“Come in.”
I do as I am told.
A man appears, the same one I was introduced to on Darko’s island. I don’t remember his name. I do remember his face. It’s round and sweaty even when it’s cool. He has deep set dark little eyes and lips that look rubbery.
“What do you know about Chloe?” He doesn’t recognize me. This disguise is good.
“I know she’s standing right in front of you,” I say, pulling the gun from my bag. “You killed my father. And now you’re going to die too. Every. Single. One of you are going to die by my hand, just like he did.”
“Oh, no,” Rubber Lips starts to smirk. “Chloe. Put the gun down. This is too dangerous a game for you to be playing, little girl.”
I thought I’d have a longer discussion. I thought I’d make him beg for forgiveness. I thought I’d maybe use him somehow to get leverage over the others. But it turns out the trigger is more sensitive than I thought it was and the slight squeeze I give it in anger as he dares call me a little girl makes the gun go off. There is a very loud bang that makes the world squeal in the aftermath, a kick that sends the gun back toward my own face, the barrel striking just beside my nose.
In an instant, the man worth mega millions is nothing more than meat, lying on the floor and I am clutching my hand to my face. It feels like I just got punched hard. The swelling is immediate and I think there is blood, though I can’t tell because my vision is blurry.
His servant has disappeared. I don’t blame the man, though I had no intention of killing him. He’s probably gone to call the cops. I’m probably going to be put in prison for this, or worse. I don’t fucking care.
I shove the gun back into my bag and I start going through the apartment. I’m looking for two things: money and names. Rubber Lips’ phone is on his desk. I grab that, run back to him, use his thumbprint to unlock it, and then remove that protection so the phone is always unlocked. This is a goldmine, I just know it. He has money on him too, a thick roll of hundreds that are now mine.
And then I run. Back into the stairwell, back down to the parking garage. Back into my car.
I’m several blocks away before it sinks in. I just killed a man. And it was easy. Far easier than I thought it would be—way easier than I ever imagined. My face is fucking throbbing, but aside from that, I feel fine. If there’s guilt, I’m numb to it right now. Revenge is running through my veins. I want another one. I need another one. There’s only twelve or so of them. I can do this. I can wipe them out. I can… is that blood on my hands? I didn’t notice that before. Looking at the steering wheel, I suddenly become hyper-aware that both my hands are covered in blood. It is caked beneath my nails, and as it dries it is starting to crust on my skin. Something is rising in me. Bile and sadness and rage.
I just barely manage to pull over before I throw up all over myself.
“Ugh. Jesus. Gross.”
Maybe this wasn’t as easy as I thought it was. Maybe I wasn’t as hard as I thought. I try to clean myself up, but I’ve made a huge mess. I need a fucking bathroom. I need a priest. I need… I need my daddy.
I start to cry, hysterical sobbing tears that have been pent up inside me since his passing. They are ugly, just like the rest of me, just like my soul now that I am just as much an animal as any of the men who made me their prey.
The phone rings.
The dead man’s phone.
I wipe my hands on the upholstery and answer the call without saying anything. The caller has only dead air to speak into. The voice is familiar. Rich and accented and so calmly powerful.
“Oh, Chloe,” Darko says mournfully. “What have you done?”
I can’t answer. I gasp something incoherent and try to terminate the call, but I can’t because the screen isn’t taking input from my blood-smeared finger right now. He’s still on the line as I sit there, sobbing in the middle of the city. There are that all around me, but I am hidden by the cloak of night and their disinterest in anything which is not immediately relevant to themselves.
Not a single passerby has any idea what is inside the car next to them. Nobody detects the stench of depravity, or the weight of death. I need to get the car going again. I need to get cleaned up. I need to get a grip.