2. Chase

Flipping through the file, an uncontrollable growl escaped Chase's lips.

What a piece of shit.

Photo after photo of every woman: busted lips, puffy eyes, smeared mascara. Each photo, evidence of a heinous crime that was committed. Each photo, evidence of the unjust world we live in, where punishment is only for those who live below the poverty line or those who were born with the wrong color skin.

In this case, the man in question had hit the golden trifecta. He was rich, white, and well-connected. Of course, there was no chance of any of these women getting justice.

Flipping to the next photo, he stared at Lisa Thompson, age twenty-four, a recent college graduate whose only crime was deciding to go on a date with the wrong man.

He felt his jaw tighten.

These poor women. No one was fighting for them. They had suffered through a horrendous act, only to be cast aside and shunned because the monster who attacked them was a highly regarded member of society. A man who ran three charities and worked endless hours in the ER as a cardiac surgeon, saving countless lives every day. He had power, money, and the respect of an elite community of other rich and powerful people who always made sure to look out for their own.

Well, not tonight.

Tonight, Mr. Untouchable was about to suffer his own horrific night.

Mr. Untouchablewas about to get a taste of his own work at hand.

An eye for an eye?

Perhaps.Well, minus the sexual assault. There was no way that he was sticking his dick anywhere near that monster. He did have a billy club in his trunk, though—something left over from his days on the force.

A little forced anal play, perhaps?

No.He would rather just beat the shit out of the guy and make sure that it takes him months to recover, just like Clarissa Jones. The poor girl got the worst of it. She was the only one who decided to fight back, refusing to give in to that monster and his dark desires.

If Chase recalled correctly, it took Clarissa nine months to fully recover from her injuries. A two-hundred-and-ten-pound man versus a one-hundred-and-thirty-pound woman. Seemed like a fair fight.

Closing the file, he placed it back into his glove compartment and grabbed the black rubber gloves. He didn't need to leave any DNA at the scene of the crime. He had worked in homicide for two years, so he was well aware of evidence-collection techniques.

The evening sky was black, with barely a star overhead. Somehow, the cosmos had been warned about the atrocities that were about to occur here tonight. Each star and moon deciding to turn away and hide its shimmering light from the horrors of tonight's events.

He slipped the rubber gloves over his fingers and adjusted each digit, making sure that the surface was nice and taut. Hearing the crunching sound of the rubber as it moved between his fingers got his blood pumping.

Chase smiled.

Hmmm, Dexter much?

No, he wasn't a monster like these guys. He was a defender of justice—a lone warrior and purveyor of justice for those who could not seek it for themselves.

Now he sounded like a goddamn superhero.

Movement outside caught Chase"s eye. He watched as the monster himself exited the bar and made his way into the back parking lot to, no doubt, drive home.

Jaw tightening, Chase reached into the back seat and grabbed the wooden bat. Placing a wool ski mask over his head, he exited the car and silently stalked his prey.

The back of the bar was rather small, with only enough space for a few cars to park. Tonight, there were only two parked at opposite ends of the lot.

Chase watched as the six-foot doctor fumbled with his keychain, trying to locate the button to unlock his car.

"Damnit," the beast mumbled when he dropped his keys to the ground.

"Dr. Sheppard?" Chase asked, standing directly behind the intoxicated doctor. He knew who the man was, but he wanted to play innocent.

The man spun around, bumping into the side of his car door.

"What the?" the man asked, startled by the voice suddenly behind him.

Without warning, Chase swung the bat, nailing the doctor in the gut. With an unpleasant grunt, the man curled over, gasping for air.

"I'm here to deliver you a message. Don't you ever lay another hand on a woman again," Chase growled, standing over top of the keeled-over man, who was still gasping for air.

He could feel the vein in the side of his head throbbing as the anger within him grew to uncontrolled strength. He wanted to bash the bat into the side of this man's head and not stop until his skull resembled a smashed cantaloupe.

The amount of pain this man forced upon all those women—the amount of violence. Those women would never be the same.

Long gone is their trust in men. Long gone is their trust in relationships or even the possibility of falling in love again. Many of the women are in therapy, hoping that one day they will be able to close their eyes without seeing the face of their attacker.

This man's attack on these women did not end there that night. His attack continues each and every day of their lives.

Chase had to do something. He needed to stand up for these women and get them the justice they deserved. Even if it didn't stop their nightmares or win back their trust in humanity, at least these women would know that their attacker had suffered his own punishment. That there was a dark angel out there, somewhere, watching out for them… exacting revenge on their behalf.

"What?" Sheppard asked through glossy eyes. "Who the fuck are you, you piece of shit? Go fuck yourself."

Sheppard tried to get up but only managed to prop his body against the door. His dress shirt was untucked, and his hair a little messy, clear signs that he went at the bottle rather hard tonight.

Perhaps the man had a guilty conscience he was trying to silence.

That was it. He couldn't control his anger any longer. Chase pulled the bat back and swung it forward with all his might.

The sound of the wood connecting with Sheppard's face was glorious. Hearing the sound of bone breaking and teeth shattering was music to Chase's ears.

