Chapter 2

October 30th, 2008

"Come out, come out, wherever you are." I mutter to myself, alternating glances between the unlit road ahead and where my phone is open at my side. Anticipation builds as I slide my thumb on the round dial near the keyboard of my Sidekick,navigating my way through the apps that clutter my phone. The adrenaline that heats through the web of veins that wrap around my forearms is a stark contrast to the crisp October air that filters in through the open window of my truck. However, this feeling and the rush that comes along with the chase, is what makes me feel most alive. Hell, I thrive on it.

I continue tapping the pad of my thumb on the center control of my phone until a red icon fills my vision. Opening the tracker, a small dotted circle first appears as it begins to load the map.

I wish I didn't need to work tonight, but unfortunately corruption doesn't take any time off. As long as assholes like Byron Campbell, who use their money and misplaced power to manipulate the innocent exist, I have a job to do. Only difference with tonight's assignment, unlike most of the jobs Cam gives me is that this one is personal. Even though it results in delaying my usual nightly routine of watching my final girl, it will be worth it.

As I near my destination, a ping sounds from my phone and a Cheshire grin spreads across my face.

I found you.

Moving my gaze to the coordinates that now appear on the screen I tap the control three times to zoom in to where the crimson dot is flashing. It's amazing what that little blinking light does to me. In an instant, my mood shifts from its usual bleak state to something that feels alive for a change and full of aching, incessant need. All because of her.

It was risky, sneaking into her bedroom and installing the tracking device on her phone while she slept. But now that I'm staring at a live map pinpointing her exact location, I'd say it was more than worth it.

From the moment I first saw her, bursting through the doors of the Horseman's Diner in a cloud of anger, I knew I had to have her.

Even though her expression looked ferociousas she spat curses into her phone with a lit cigarette balanced between her plump lips, I couldn't look away. It didn't hurt that her body looked like an exquisite piece of art: soft and supple, with a mix of muscle and real curves that moved when she did. Though, aside from her looks, it was the aura that radiated from her every pore that really drew me to her.

Looking at her was like looking at a mirror reflecting the same devious nature life nurtured in me. It felt both alluring and chaotic all within the same breath. Red flags and all, she looked like Lilith and as I sat with my jaw dropped, I knew I would be the only devil she could ever call home.

I zoom in onthe map to get a better look ather location when an incoming messagefills the screen.

Cam Moeder: Room 15H

Me: Got it.

Of course, the room Byron is staying in is fifteen. Growing up my mom was big into numerology—she still is I guess— but fifteen, that was her number. She always spoke of the luck it carried and how it leads to growth and new beginnings. I personally think it's bullshit. Fifteen years ago, I lost my dad because of Byron Campbell and on my parent's anniversary no less. To me, the number fifteen feels as cursed as what most would think three consecutive sixes would be, although considering the fate that awaits him, I guess it's a fitting number.

Exiting the text with Cam, I quickly move my finger back on the control, opening the tracker once more. I raise my phone from where it is lowered on my right side, so it's now centered on the steering wheel, allowing me to get a better look. It's not even in front of my eyes for two seconds before a wave of rage robs the excitement, I felt moments before when I first saw her location.

Gaze glued on the now moving red dot, I turn the wheel violently, andthe tires squeal against the unpaved road that leads to Irving's Motel. The more I stare at the screen the more my chest tightens, making my breathing feel shallow and scattered. Gravel begins to scrape against the undercarriage of my truck with some pieces of debris making their way in through the open window, brushing against my inked arm. But I don't care. I'm too angry, too consumed with wondering why she is headed to the park that backs up to the old, abandoned mill.

The same abandoned mill that has become known as a hot spot for people to shoot off fireworks or fuck. In all the time I have spent observing her, studying her every fucking move, I've never once seen her so much as light a damn sparkler. My knuckles whiten with the tense grip I have between my phone and steering wheel because if my final girl went there to do the latter, there will be hell to pay. For her and whoever dares touch what is mine.

Temptation clouds my mind, making me want to turn around and drive to where she is. But if I abandon tonight's assignment, not only will Cam chew me out, but I would also never be able to live with myself knowing that I let the opportunity to avenge my father's murder slip away.

My phone vibrates, alerting me of a new message from Cam, and Ireluctantly drag myself from the rage induced trance I find myself in.

Cam Moeder: How far out are you?

Me: I'm here.

Cam Moeder: Good. Make it quick

Cam Moeder: and tidy…not like last time.

Me: Got it.

How could I possibly forget the last time Cam allowed me to bring my favorite butcher's knife on an assignment; I got carried away, as usual, and things got messy. It wouldn't have been a big deal, but I didn't bring a tarp, like Cam suggested, and it made cleaning the blood splatter damn near impossible. Luckily this time, I remembered the tarp, because there is no way I wouldn't want to use my favorite knife tonight. It's sharpened and ready with Byron Campbell's fucking name on it.

Cam Moeder: He thinks he's going home, so make it believable.

He'll be going home alright.

