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Swinging soothed me. My legs wrapped like a pretzel around the cord of rope hanging from the steel beam overhead, and I let the momentum take me.

Swoosh.

Poor HistoryBoi1789 hadn’t enjoyed the rope the same way.

I couldn’t imagine my luck when I found the beams across the warehouse ceiling when I first arrived. The setup was exactly like the trees back in Claymore Township. I’d brought thick sailors’ rope from home. It was similar to the rope me and Maureen had used for crazy Laurence and Deputy Mark.

HistoryBoi Patrick now joined the ranks of those previous victims. The guy was so pathetic, I’d done him a favor putting him out of his misery. He wanted a friend too desperately. Cringe.

Swoosh.

Maureen King had been my teacher. But I taught her. In the end, she was mine.

People, teachers especially, had always been impressed by me. I hadn’t always had this facility with words. My parents thought I was an alien. I turned out so different from them, from how they raised me.

Swoosh.

I was one of those rare people who were as charismatic and convincing online as they were in person. Usually, people were better at one or the other.

Monty31 was my online persona.

I could’ve had as many names as I liked, of course. Made a new one anytime. A person could disappear just as easily in the real world as they could online. Especially if they had money, which I would have soon. The Administrator would reward me for taking out those two federal agents. My plan was coming together.

Swoosh.

I’d never go back to Claymore. I was done with that hick town. Nashville was lit. Once I got the money, I could go anywhere I wanted. I just had to finish the job first.

Then law school.

Swoosh.

Beneath me, the puddle of HistoryBoi Patrick’s blood had dried now, turning dark and flaky around the edges like rust. I’d gathered most of it with a mop and bucket. But before it coagulated, I’d managed to load up my paintbrush.

After coaxing enough material onto the brush, I’d sketched out the ancient symbols Maureen and the Administrator were so obsessed with. The cuneiforms appeared like strange bird tracks across the concrete—angular lines and wedges that resembled tiny footprints marching in formation. But the wild, random flicks of blood between the carefully crafted symbols—those were my own little artistic touch.

HistoryBoi Patrick’s freakish scars were a terrible canvas and had made carving impossible. So I’d compromised and left the Administrator’s message on the wall.

While I was careful, the plan was for those pain in the ass agents to eventually find this place.

The sooner the better, honestly. The place was a dump. Cold, drafty wind blew everywhere. Water dripped. Something willowy clapped. The sheets of torn plastic taped to the windows, probably. And now the metallic odor of blood hung in the air, mixed with the stench of dirt and damp. The walls were bare and broken. Stains marked the floor, still sticky in places. Pigeon droppings mostly blocked the cracked pane in the roof’s skylight.

And I’d be here, in the shadows, waiting to kill them. The Sig Sauer P230 I stole from my stepdad was in the pocket of my jeans, just waiting to do the job.

My phone was cleaned through multiple VPNs and .onion systems, so I was pretty sure I couldn’t be tracked. At least not quickly. I’d throw out all my electronics after I’d gotten paid by the Administrator anyway.

Then I’d be long gone.

Swoosh.

I’d spent the past few days downtown, around the alley where we’d dropped Patrick’s body. I’d been looking for them to make an appearance. They had yet to show.

I kicked off the wall again. But it was sort of feeble. I did it once more and got some good momentum, though a high-pitched squeaky rubbing sound began. We’d thrown the rope over one of the beams and secured the other end to a rusty iron radiator. By the looks of it, the heating element hadn’t been turned on for decades.

But it was only temporary. I’d kill the agents, freeing up the Administrator to do whatever bullshit he planned to do. Maureen had believed in him, but I wasn’t like her.

I wasn’t obsessed with the Administrator or anything. I was here because of the money. Plain and simple.

In the message I’d gotten a couple weeks ago, the Administrator said he was placing a bounty on the heads of those responsible for the death of his prized disciple, Maureen King. He offered one hundred thousand dollars to anyone who killed either Special Agent Stella Knox or Special Agent Hagen Yates.

The reward for their double murder was two hundred and fifty grand.

That was crazy. So much money.

That was serious cash. I thought you’d have to be crazy not to jump at a deal like that, and I was far from crazy. And I had the distinct advantage of seeing how those so-called agents worked first hand in Claymore. Very sloppy, if you asked me.

The Administrator had written the bounty to every member of the Dispatch group. But, out of everyone else on that platform, I knew he was talking to me. The way he’d phrased the message…he knew about me. He knew I was the only one with the stones to do it, the only one who would actually see it through. Everyone else on that damn list…they were losers, pretenders.

Swoosh.

I’d always sensed from an early age that I wasn’t like other people. But my feelings were confirmed when my little brother died. I was eleven. Donny was four and kind of a brat. Anyway, he’d been playing in the street, rolling around on his tricycle, when a gleaming black Mercedes came around the curve and hit him.

My mom was so sad. She couldn’t stop crying for months. And dad was so angry. He couldn’t stop drinking and yelling and pounding things, not that this was any real kind of departure from his usual behavior. He left for good not long after Donny’s death.

I didn’t know why they were so emotional. They hadn’t even been there when it happened. I was there. I’d watched the whole incident.

And hadn’t felt a thing.

Everyone at school was really nice to me after my kid brother turned into roadkill. They looked at me with those sad puppy dog eyes. I realized they wanted me to have the same eyes. So I put them on, like I would a sweater in winter.

But the whole time I kept thinking, Don’t you all remember how annoying the kid was ?

There was no way I could’ve known Donny’s death was about to change my life.

But a few weeks after it, a fancy lawyer from Philadelphia showed up. I still remembered his business card. Simon Gallagher, Esq.

Mr. Gallagher wore a suit, and his hair was slicked back really cool, and he smelled awesome. Like the forest or something. He didn’t look like anyone in Claymore, that was for sure. I couldn’t believe he was in our trailer.

There they were, my mom, my dad, and this Gallagher guy, sitting around the kitchen table. I’d been sent to my room, but I snuck out and listened as I peeked around the wall.

Gallagher represented the guy who was driving the Mercedes that killed Donny. The upshot was that, since the driver was going the speed limit, and since he wasn’t drinking, then no one was really at fault in this situation. “It was simply an unfortunate circumstance.” That was what he said.

Therefore, there would be no settlement. My parents would get nothing.

You should’ve seen my dad when he heard that. He freaked out, threatening to punch the guy into next week.

But you should’ve seen Gallagher. As he delivered the news, there was a look of pleasure in his eyes. It was subtle but there. A kind of gleam of excitement.

In that moment, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.

A lawyer.

The entire experience changed me. From then on, my efforts were focused on this one, singular goal. And two hundred and fifty grand would go a long way to making that happen.

Swoosh.