Chase never considered himself a violent man. Over the years, his faith in mankind had begun to dwindle while his need for justice began to rise. But he never sought justice in a violent way.

That is, until tonight.

Tonight, he was finally releasing all that anger and frustration and forcing a balance back into the world where good once again triumphed over evil.

A shout escaped Sheppard"s lips as blood and teeth went flying from his mouth. He fell to the concrete, bent over in pain.

"My teeth! My mother fuckin' teeth!" the man shouted, having difficulty pronouncing the th due to the missing teeth that were now scattered across the ground.

"This is for Susie," Chase shouted, striking the man again with the bat. "And Lisa. And Darna. And Clarissa," each resulted in another mighty blow.

Calling out each name felt like a badge of honor. He was fighting for these women—these victims who were unable to fight for themselves.

"Fuck," Sheppard groaned, rolling onto his back. His jaw was dislocated, his left eye was puffy and bleeding from the side, and he clung to his shoulder.

Did he dislocate the man's shoulder?

He remembered hitting the man a few times in the arm but was more focused on the women's faces he saw in his mind's eye—the women for whom he was doing all this.

Standing over the man's body, he crouched down and glared at the bleeding, sniveling man.

"I'll be watching you. And if I so much as see you touch another woman or hurt another in any way, I'll come back for you and make sure that the last thing you see is my face before your body sinks to the bottom of Lake Ontario."

The man's eyes looked terrified. His body shook, and his breathing was erratic.

"I… I…" that was all the piece of shit could manage through broken teeth and jaw.

Chase stood up and stared down at the man. "I'll be watching. Consider this a warning. Next time, you won't be walking away."

With those final words, Chase stepped over the man and walked back the way he came.

Checking to make sure that no one was around, he pulled the ski mask off his head and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair.

Fuck, that was wild. What a rush!

Chase had been tracking Sheppard ever since his case was thrown out of court and Chase was released from the Toronto police force. Apparently, the police force looks down upon excessive use of force, even when taking a monster into custody. One broken nose. One! And all hell breaks loose. In Chase's opinion, he was doing the man a favor. His nose was crooked, and Chase was just trying to put it back where it belonged. So what if the guy was resisting arrest and had apparently raped and beaten at least four women. The man still had his rights. And to Chase, those rights included having a broken nose.

He hopped into the car and dropped the bloody bat onto the floor of the passenger side.

Then he heard it.

The sound of a gun being cocked.

"Don't move, and don't be scared."

"Kind of hard not to be when you're holding a gun to my head in the back seat of my car," Chase snarled, stating the obvious.

"I just needed to get your attention so we can talk."

Chase glanced in the rearview mirror, taking note of the two men sitting in the back seat of his car. One man was blond with blue eyes, while the other had dark hair and angry eyes that almost appeared black.

"Okay, you got my attention. What do you want?" Chase asked, wondering how he could make a bat win in a fight against a gun. Fat chance.

The dark-haired man nodded toward the parking lot. "Want to tell me what that was all about?"

"Not particularly," Chase huffed. He eyed the blond, who sat silently watching the man beside him. Clearly, the blond was just along for the ride.

"Okay. I can see that you're going to be a peach to work with," Mr. Angry Eyes replied.

"You sure you got the right guy?" Blond Ambition finally spoke up.

The dark-haired man glanced over at his buddy and nodded.

"Okay, I'll tell you what that was all about," Mr. Angry Eyes began. "That was Dr. Elijah Sheppard, fifty-three, a cardiac surgeon working in Central and East Toronto. Sits on the board of at least three disease-related charities, has won numerous humanitarian awards, and is currently nursing a broken jaw, facial realignment, and battered ego. What was the cause of these ailments? A certain proclivity for finding young women and forcing himself on them even when they have no interest in having a sexual relationship with the disgusting man."

Chase stared at the dark-haired man with his mouth slightly ajar. How on earth did he know all that?

"You, sir, are Mr. Chase Harwick, thirty-two, former member of the Toronto Police Department until you were terminated due to… let's just say, having a bad attitude and not listening well to authority figures."

The man paused and stared at Chase in the rearview mirror.

"Do I have your attention now?"

Chase nodded.

"Okay," the man said, lowering the gun and nodding toward the road ahead. "Make a left at the next corner and continue on until you hit The Beaches area. There is a little pub up there that we can grab a drink at and have a little chat."

Were these guys undercover cops or something? But why haven't they arrested him yet?

Not believing this was actually happening, he glanced at both men. "You guys got a name? Or do I just go ahead and call you Blondie and Mad Dog?"

"Mad Dog?" the dark-haired man asked, twisting his eyebrows upward.

"On account of how you never smile and you're always brooding," Blondie replied.

"I smile."

"Only when I'm riding your dick and have you pinned to the bed," Blondie says, with a smirk on his face.

Mad Dog blushed. "It's a good thing you're cute." Then, looking back over at Chase. "I'm Marc, and this is my husband, Alex."

Chase nodded, wondering what the fuck was going on. He began to drive, making a left at the corner and heading toward Toronto's trendy beach area.