Gaby’s knife, which she’d withdrawn from her sheath without Jimbo even noticing, pressed against his balls. The second he realized the placement of the blade, his eyes bulged in terror.
Nudging the knife snug against him, Gaby said, “What I want you to say is that you comprehend the seriousness of the threat. I want you to say that you won’t do anything to put any women at risk, especially these women who look to you for protection. I want you to acknowledge that I will get the bastard doing this, but until then, you’ll damn well do as you’re told—or suffer the consequences.”
Beads of sweat rolled down Jimbo’s temple. “You’re fucking insane.”
“Bet on it. Insane enough to castrate you without a single qualm.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed hard. “Jesus, Gaby. I . . . I gotta make my money.”
Gaby thought about slicing him, just a little, just enough to gain compliance. Her razor-sharp blade would cut through his denim as cleanly as surgical steel sliced flesh.
She pondered the idea—and then she felt it, the transuding of depravity into her being.
Triumph ripped through her before the calling could devour her.
She wouldn’t wait for God’s command. Not this time.
She’d hone her omnipotent numen and seek out the evil on her own recognizance.
Under her own tutelary power.
“Jesus, bitch, you’re cutting me!”
Oh hell. Refocusing on the idiot before her, Gaby withdrew the knife a safe distance from his crotch. “Do we understand each other, Jimbo?”
Hands cupping his jewels, he hissed, “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Just back the fuck off.”
She gave him one more long look, but in light of this new challenge, Jimbo meant little enough to her. As Gaby reached back to replace her knife in the sheath, Jimbo struck out, intending to slug her straight in the face.
Fool.
Gaby dodged the blow, caught his arm, and wrenched it behind his back. His spine bowed as she added pressure to his wrist. “You would dare, Jimbo?”
Defiant even in the grip of pain, he shook his head. “You’re making me look like a chump in front of everyone.”
“No,” Gaby said, and needing expedient measures, she twisted hard enough to make him yell out in agony. “You did that to yourself.”
Releasing him with a shove, she stepped away.
The whores ran over to Jimbo, offering sympathy and assistance—and getting cursed for their efforts. Gaby walked away from them all. She didn’t want to be followed, so she didn’t dare run.
The invading affliction boiled to the surface, but didn’t yet take over. She had time.
She’d get him. Or her.
And when she did, God Himself wouldn’t interfere.
Nervousness kept Oren walking fast down the third dark, narrow alley. He had to make it quick to hedge off possible harm to himself. So far, he hadn’t had much luck. Evening would prove a better time for his goal, but he lacked the courage necessary to wander the alleys, in the slums, during the dark of the night.
Like engorged veins, broken pipes climbed the outer walls enclosing the alley, trickling fluid, making the way slick. Mold grew rampant. Rats fed off refuse.
It was all so distasteful—and yet, so necessary.
Because of her.
Because of that damned cop.
Up ahead, at the bottom of concrete stairs leading farther into the bowels of hell, Oren saw what appeared to be a shrouded head.
His third, rapid target for the day.
He always saved the best for last.
To be safe, Oren slipped on gloves, then withdrew the one remaining hypodermic and prepared it for use.
The waiting body didn’t move.
The nearer Oren got, the more details were illuminated. Grizzled graying hair poked out from beneath an old knit hat. Long, knobby fingers, disfigured with arthritis, clutched an all but empty bottle of booze. The reek of unwashed, aging skin and hair emanated from the huddled form.
Heavy in his pocket, the knife he’d brought along encouraged and titillated him.
He could barely wait.
The fouled drugs he’d dropped off at the crack house were amusing, giving the possibility of multiple deaths if a druggie chose to share.
The pipe bomb left near the playground, waiting for some idiot child to detonate, kept his anticipation sky- high.
But this, the promise of real bloodshed, pleased him the most.
Giddy excitement threatened to bubble over, stealing his control. Oren tamped it down. This foul creature wouldn’t offer much of a challenge to his intelligence and cunning, but it’d pose confusion to the bitch and to the cop.
That counted for a lot.
Oren was only a few feet away when the bedraggled, decrepit being stirred. He looked up through watery, faded eyes, vague with indulgence and pathos.
Too stupid to sense his own inescapable death.
Lunging forward, Oren stabbed the syringe into the man’s chest with brutish delight.
The victim’s wrinkled mouth opened in terror; a feeble hand batted at the needle.
But already, the lethal dose of drugs scoured through his bloodstream, rendering him mute, paralyzed.
Defenseless.
Unwilling to waste time, Oren retrieved the syringe, broke off the needle against the brick wall, and dropped it back into his pocket.
The man’s head slumped to the side.
Such an easy death for him; unfortunately, he wouldn’t feel a thing.
Oren withdrew the knife. For only a moment, he fingered the hilt, letting his palm become accustomed to the grip, the weight.
The man twitched, a spontaneous pinching of muscles, and that stimulated Oren, quickened his heartbeat and his glee. Laughing, he stabbed the man in the cheek.
Blood spurted out against the bricks, bathing the dull rust in glistening crimson.
Oh God, that felt good.
He stabbed again, this time sinking half the blade into the man’s shoulder. Then into his chest. His thigh.
Entranced by his bloody results, at the display of gore and torn muscle, Oren slashed at the deceased man’s nose, leaving cartilage exposed as the only tether keeping it on his face.
Seeing the nose dangling there, Oren tipped his head. And laughed.
The idiot drunkard looked so ridiculous.
But the enjoyment couldn’t last. He didn’t dare vacillate; strike and move. That was the plan. Again and again.
With one last thrust, Oren buried the knife into the man’s face. It deflected off his cheekbone and slipped alongside his temple, under saggy skin and putrid flesh.
Macabre.
Oren loved it.
Oh how he would enjoy the look on the cop’s face when he found the man. But some pleasures would be denied him. Oren accepted that.
