Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“Her name was Belle, and she was seventeen years old. She was my girlfriend. She was sweet, gentle, and an angel who never got to enjoy her life because of you and your buddies. She was kind and loving—”
He bares his yellow-stained teeth. “And she loved every second of it.”
Another strike of my blade pierces his insides, and he winces. I put the blood-soaked blade to his throat. “I’ll see you in Hell, asshole.”
My blade slides across his neck, and the rise of blood is quick. I don’t move. Instead, I keep looking into his eyes until they go vacant and savor the moment I see him leave his body.
Satisfied he’s dead, I let him go, and he slumps to the ground in a heap.
The truck I stole from an alligator farm up the road is parked a few yards away, cloaked in darkness. I drag the lifeless body—of the third man who raped and murdered my girlfriend and left me to do the time in prison for her death—over to it and dump him in the back. Within the hour, the truck with his body inside disappears into the murky swamp waters. Chances are he’ll never be found. If the alligators don’t get him, time will. His skin will slowly slough away, and his muscle tissue and tendons will disappear with the tide, leaving only the bones behind. If by chance they are ever discovered, there won’t be any stab marks to indicate the cause of death—I’ve been doing this too long to ever leave a story behind. They’ll assume he stole the truck, drove home drunk, and took a wrong turn.
I leave on foot and another summer shower covers my footprints, almost as if Belle is smiling down on me for a job well done.
The three names on my list are now crossed off, and I can go back to my day job.
I fly back to Boston immediately.
I am the Angel of Death for the De Kysa family, one of Boston’s biggest crime syndicates. They pay me handsomely to rid this earth of their enemies. I kill men for them—bad men—men who have done the despicable and the deviant. But there is no emotion behind their deaths. Their lives are wiped out by a single bullet paid for by my employer, and I think nothing more of it.
Unlike tonight.
Because tonight was very, very personal.
And I enjoyed every second, every morsel of his death.
Like I’ve said before…
… I was born a monster.
Leaving the airport, I step onto the busy Boston street and hail a cab.
When I left prison, I didn’t plan on killing men for a living.
And somewhere beneath the layers of grief, heartache, and the disdain for men who thrive on depravity, I know it’s wrong to kill even if I am killing a villain.
But the thing is, I fucking like it.
ARES
Present Day—Flintlock, Tennessee
The moment the set of knuckles connect with my face, I feel my eyebrow split open, but I don’t let the pain register. Instead, I take out my opponent with a powerful right hook, followed by a jaw-breaking left upper cut. He drops to the floor in a bloody, crumpled heap, instantly knocked out cold. The referee raises my arm in victory, and the crowd gathered at Oscar’s Gym roars with pleasure. Some of them have just made a lot of money.
My opponent, Sven ‘Scorpion’ Slott, has never been beaten. I was the underdog, despite my size and strength and the fact I have never been beaten. But Scorpion has more fights behind him and is freakishly fast on his feet, making him a favorite with the crowd.
Once a week, I come here and toy with my opponent before sending him to sleep with my fist. It earns me five hundred dollars per fight, seven hundred and fifty if I knock him out. It’s not going to make me rich, but it fucking makes me feel good.
Coated in sweat and with blood dripping down my face, I leave the ring, and immediately two girls step in front of me. They’re blonde and cute, their full lips pink and glossy, their eyes sparkling with interest and maybe a bit too much alcohol. Despite the sweat and blood, they attach themselves to me, one sliding her hand up my chest, the other licking her lips as she curls her arm around my bicep. They’re circuit groupies—women who follow the underground fighters from fight to fight, hoping to warm their beds for the night. They make their interest crystal clear, but I’m not interested in what they’re offering. Just like I don’t indulge in the club girls back at the Kings of Mayhem clubhouse, I don’t touch circuit groupies. If I need to satisfy an itch, I scratch it at The House of Sin just out of town because no strings are how I like to roll.