Page 86 of On Edge

Hunting calms me. It reminds me of my youth.

My prey, caught in my crosshairs, walks out of his office building for the night. He occasionally looks up from his phone.

I was after a bear, but I’ll take a boar. He wasn’t directly involved in my incarceration, but he’s responsible all the same.

I let out a measured breath and then take another in, equally measured, and start the engine. Behind my prey, there’s a man following him. It doesn’t make me hesitate, but I note how many strides behind he is. That must be his bodyguard. My target, smaller, skinnier than a whippet, opens the town car door and slides into the back seat. His gaze darts about the interior, and then lands on me.

“Canary Wharf,” he barks, becoming absorbed in his phone once more.

I lock the doors.

And then I drive off, just as his bodyguard reaches the passenger-side rear door. My prey hasn’t even noticed he’s riding solo. He’s too busy with his nose in his phone.

It’s too easy.

Far too easy. I’m lucky this one didn’t need two weeks; he’s so fucking predictable. The man who froze my family accounts, so what little family I had was left vulnerable, is within my reach. And he has no clue who is driving him home.I no longer worry about being recognised, given what I do for a day job. No one knows me when I’m dressed like this, like the help.

Each one who sent me down, who was complicit in the murder of my family to line their pockets, wouldn’t know me in the street or a dark alley, never mind in their inner circle of trust, driving their cars, tending to their gardens, cooking their food, even shaving their damn faces.

No, these men never go anywhere without security, or leave their alarms unset, wouldn’t even bat an eyelid if I wiped their asses for them.

With immense wealth comes big holes in all that shiny armor. These men rely on elite services to run their lives. And I’m not a scared kid anymore with no connections. I can get right under their nose, until I’m invisible, trusted, and indispensable. No one ever sees the blade until it’s already at their throat.

Like now.

Fuck. I almost run a red light. Almost.

Stop rushing. All in good time.

I screech the car to halt, shooting a glance in the rearview mirror at my prey, who hasn’t looked up once from his screen. When I look back ahead, a woman in a floaty dress with curly hair and an innocent face darts an anxious look my way, before cautiously, walking across the road as though I own it and she’s afraid I’ll make her pay for it.

She looks like Nell.

No…Sage with those big doe eyes, searching my soul. And the way her pink tongue darts out to wet her sweet lips. I imagine what those sweet lips would feel like, wrapped around my cock and I’m seconds away from coming undone.

This.

This is why I left that damn island.

The lights change, and I hurl the car forward. My prey chooses at that moment to look up from his emails and glance out of the window. He catches my eye in the mirror. “What...where are we? This isn’t Canary Wharf?”

No, it isn’t. We’re in a seedy part of London, heading towards a secluded spot where stolen cars are torn apart and reborn, and dead bodies wind up in the river. My prey looks worried.

He should be.

I press a button on my phone, which locks the doors and stops him from unclipping his seatbelt. And then I take out Judgment, fresh from a spit and polish, and ready to work. Through the mirror, my prey sees the blade and pales, like Death himself has reached up from Hell to squeeze the blood out of him...but not yet. The man in my car yanks at his belt, and tugs frantically at the door handle.

It won’t work. He’s not going anywhere. And suddenly, I remember why I like it when my prey suddenly realizes what’s happened.

His panic is fucking glorious.

I catch his eye again in the glass; he’s shaking, the words “Why are you doing this?” and “What are they paying you?” spill annoyingly from his lips.

Judgment was the right choice. It’s straight edged but not too sharp. It’ll give a swift, clean kill, but it’ll still hurt. And Judgment never wavers. It’s my favorite to use on traitors, liars, and those who ask too many questions in the end.

I switch on the privacy screen and turn up my music of choice; heavy metal to drown out the noise of him, and to get me in the mood. And then I pull into a deserted dock, hiding the car from the view of the road between two disused shipping containers.

My prey is still pleading when I slash the seatbelt off him, and drag him out of the car by his hair. He doesn’t try to put up a fight. Pathetic.