Page 4 of In You

Hey, You down?

Caleb

Present Day

If they weren't such diseased fucks I would eat the hearts of my kills like hunters do their prey after successful slaughter.

And as I stare at the profile of the man that I'm using to bait my latest mark, I imagine the way his hot blood would fill my mouth and flow down my tongue.

It would taste like vindication, success, and revenge.

I just know it.

Narrowing my eyes at him pretending to shop in this aisle so that he can get an eye fill of a young girl a few feet away, I stop daydreaming about removing his skin from his body, and instead work to put my plan into action.

He looks like any unassuming pedophile would. Normal.

Nice dark jeans, fancy shoes, watch with a nice band. Boasting a smile that's American magazine worthy, with a laugh to match. I pull up the hood to my hunter green sweater, put my phone in one hand while tucking my other hand in my pocket.

Keeping my movements unhurried I walk near him, making sure to stumble into him when I go by.

"Oh, shit," I curse, reaching out to grab his arm and look down into his face as I work to right myself. "My bad, man. You okay? I didn't see you there."

Unpeturbed, he gives me a nod before sliding his eyes back to the end of the aisle where the girl stands looking bored out of her mind despite her head buried in her phone.

My chest tightens painfully at the hungry look in his face that he doesn't even attempt to mask.

Though honestly, predators can never hide. It's like it's just not possible.

They can't help but be outwardly sick.

I give him a little grin and then inconspicuously tilt my head towards the younger than legal girl that's on the other side of the aisle with her mom, who, like all kids her age, can't seem to know how to dress right for anything.

Her shorts are riding up her butt, and she's in a fucking hoodie and thin sandals. It's September.

What the fuck is her mother thinking?

I fight to not glare at the older woman judgmentally, not wanting my inner feelings to overtake the real reason I'm here right now.

"She's sexy, huh?" I breathe on a little conspiratorial chuckle. "Maannn, I'd tear her ass up all day everyday."

His eyes flit to me and then he spends a second really looking at me.

I fold my arms and keep my gaze on hers, even going so far as to give the mom a little head nod when she turns her eyes to look at me.

Joseph huffs a little laugh, and then grabs a jar of jam off the shelf to put in his cart. "Like 'em young?"

"I like 'em jailbait type, if you know what I mean," I respond with a small grin, praying that he'll buy my act.

Joseph chuckles, giving me another assessing look. "You got a name?"

"Lance," I lie, holding out my hand for him to shake.

The minute his skin touches mine, my skin starts crawling with disgust and it's all I can do to give his sick fuck a normal handshake. He's got a firm grip, and is a bit too humorous and stupid for my liking, but I need to use him to get to my mark so I deal with it. "Joseph," he replies.

I knew that from running his plates when I saw him coming out of my mark's house one night, but he doesn't know that. I've been casing the place, because there's a woman there I don't know, and I can't kill an innocent person.

It's Frank's rule number 2.

For the first time I debate breaking that rule, beyond ready to be done with this.

But something stops me. A semblance of a conscience, if you will.

Or my fear of Frank, I don't know. So I patiently wait to get intel on this woman.

It's taking a lot longer than I'm comfortable with because the problem is, I have not one single piece of identity on her to verify who she is, or how involved she is in this pedo ring.

"Nice to meet you," I say in a light tone.

"You too," he says, flicking his gaze down my body curiously. "So, what's the youngest you've tried?"

My mind immediately goes somewhere else, thinking about my youngest kill. They were seventeen, and my nine hundred and tenth kill. If everything goes my way, Joseph, the apricot-jam-eating pedophile, will be my one hundredth, thirteen thousand and eighty second kill.

Yeah…I know.

I scrunch my brows, acting like I'm really thinking about it. "Fourteen," I lie. I couldn't even imagine. It makes me physically sick just thinking about it.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes and bumping my shoulder with his. "Amateur. You wanna hang out with the big dogs?"

I eye him, forcing what I hope is a creepy smile. "How big are we talking?"

He takes a step closer, lowering his voice even more. "They're hard to get a hold of, but we have resources."

I hum, nodding. Trying to not act overly interested or else I might blow my cover.

"But I know a guy who actually does the real deal, if that’s your thing," he whispers discreetly.

My brows go up, and I make a show out of looking left and right and then lean into him, lowering my voice. "You mean, like the real deal?" I emphasis, flashing my phone that has a porn site up labeled "stepmom fucks barely legal son."

I'm going to have some incredibly fucked up nightmares over this, I already know it. I have three entire bottles of NyQuil at home with my name on it, ready to knock me the fuck out as soon as I'm done with this assignment. I plan on sleeping for two weeks straight.

Joseph's eyes flick up in amusement and he clears his throat. "Even more real than that. Young. But it's some extra sick shit," he emphasizes, making my stomach roll violently. He smiles at me. "You down?"

