46. Cohen

46

COHEN

C asper clamped a hand down on my shoulder, grinning like the idiot he was as he maneuvered around me. Crouching low enough in the shrubs that his six-foot-something frame collapsed in on itself, while I could barely bend at the waist without the skin on my right side pulling tight against my muscles.

The elasticity was gone, the new layers of epidermis transplanted from my thigh combined with subcutaneous cadaver tissue taut and inflexible. But I refused to let Dr. Lecter anywhere near me with a scalpel again. The pain reminded me of the rage. Fueled it. Kept me focused on the task at hand. Which had nothing to do with a certain woman curled up in her bed. As much as I wish it did.

I hadn't seen my pet in two days. Not close up at least. And my skin was beginning to itch. Like insects were clawing beneath the surface and eating away at the layers one by one. I knew the shit wasn't healthy. My dick didn't give a fuck.

I waited for the signal before following Casper's lead, Donnie at my tail with Bugs on the comms. The brothers didn't talk much. Though it was clear one was the brains and the other was the brawns. The lobotomy scar next to Donnie's nasal cavity gave me a good idea as to why that was. Not that it mattered. The fucker in front of us talked enough for everyone. Except whenever he was hyperfocused on a target. Then, the ass clown turned assassin. Like some sort of switch had been flipped.

There were five of us in total back at Briarwood. Adrian at the reins, the rest of us the muscle. The whole operation was a bit of a mystery—the sort that involved both sides of the equally corrupt law. Though I had to admit the pay was decent, if not inconsistent. I didn't care enough to question it. Not yet anyway. I had more important shit on my mind. Shit that involved me keeping my mouth shut and my eye open.

I was an observer after all. And human behavior was my favorite curiosity.

Two more taps on my shoulder had my attention focused in front of us as Casper compressed his body, like a rodent collapsing its ribs, and slipped through a tiny hinged window with ease. I listened for a thud, some sort of indicator that he made it on the other side but there was only silence. Guy was definitely some sort of circus freak, if nothing else.

Seconds later, the large front door to Prescott Estates was squeaking open and Donnie and I were rushing through. I glanced up, a crystal chandelier swaying above us and a tapestry on the far wall bristling with our movement. My eyes flicked to the portrait of some rich white guy hanging front and center along the grand staircase before swooping corner to corner. Other than the pendulum swinging from the old grandfather clock to our immediate right, there were no signs of life.

Didn't know why we were here. Didn't much care either. Shit was just another paycheck to me. If my hands got dirty in the process, even better.

"Up the stairs, third door on the left. Alarm's down and cameras blacked out for the next ten minutes. In and out and don't fucking touch anything," Bugs hissed over the mics in each of our ears.

None of us bothered to reply. He knew we heard him.

I glanced behind me. Casper was nowhere to be found. Fucker could be on the roof for all I knew. He was quick; even more than that, he was efficient.

Ten minutes wasn't much time. But it was enough to have us grabbing Tate Prescott from his Egyptian cotton sheets and pillow top mattress, a bag over his head as we dropped him kicking and screaming into the back of the van. A quick dose of ketamine had the fucker sedated within minutes, Donnie pinning our target at the waist and securing his limbs while Casper jumped into the driver's seat.

My job was to make sure Prescott didn't cause a problem before we made it back to Briarwood. I had every cocktail imaginable on hand. Including a few bottles of Narcan. I had to ensure he made it there alive too. At least in this instance. Every job was different.

Had to admit I didn't mind the thrill either. It was a different kind of high from the operating room. Mix up one of the vials and the guy would be sent right into a seizure, foaming at the mouth, his eyes rolling to the back of his skull right in front of us.

The temptation was there. To send him over the edge just to bring him back again. But right now, the cash was more enticing. Bugs had an in with some tech guys and I needed better surveillance equipment to keep an eye on Emily. Wouldn't be long before I had an entire setup dedicated to her and everything I wanted to do to her.

The sound of the gates creaking open and welcoming us home to Briarwood had me looking up and packing away my kit. Before Donnie and I were hefting Prescott onto a shoulder each and dragging him through a different set of doors.

"What'd he do?" I grunted in Casper's direction.

We had Tate Prescott strapped to the metal slab in Adrian's personal operating room. An IV strung up on a pole. A cardiac monitor hooked up to his chest and a respirator at his side. I'd done my part. Now I was just curious.

"Do you care?" Casper jumped down from the counter, taking two steps forward to lean over the table. He pried open one of Prescott's eyelids, dropping it only to repeat the process on the other side.

Before I could respond, Adrian was pushing into the room. Dressed head to toe in a sterile gown and med boots. He eyed Casper, then quickly landed his glare on me. "Scrub up or get out."