I close the text, placing my phone in my back pocket, eliminating the temptation I have to continue to track her every move. I need to focus. The quicker I kill this fucker and bring his severed head back to Cam, per her request, the quicker I get to where I'd rather be.

The closer I drive toward the entrance of the motel; I'm taken aback by the amount of weeds and overgrowth that appear to swallow the motel whole. With the worn siding and busted windows, it looks abandoned and nothing like the fancy establishment I imagined Mr. Byron "Big Bucks"Campbell would be caught dead at.

According to Cam, this has become Byron's go to spot for when he wants to fuck anyone that isn't his wife. It's ironic, the discretion he uses when cheating on his wife—who he shows no respect for—yet the lives he has ruined from his corrupt schemes, he wears like abadge of honor. But all of his greedy, lying and destructive ways will end tonight.

I park in front ofroom 15H and notice the door is half open. Bringing my palm to the horn, I give it a few quick taps to let him know I'm here. A few minutes slip by and, just as I'm about to lay on the horn again, an awful high-pitched squeal sounds from the hinges of the door.

Irritation rattles my core as a disheveled Byron appears in the threshold of the doorway. He raises his hand, waving in my direction, which damn near causes him to topple over. A shrill chuckle erupts from his thin-lipped mouth as he steadies his stance, attempting to wave my way once more.

Fucking pathetic prick.

Refusing to give this douchebag any more of my attention than he deserves, I don't return his greeting. Instead, I sit stoic and unamused, watching him move his wobbly body toward the truck so slowly it makes time feel like it's at a stand-still.

I debate getting out and helping him get in. Not because I give a fuck if he trips and hurts himself, if anything that would make my job easier, but I need to speed this process up if I want to get to where I belong afterward…watching my final girl.

About to lift the driver side door handle to get out of the truck, I freeze when Byron"s disgruntled silhouette appears outside the passenger side window. He waves once more and once again, I ignore it. Instead, I tilt my chin in the direction of the door, hoping he will get the hint and open the fucking thing himself. It takes a minute, but he finally opens the door, stumbling his way into the passenger seat. The foul stench of body odor mixed with stale bourbon and sex filling the cab of my truck makes me want to gag.

"Mad-mad," he slurs, sounding even drunker than he smells.

I turn my head towards him, immediately noticing the queasy expression on his face. Guess it really is a good thing I bought the tarp this time in case he pukes. Which judging from the way the usually milky hue of his skin now appears translucent, it looks like that is a major possibility.

Discreetly I reach for the handle of my knife that's stashed and ready to go in the lower compartment of the driver door. Not that I need it this second, but I want to make sure when the time comes, its positioning makes for a quick retrieval. Recently, I added leather to the handle, so it helps optimize my grip. Feeling the fresh leather secured in my hand sends a ripple of excitement through me. Especially since, tonight, I will be able to indulge myself in one of my favorite pastimes aside from anything involving my little muse, and that's killing.

The burst of joy I feel with the knife in my grasp dissipates the moment I feel Byron's clammy palm slither its way onto my shoulder.

"Get the fuck off me," I rasp, jerking my shoulder to loosen the hold he has on me. My abrupt movement causes the knife to fall from my grip. I wince as it thuds against the pocket of the door, hoping Byron doesn't hear but, thankfully, he's too inebriated to notice.

"Aye, aye captain," he jokes, moving his hand against his forehead, extending it in a cringe worthy salute.

For fuck's sake, how corny. What's next, a drunk rendition of the SpongeBob theme song?

"Never do that again," I bite. "Now close the fucking door so we can get you home."

He follows my instructions but as he leans to close the door, the plastic he's sitting on shifts, causing him to become aware of the extensive amount of clear polyethylene tarp that covers the interior of the truck.

"Wow, this is new," he observes, running an unsteady hand over the plastic before slumping back on the passenger seat.

"Yep," I nod. My ringed fingers tap on the locks just as I put the truck in reverse so we can get the fuck out of here and get this show moving. Thankfully, he is too intoxicated to piece together why the tarp is in the truck. I was expecting more questions, but I welcome the silence and hope it remains for the entirety of our drive to the quarry.

We barely make it out of the motel parking lot when he begins to flap his lips, mumbling about God knows what.

Feeling increasingly agitated by the mere sound of his voice, I reach for the stereo dial. "How about some music?" I interrupt, twisting the volume dial up to max volume. Metallica's "Enter Sandman"vibrates the truck, drowning out Byron's rambling.

My tongue swipes across my lips and I'm about to start humming along to the lyrics when the music that was just vibrating the speakers abruptly stops.

I slam my foot on the brake, causing an unbuckled Byron to tumble forward. His head makes a loud thud against the dash. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I shout. As if I don't harbor an immense amount of hatred for him already, he now has the nerve to touch my stereo? Which was just playing the song that helps me get in the zone before I commit murder? The fucking audacity.

