3. END GAMES

3

END GAMES

RYDEN

T he stench of alcohol and sweat smacked me in the face when I walked back into the pub. I was following up on a story a few weeks ago when I found this pub. I immediately knew it’d be a good place to get lost, a good place to never be found. Nameless. Faceless. Completely unrecognizable.

Ryden Sinclair was a man everyone knew, but most of the patrons of this bar wouldn’t recognize me, and that suited my needs fine—I craved anonymity.

Tonight was my first time here, and what a fucking first time it was turning out to be.

Fucking Phil.

I took a chair at a table behind him and continued to watch. Phil, inebriated, remained at his table, drinking more beer. His hand lingered a little longer on the waitress when she served the drink. She was uncomfortable, but from her resigned look, I knew this wasn’t new. He must be a regular here.

In my twisted rule book of morals, I considered rape the worst of it all. I instinctively knew Phil was capable of that.

Being an investigative journalist had its perks, especially for the bloodthirsty side of me—I often stumbled onto criminals who used money to get out of a justice system that was broken and ?flawed.

I came here tonight for a few glasses, hoping the loud music would offer me a moment of peace from the voices inside me. I needed to escape from the painful photographs of the two young girls desecrated and brutally murdered. I saw someone who could have killed those girls in Phil’s eyes, and I hated him more for it.

Rarely did I indulge in reckless, impulsive decisions. I prided myself on being meticulous. I always had backup plans for my backup plan. But tonight, I had to improvise and rely on my skills not to get caught.

Fuck. I needed a challenge. It had been too long, and I was itching for a kill.

I grabbed my phone and called Reah. She answered on the third ring with a grunt. “Fuck, Sinclair, what the hell do you want? I was sleeping.”

“Hello to you too, Reah. I need you to find someone for me. I’ll send you his picture. His first name’s Phil. Check if he has any criminal record.”

“You’re chasing a story? In the middle of the night? What’s wrong with you?” she asked with a huff. “You’re a fucking workaholic. Alright, send it to me.”

“Thank you.” Hanging up, I edged near Phil and took a picture of him. It was slightly blurry, and Phil looked like a boiled red lobster, but Reah was a magician with computers. If there was something to find, she’d find it. After another few minutes of waiting, my phone pinged. I opened the file and scanned it with a scowl. Phil—that wasn’t even his real name—was worse than I thought.

Oh, Phil, no, Matthew… What have you done?

What I read about him strengthened my decision. He didn’t deserve to live after he had destroyed three women.

Half an hour later, the bastard finally decided he’d had enough beer. He weaved unsteadily through the crowd until he was out the back door and puked his guts out. Once he was done, he stumbled out of the alley and flagged down a taxi.

Men like him irked me—men, who carried a sense of entitlement.

“Parkdale Avenue,” he slurred, slipping into the waiting vehicle. I walked towards the front of the pub, where I’d parked my car. Taking a quick survey of my surroundings to ensure I was alone, I covered my license plate. Once I was done, I called Reah again.

“Go on.”

“Parkdale Avenue. Can you find out if an Isabella Ross lives there?” I said as I started my car. “Find me the quickest possible route to reach Parkdale Ave.”

“Found Isabella Ross. I’ll text you the address and the route,” Reah said and hung up. My phone pinged after a few seconds with the information. I entered the location into my GPS, revved the engine, and slammed the accelerator down, speeding away from the pub.

“I’ll… make sure you feel every agonizing moment of your death if you touch her,” I growled, racing down the street until I arrived at Parkdale Avenue. Bringing my car to a halt in front of the small apartment building, I grabbed a mask and pulled it down.

There was a CCTV camera whirring from a store opposite the apartment building, but other than that, the street was free of cameras. I smiled when a cab pulled up next to Isabella’s apartment. Matthew staggered out, slurring something under his breath.

Ah, there he is! Matthew Smith, aka Phil.

After the cab sped away, I walked toward him. “Matthew Smith?”

He whirled around and his eyes went wide when he realized what he had done. “What the hell? Who are—I’m not Matthew Smith. I…”

“You are Matthew Smith. From Florida. Do you remember Teresa Brown, Katy Kim, Tasha Benjamin?” I grabbed him by his shirt collar, pulling him closer.

Blood drained from his face. “No. I-I don’t know anyone.” He tried to struggle away from my hold.

“What a liar, Matthew! You know them. Fuck. You’re the reason they’re dead now,” I said, shaking my head.

“Wh-who’re you, motherfucker? What do you want?” he growled, raising his fist to my face when I let him go. I didn’t give him the chance to land that punch on my perfect face.

“Ah, no. My face is one of my best features,” I tutted, grabbing his hand and twisting it behind him. He jumped up and down, screaming in pain. I really wanted to beat him to death right now—it’d be satisfying to feel his skull cave under the force of my fist, to hear his bones break. But no, not yet.

“I warned you not to go anywhere near her, didn’t I?”

“You-you’re him. You stalk-stalked me from the pub?”

“I did. Hello again.” Smiling, I grabbed the fucker by his long hair and pulled him back to expose his neck. He thrashed and screamed. I plunged the syringe filled with fentanyl into his skin, and he stilled against me after struggling for a while. Leaving him on the cold pavement, I went to my car. Quickly covering the backseat with a roll of plastic, I hauled Phil from the ground and threw him in.

Driving deeper into the city, I reached the desolate outskirts of Detroit, where construction projects were abandoned midway. Around the vicinity, more buildings stood unfinished, untended. I had been here once to cover a murder with my photographer, Shayna. She told me that this seemed like the kind of place killers might prowl during nighttime.

She was right. It was a perfect place for an impromptu kill. I could work peacefully without any distractions. I grabbed my bag filled with tarp, plastic, rope—all the tools of the trade.

Now I had to carry this unconscious ass up the stairs. Grunting, I opened the back door, rolled the plastic around him, and kicked him out of my car. He fell to the ground, bouncing once before settling on the concrete. Kicking him in the stomach, I pulled the gloves on.

He whined a little as I used a rope to tighten the plastic tarp around him. I grabbed the black Tyvek coveralls from inside my bag. Quickly putting them on, I hauled him up onto my shoulder with a curse.

“Fuck my luck. If not for you, I’d be sleeping in my warm bed. I’m going to make you feel every single thing I’m going to do just for that.”