails off.
“That’s sexiest,” Jennifer says. “I’d expect more from a woman detective. Why can’t women be in charge of an operation of this magnitude? Is it the size, or the success? Or is it the horrid particulars that disturb you the most?”
Holding up a hand, Makenna starts to walk away. “I’m through. With all of this.”
Jennifer smiles. “Good. Now take me in. Make your arrest, or whatever.” She shakes her loose blond bangs out of her eyes. “Oh, and I’ll need
a phone. I should call my lawyer beforehand.”
Across the chamber, I meet Makenna’s eyes. She’s paused on the first step.
“I won’t stop you,” I say.
She can leave. She doesn’t have to be a part of this.
I gave her the choice before now. She could’ve gutted me the moment I stepped into that room, and I wouldn’t have fought her. I asked only that I be able to finish what I started. And I have. The head snake is in this hell, where she belongs.
“Walk away,” I tell her.
She drops her gaze and stares at my coin still clutched in her hand. “She should serve the same sentence she inflicted on all those girls.”
“Will she get that if you take her in?” It’s an honest question. Will Jennifer even serve one day in prison? Phiser may shrivel and die after it’s exposed to the light but, just as Jennifer made so hideously clear, who will want to believe that she is to be held accountable?
Jennifer tries again to move, and the chain snaps taught. “Take this fucking thing off me.”
I remove the keys from my pocket. Makenna flinches at the sound. I open the cellar door. “This is where you belong. Your own personal prison.”
“Wait,” Jennifer says. “Honestly. Whatever you want…I can make happen. Please don’t to this. I have a son.”
A grown son that may be better off without a sociopath mother. I unshackle her and she fights, nails and teeth gnashing. Her wail pierces my ears. And the whole while I’m fighting Jennifer into the room, I can feel Makenna there. She’s a part of this as much as I am now.
I thrust Jennifer past the door, and she scrambles to stand upright. She holds up her hands, defenseless. The most believable injured expression creases her features. “Just kill me,” she says.
Before Makenna took up residency in this cellar, I probably would have. A mercy killing is easier than witnessing someone deteriorate, and far easier than torture. As Makenna has now discovered.
I limp toward a shelf, bringing Jenifer her welcome home gift. “I made this for you,” I say. Her husband’s teeth, wired together in the shape of a crown. “The verifiable proof you wanted. It’s all yours. This cellar of ghosts, this dark realm of torture and pain.” I place the band of teeth atop her head. “This is your new empire to rule over as you see fit, Mrs. Myer.”