NINE MONTHS LATER
My sneakers squeak on the wooden floor as I creep along the hallway, but the sound is drowned out by the noise of the TV. The game’s on. Patriots vs. Colts. Ten more paces until I reach the den. This isn’t the first time I’ve been here. I know the kind of tiles used to decorate the bathroom, and I know the brand of whiskey the owner drinks and how frequently he drinks it. He downs at least half a bottle during every Pats game. I know that the glass coffee table he uses to hold his bottle of Jameson is from Ikea. I had one just like it in a warehouse yesterday, before it got smashed to pieces and tossed in the dumpster of a local Turkish restaurant by one of my men. Wrapping my gloved hand around the thick shard I kept, I pull it from my pocket.
Slipping into the den, I see the half empty bottle of whiskey on the table and the empty glass sitting beside it. I swallow a knot of regret. I wish I could drag this out. Oh, the pleasure I would take in peeling the skin from his bones while listening to the music of his agonized screams. I’d gouge out his eyeballs and force them down his throat. Let him know who’s responsible for every agonizing second of his death while I draw out his pain for as long as I can. Sadly, this needs to look like a suicide.
I quietly step up behind him, although he’s too drunk to even hear me. A part of me hopes that he has good instincts and will spin around and confront me because then I could legitimately beat the fucker to death with my bare hands. But his eyes remain glued to the screen, and he curses the Patriots’ receiver for dropping the ball.
I’m so close I can smell the whiskey on him and see the strong pulse in his neck. Grabbing his jaw, I tilt his head back before he can process what’s happening.
I pull his head back far enough that I can look into his eyes. “Remember me, you sick fuck?”
He makes a grab for me and I don’t flinch back. I’m wearing all-black combat gear, the kind that doesn’t leave fibers behind. He can struggle and pull at my clothes all he wants. It won’t change the outcome of his night.
“This is for Mia and Michaela, you evil fuck.” I snarl as I slice the shard of glass across his carotid artery. “You’re going to die just like your piece-of-shit brother.”
He makes a final grab for me, then clutches at his throat, sputtering and coughing. A river of blood pours down his neck, soaking his football jersey, and I hold onto him as every drop of life drains from his body. Once he’s dead and his eyes go dull, I let go and he falls forward.
Taking the shard, I position his hand around it. Then I grab the bottle of whiskey, raise it high and drop it onto the coffee table. It crashes through the glass, shattering it into pieces. I don’t have a note, but I do have the unredacted sealed files and Michaela’s permission. I place them on the sofa beside the brother who made her life a living hell. Hopefully he’s about to spend the rest of eternity in his. Between his family history and the presumed guilt over what he did to his little sister, I have no doubt his death will be ruled a suicide. But if the detectives suspect even the slightest hint of foul play, I’m covered. I happen to know the new Superintendent of the Boston PD—Pete Hayes.
