'Don't disappointment me, son.'
O bowed a little and left quickly. It felt good to get in his truck and drive away. Better than good. It felt like a goddamned liberation.
On the way to his house, O pulled into a CVS. It didn't take him long to find what he needed, and ten minutes later he shut his front door and deactivated his security alarm. His place was a tiny two-story in a not-so-hot residential section of town, and the location provided good cover. Most of his neighbors were elderly, and those who weren't were green-carders who worked two and three jobs. No one bothered him.
As he walked upstairs to the bedroom, the sound of his footsteps echoing up from the bare floors and bouncing off the empty walls was oddly comforting. Still, the house wasn't a home and never had been. The thing was a barrack. A mattress and a Barcalounger were all he had for furniture. Blinds hung in front of every piece of glass, blocking any view. Closets were stocked with weapons and uniforms. The kitchen was completely empty, the appliances unused since he'd moved in.
He stripped and took a gun into the bathroom along with the white plastic CVS bag. Leaning in toward the mirror, he parted his hair. His roots were showing about an eighth of an inch of pale.
The change had started about a year ago. First a few hairs, right on top, then a whole patch that spread from front to back. His temples had held out the longest, though now even they were fading.
Clairol Hydrience No. 48 Sable Cove took care of the problem, got him back to brown. He'd started with Hair Color for Men, but soon discovered that the shit for women worked better and lasted longer.
He popped open the box and didn't bother with the clear plastic gloves. Emptying the tube into the squeeze bottle, he shook the stuff up and threaded it through to his scalp in sections. He hated the chemical smell. The maintenance. The skunk stripe. But the idea of paling out repulsed him.
Why
He put down the squeeze bottle and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked like a total idiot, brown grease slathered all over his head. Jesus Christ, what was he turning into?
Well, wasn't that a stupid question. The deed was long done, and it was too late for regrets.
Man, on the night of his initiation, when he'd traded a part of himself for the chance to kill for years and years and years, he'd thought he'd known what he was giving up and what he was getting in return. The deal had seemed more than fair.
And for three years, it had continued to strike him as a good one. The impotence hadn't bothered him much, because the woman he wanted was dead. The not eating and drinking had taken some getting used to, but he'd never been a big chowhound or a drunk. And he'd been eager to lose his old identity, because the police were looking for him.
The plus side had seemed tremendous. The strength had been more than he'd expected. He'd been one hell of a skull-cracker when he'd worked as a bouncer back in Sioux City. But after the Omega was through doing his thing, O had inhuman tensile power in his arms, legs, and chest, and he'd liked using it.
Another bonus was the financial freedom. The Society gave him everything he needed to do his job, covering the costs of his house, his truck, his weapons and clothes, his electronic toys. He was utterly free to hunt his prey.
Or he had been for the first couple of years. When Mr. X had taken command, that autonomy had come to an end. Now there were check-ins. Squadrons. Quotas.
Visits with the Omega.
O got in the shower and washed the crap out of his hair. As he toweled off, he went back to the mirror and peered at his face. His irises, once brown like his hair, were turning gray.
In another year or so, everything that used to be him would be gone.
He cleared his throat. 'My name is David Ormond. David. Ormond. Son of Bob and Lilly. Ormond. Ormond.'
God, the name sounded weird as it left his mouth. And in his head, he heard Mr. X's voice referring to him as Mr. O.
A tremendous emotion swelled in him, panic and sorrow combined. He wanted to go back. He wanted… to go back, to undo, to erase. The deal for his soul had only seemed good. In reality, it was a special kind of hell. He was a living, breathing, killing ghost. No longer a man, but a thing.
O dressed with trembling hands and jumped into his truck. By the time he was downtown, he was no longer thinking logically. He parked on Trade Street and started walking the alleys. It took some time before he found what he was looking for.
A whore with long, dark hair. Who, as long as she didn't flash her teeth, looked a little like his Jennifer had.
He slipped her fifty bucks and took her behind a Dumpster.
'I want you to call me David,' he said.
'Sure thing.' She smiled as she undid her coat and flashed her bare chest. 'What do you want to call—'
He clamped a hand over her mouth and started to squeeze. He didn't stop until her eyes were popping.
'Say my name,' he commanded.
O released his grip and waited. When all she did was hyperventilate, he took out his knife and pressed it into her throat.
'David,' she whispered.
'Tell me that you love me.' When she hesitated, he pricked the skin of her neck with the tip of the blade. Her blood welled up and slid down the shiny metal. 'Say it.'
Her sloppy breasts, so unlike Jennifer's, pumped up and down. 'I… I love you.'
He closed his eyes. The voice was all wrong.
This just wasn't giving him what he needed.
O's anger rose to an uncontrollable level.
CHAPTER 16
Rhage heaved the barbell up from his chest, teeth bared, body shaking, sweat pouring off him.
'That's ten,' Butch called out.
Rhage set the load back on the stand above him, hearing the thing groan as the weights rattled and fell still.
'Add another fifty.'
Butch leaned over the bar. 'You got five-twenty-five on there already, my man.'
'And I
Hazel eyes narrowed. 'Easy, Hollywood. You want to shred your pecs, that's your business. But don't take my head off.'
'Sorry.' He sat up and shook out his burning arms. It was nine in the morning, and he and the cop had been in the weight room since seven. There wasn't one part of his body that wasn't on fire, but quitting was a long way off. He was shooting for the kind of physical exhaustion that went into the bone.
'Are we there yet?' he muttered.
'Let me tighten the clamps. Okay, good to go.'
Rhage laid back down, hoisted the barbell off the stand, and let it rest on his chest. He marshaled his breathing before pumping the weight.
He controlled the load until the last two reps, when Butch had to step in and spot.
