Page 96 of Chalk Outline

“Is he still up there?” I ask as I make my way to the stairs leading to his office.

The entire crew is sprawled out everywhere, as lifeless as cockroaches that have been exterminated. Not a single one is standing.

Silence prevails in the dimly lit warehouse, and one coward watches from the shadows.

“The boss is still upstairs shitting his pants,” Braxton fills me in on the thrilling news.

He has a degree in computer science from MIT, but most of his skills come from years of practice with his hacker dad, who works for the military, and Mitch… well, he’s a hell of a driver and can definitely handle a gun. I know nothing about computers, and when I’m running from killers, I often don’t have time to figure out where I parked the car, start it, and drive. It’s not like I don’t get bullet or knife wounds myself. But if I’m outnumbered, Mitch and Braxton are always in my ear, following me everywhere I go. I didn’t think I’d need a team, but as time passed, it became clear that I needed their help.

Seven months.

It has been seven months since I left my heart behind to run amok.

I slam the door open. The hinges rattle, and a bullet whizzes by, hitting the wall to my right. I quickly fire at Jean’s arm, and the gun clangs to the floor.

No wonder he had a bodyguard.

Fucking useless.

“Putain!”

He shrieks in agony while I grab his collar from under the table and yank him up. I hit him with the barrel of the gun across the face, and cuff his hands to a chair that rests beside us.

He’s smaller than I am, which explains why he had such a hefty bodyguard. It’s too bad his brain matter covers the floor downstairs.

“Take all the money,” he begs, hissing at his bleeding arm.

I holster the gun. “I don’t want your money.”

“Please, I’m returning to France tonight. I will never come back. What do you want? Money, drugs, whores, connections? Just tell me. I will make it happen.”

He thinks he is Tinkerbell, spreading his fairy dust to solve problems he created years ago.

Why do they always have to complain, cry, and beg when they act so tough and hurt innocent people? When I was a kid, I didn’t whine. I faced the situation head-on and found a way out. If any of them were truly that brave, I might consider sparing their life, but they never are, just like I don’t plan to let them live.

“What do you want?” He lashes out in a croaky voice, and I pull my pocket knife from my thigh bag, sending a clear warning.

“Your blood,” I reply with an unhinged smile. “I don’t appreciate that tone when I’m the one holding the knife, Mr.Dubois. All I want is your time.” My unsettling, dark voice fills the room with dread. It flickers rampantly in Jean’s horrified gray eyes.

Yes. I’m intimidating.

So. Fucking. Patient. It makes them shit their pants when they have no idea what I am capable of.

I press my gloved finger to his open wound until he screams a few octaves higher. I love it when they sing, especially the names of their bosses, and where I can find them.

Blood drips down his arm, and he groans, “Who are you?” His panicked tone intensifies as he realizes there’s no escape. He searches for a glimmer of hope behind me, beyond this room.

He’s not going to find any.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m no one important.” I slide a photo of Winona out of my pocket and show it to him. “Why her?”

“What are you talking about?” he shakes his head in rapid movements. “I don’t know her.”

“Let me jog your memory.” I stick the blade in his mouth and slash the left corner, watching it paint his teeth crimson as he cries for god. “I don’t like wasting my time. If you answer my questions, it’ll go a lot faster. Why are you targeting her?” I shove the photo into his face again.

“I don’t know, man. She’s just a target, I swear. It has nothing to do with me. I don’t know her.” Jean thrashes against the bindings, yelling his answer like a toddler. The wrinkles around his eyes and forehead deepen. “She’s just a girl. You’re doing this for one meaningless girl.”

She’s my girl.