"I asked you a fucking question, Byron." My chest is now heaving, my pulse a beating drum in my ears. Consumed by rage, I extend my hand, clenching my fist around the scratchy linen of his sweat-dampened shirt. Gross.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I repeat, releasing the hold I have on his shirt and instead moving my hand, squeezing his chin in my direction so he's forced to look at me.

"I-I-" he stammers, but the pressure I maintain on his face has his cheeks squished together, making it difficult for him to answer. His cheeks hollow as he tries to part his lips more so he can answer. Growing tired of his pathetic stuttering, I release my harsh grip on his chin.

He inhales, sounding unexpectedly relieved before he continues to speak. "I just wanted to ask where you were headed," he says, suddenly sounding more coherent.

Shit.

The truck begins to roll forward and it's then that I realize I lifted my foot off the brake.

"Fuck," I release a throaty groanas I throw the truck into park. The hasty motion causes both of us to jolt forward in our seats.

"Mad, I was just trying to help. When your mom called me, I thought you–". His words are cut off by my large palm wrapping around his neck.

"Don't you dare mention my mother. Ever. Got it?" A terrified nod springs from his head. Tightening the chokehold, I have him in, I gaze directly into his sullen eyes. "I mean it," I grit, increasing the hold my fingers have on his airway for a few seconds more before letting go.

He gasps for air while I twist my torso from where it's facing him, so I'm now aligned with the steering wheel. My hand dances around the driver's door compartment until my fingertips are met with the cool leather secured to the handle. Curling my fingers around the leather, I straighten my posture.

"Maddox," Byron breathes, still sounding winded "I'm–"

"You're what?" I interrupt. "Are you sorry, Byron? Is that what you are?"

With the amount of blood on this man's hands, all in the name of making himself richer, he should be sorry. Not like I'm in a position to talk, but at least the blood shed by my hands is justified. It's for the greater good of those who fall victim to monsters like him. Rich cowards who lie and steal from those less fortunate, using people's weaknesses to his advantage. He's the criminal, I'm merely an exterminator. Eradicating him like the pest he is.

"Were you sorry when you had my father killed?" The words feel like poison to my system as I mutter them. I always knew Byron Campbell was bad news. But after Cam gained credible intel from a former employee of his who obtained a voice recording confirming Byron's involvement, he practically signed his death certificate.

I turn to look him in the eyes. Curious to see what he will do or say now. But when I look at his sunken face, all I see is a liar and, when he opens his mouth, all I hear are excuses.

He continues spewing some rehearsed garbage he must have memorized in the event that his tower of lies begins to crumble like it is now, but it's useless. All I hear when he speaks are my own internal thoughts. All I can focus on is my knife that is now lifted from its position at my side to where it is gliding past the steering wheel, just waiting—no, craving this fucker's blood.

"Oh fuck," Byron bellows, trying to reach for the passenger door handle.

"Sorry buddy, not going to escape this one," I beam, slowly inching the gleaming steel blade towards his torso. His rancid breath filters its way to my nostrils as he begins to inch away from me, pressing his back against the door that won't open.

Looks like child locks don't only come in handy to keep little shits from opening car doors.

"Pl-please," he pleads. "I-I was ju-ju-st trying to help him. He was sick–" he lies, but his words mean nothing to me.

I'm no god, I don't give a flying fuck about redemption. Let alone his hollow pleas. What I want is blood in exchange for the hell he put my family through.

"You know how you can help me?" I ask, driving the angled tip of the blade into his gut. "It would be so helpful if you could shut the fuck up and stay extra still," I say through a grin so wide, my fucking cheeks hurt. He gasps from the force that I drive the steel into his abdomen, making sure it not only slices his skin but begins to cut through his intestines. Ripping the knife out for a second, I revel in the blood that begins to pool fromthe gash on his torso, staining the light linen of his shirt. Knuckles white against the leather handle, a satisfied grin remains on my face as I drive the edge of the blade in and out of him.

I know Cam's specific instructions were that the head be delivered sans body and it will be, but I've been dreaming of being able to kill this sorry sack of shit, so I think a few more stabs to the gut will suffice. Then once I've had my fix, I'll drive him over to the quarry and it'll be off with his head.

Rivulets of blood seep past the fabric of his shirt onto the plastic tarp as his lifeless body slumps against the window. I reach over him, snagging the seat belt to buckle him in, that way he doesn't bop all over the place the rest of the drive to the quarry, since we didn't quite make it there before we said our goodbyes.

Fuck, that felt good.

Relishing in the absence of Byron's voice the rest of the drive, I decide to indulge myself in some music again. I turn on the stereo and, to my surprise, "Enter Sandman" is playing again and just in time for the best part, when the beat picks up fifty-five seconds in.

Winning.

I reach for my phone in my back pocket, sending a quick text to Cam.

Me: Done…on my way to the quarry now.

Cam Moeder: Ok? Not where we discussed it happening but at least it's finished

Cam Moeder: and the head?

Me: still attached…

Cam Moeder: not good enough. I want it severed.

Me: It'll be my pleasure.

Cam: and Maddox, try to lay low tonight.

Me: That"s my specialty ;-)