I nod my head. "Yeah, I'm down." I give a low whistle and a little chuckle, pocketing my phone and then reaching forward to pick up something off a shelf, keeping up the pretense I’m shopping. "Alright, count me in."

We exchange phone numbers with a plan to meet in a few days over the weekend to talk more.

The next step is easy. I begin to befriend Joseph, but before I can actually get to my mark, he introduces me to what I dub the gross club.

I bide my time, collecting a few other men's names over the next few weeks until I am trusted enough to be let into the inner circle.

Through some convincing lying and a lot of luck, I'm trusted enough to be invited to a game night at my mark's house where their plan is I'll be introduced to a little girl named Cunty for a hefty fee.

What a fucked up name.

But my patience isn't as perfect as I'd like to think it is.

Consumed with bloodlust, and about half out of my mind with anxiety and ready to kill everyone in sight, I decide to go on a slaughtering spree the night before I kill my mark.

The Night Before Game Night

Giving one last glance at my watch, I roll out the tension in my neck, and blow out a big breath as I work to readjust my grip on the rifle.

The cold rain pounds down on me from my spot on the roof of the house next door, soaking my clothes to my body, but I don't dare move even an inch to find comfort.

I have the perfect vantage spot from this angle, being able to see directly in the living room from where I'm at.

Everyone's having such a lovely time. One man throws his head back, laughing, enjoying the party that one of the pedophile fucks I'd met through Joseph is having with a few other sick men from the gross club.

It's just my luck, too; Joseph is absent, having had a "family emergency," and didn't go either.

I claimed I was visiting my sister out of state so I could swoop in and get them all in one spot without having to go from house to house like I'd originally planned to.

I got six men here out of the nine I've met so far.

What a treat.

Putting my eye to the scope, I grind my teeth, forcing myself to take another deep calming breath because I won't have another one until the job is done. I wipe a hand down my wet face, grind my elbows into the shutters, close one eye, and line up the target.

Pull the trigger. Boom.

The bullet is silent as it leaves my rifle, slicing its way through the rain to smash through the window and straight between the eyes of the laughing man.

I can almost hear the hush before the inevitable gasp that must have befallen upon the room.

But before they can react I already have the next one in my sights and I squeeze the trigger again, sparing them no mercy.

"One down," I whisper, pulling the trigger and counting as I go.

"Two."

A few of them try to flee, but they're no match for how fast I am.

"Three."

"Four, five."

The sixth one goes out of my line of sight.

"Fuck!" I mutter, making a displeased sound because I don't leave loose ends. Ever.

Irritated, I jump silently off the roof, make my way down the side of the house to disappear into the bushes, and wait until he runs out the front door.

His movements are rushed and erratic as he fumbles to open his car door in a desperate bid to flee, but I'm already aiming, and he's down in less than fifteen seconds.

Bleeding out in the driveway and gazing unseeing at the dark sky above us.

"Six, and done."

It's only then I blow out a relieved breath.

Feeling my heart pounding with adrenaline, I check my watch.

I had everyone down in less than eight minutes, including the time it took to get the sixth one.

I say a little prayer of thanks to Frank for curating me into the gifted sniper I am, and then slip unnoticed into the darkness, ready to call it a night.

The country drive through my property feels extra peaceful tonight, and I attribute it to the trees breathing a bit easier knowing theres a few less sick fucks out there terrorizing children.

When I get home, I park my car next to the shed and unload my weapons before covering it with a tarp, making the hundred foot walk to my house.

"Hey you two," I greet Tink and Ringo, who's nails are clicking excitedly on the wood floor as they both bark, happy for my arrival.

Being a nomad, I don't normally leave them unless I'm out taking care of an assignment. They do a lot to keep the loneliness at bay, but a dog is no match for a woman's touch, no matter what they say about them being your best friend.

I lower to my haunches to give them each generous pets before dumping my weapon's case on the living room table.

A fission of loneliness swells inside me as I head to the bedroom, strip off my wet clothes, and throw them in the washing machine along with the dirty load that's been collecting in a hamper.

Starving, I head to the kitchen and pull the meatloaf out of the oven that I'd cooked before leaving. It’s the meal I like to eat after a kill.

I whip up a pack of instant mashed potatoes and a can of green beans, sitting down at the table and staring at the empty chair across from me as I begin to eat stoically.

It's the same view I've been gifted with the last ten years I've owned this place.

However tonight, I'm longing for the sound of little feet hitting the floor as a child races into the kitchen, hungry for dinner.

Pain fills me, because I know that I'm not fit to be a parent, and I don't even know why I entertain these thoughts.

But without fail, after every kill, when I sit down to eat my meatloaf that reminds me of my mother and the sick shit she put me through as a child, it serves to reaffirm for me why I shouldn't harbor such grotesque sentiments.

A killer like me, however justified, should not be a parent.