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Iopen the basement door, and the stench of blood, piss, and shit fills my nostrils.

Fuckingshit.

Rolling my eyes, I brace myself for whatever poor soul Ryker decided to take his issues out on today. No one deserves that, and I mean no one. Ryker has more issues than a teenage girl whose dad left to get the damn milk. Or teenage boys who have their mother pinching their cheeks. I’m sure we all know those ‘men’ who drive big pickup trucks like a complete douche and have to race home to kiss their dad on the lips.

He has more issues than all of them combined.

Yanking my sleeve down, I slam it over my mouth and nose. No matter the amount of torture or killing I do, nothing will ever prepare me for the horrendous stench of bodily fluids.

I carefully walk down the stairs, trying my best not to gag into my sleeve. When I get to the bottom, I stop dead in my tracks as I take in the mess Ryker has made.

The floor is smeared with blood and handprints. In the center of it all is a long dark mark leading to a body, and his knees are bent at an odd angle.

He’s stripped bare besides a pair of boxers. Ryker stands off to the side, his black mask firmly against his skin, his black outfit and motorcycle boots perfectly in place.

The man moans into the ground. I’m surprised he is still alive. Ryker cocks his head to the side, studying his latest victim.

“What’d he do?” I mumble into my sleeve. Ryker eyes me for a moment, twisting the knife in his hand around.

“Put a hit out on his wife that he was abusing…” he mutters. “And his son.”

I bite my tongue to stop myself from sighing. Truly I don't want to breathe in the man’s stench. One rule for Ryker is you don’t hurt children. This man is like a mama bear, but worse. Knowing Ryker better than anyone, I know he took one look at that kid and refused to hurt the mother and the child. Instead, he went after the man. Whoever lies on the ground should have found someone else who has no morals for kids.

Ryker flicks the knife into the air, nearly catching the blade. It wouldn’t be the first time, not that it bothers him. He moves in a flash, grabbing the back of the man’s head, and yanking him up by his hair. Slashing the blade across his throat, blood pours down his chest onto the ground.

Ryker might be wearing a mask, but I know there’s a smile underneath it. I know he’s relishing in the sight of blood. The psycho would love the feeling if he would take the stupid gloves off. But I know that will never happen.

Even if I know what he hides underneath them, or what happened, he would never take them off. He refuses.

“Plan on telling the wife that he’s dead?” I ask under my sleeve.

“Plan on hiding underneath that sleeve the whole time?” he replies.

“I wouldn’t if he hadn’t shit himself. I mean, dude, how can you stand there and not smell it?” Stepping back, I pull my hand away. The stench is still here, but fuck, I need to get it together. And from the look in Ryker’s eyes, he’s thinking the same thing. Or wondering how we have stayed friends for the past fifteen years.

“The wife will know,” he finally mutters. Releasing the man’s head, his body falls to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Ryker heads toward the table where all of his torture devices lay.

“Well, I’ll leave you to…” I trail off waving my hand. I don’t say anything else, needing to breathe in some fresh air. Making my way back upstairs, I head into my office on the opposite side of our house. I pour myself a glass of bourbon and sit down at my desk. The last thing I want to do is deal with emails, figure out which one we need to take, and handle the contracts.

Most of the time Ryker goes out on his own—needing violence is more of ahimthing. I enjoy getting my hands dirty, but I don’t need the release as much as he does.My demons aren’t as big as his. Ryker and I have known each other since I was eighteen and he was twenty-one. Both of us had been in the military before being recruited into the Navy Seals. It was a hard seven years of fighting overseas before information got leaked and Ryker went dark. Since then, he’s been a different person, not that I blame him. He has just as many physical scars as mental ones.

The sound of my phone blaring in my pocket drags me out of my head. Pulling it out, I frown when I see Walker’s name appear.

“Walker,” I answer, sitting back.

“Jace,” he mutters back.

Taking a large drink of my bourbon, I swallow before speaking again. “You called.”

Walker is not a man of many words. He’s more of an action type of guy. One look at him is enough to know he is all business. Unless the man is barking orders and training other hitmen like he did with Ryker and myself, he barely utters a word.

“I have a job for you.”

“Send me the details and I’ll take a look.”

“I can’t.”