Page 12

I climb the stairs to the second floor and go check the walk-in-closet they finished today.

A soft, red carpet covers the floor, and cabinets and shelves fill the walls.

The blue flowers painted along the door panels look as good as the painter showed me on his portfolio.

I look at the delicate design, lost in old memories for a moment.

The settee in the corner, still wrapped in plastic, needs to be set in front of the shoe shelves, the cream chaise lounge moved near the chest of drawers, all the clothes hung and the accessories placed inside the drawers.

I didn’t know renovating a house could be this time-consuming.

The thought of going to Madame Claudette’s crosses my mind for a moment, but I’m not that pent up. Not yet.

I descend the stairs and tread down the hallway which leads back to the garage and the gun room next to it. I let the facial recognition do its job as I stand still. The door opens with a click, and I let it close behind me.

This is the only room in the house that deserves my time. The acrid, smoky scent of the propellants and burned metal hits me first, the scent of the paper targets slowly gets into the mix with the wooden one from the floor.

I slide Leslie out the back of my pants and place it on the long counter in front of the target lines— there are three firing lines, one for each target.

I push a button and a large section on the wall flips putting on display a number of heavy firearms: a Swedish K, RPGs, MP5Ks, SIGs—which I love because they don’t have external safety—some hunting rifles, and my Old Betsy, a Browning X Bolt.

It helped me hunt and engage targets with precise accuracy at extended ranges on many occasions.

I usually keep it in the trunk of my car, but it needs some cleaning.

I ponder for a moment if I should unload one of the rifles before moving toward the multiple drawers filling the other side of the wall.

They contain smaller guns—a 45, a HK VP9, and a FN 509 Compact.

I let my eyes slide over the six calibers, they don’t have much power, but will do the job.

Then the revolvers and the semi-autos, like the CZ75B.

My guns are an extension of myself, like an arm or a leg.

They follow my lead wherever I take them.

They are also receptacles of memories. I give each a name after it fulfills its purpose.

And my new customized Staccato 9mm is waiting for one, whether it is Phoenix or the stalker or my biological brother.

The image of ending Phoenix once and for all with a bullet between their eyes turns my dick stiff. Maybe I do need to go to Madame Claudette’s and release some of this restless energy. But the only ass I want to turn apple red and pound over and over is Sari’s sweet, virgin one.

I grit my teeth against the wild desire, needing something else to focus on, something familiar that doesn’t incite my impulsive nature or my tendency to tear everything apart.

I reach into the drawer; my fingers wrap around the cool metal of the Staccato.

I eject the clip, check it, and pop it back in smoothly.

I take the safety off and point the gun at the silhouette target on the opposite side of the wall.

The moonlight glints from the skylights off the top of it as I pull the trigger once, twice, five times—the bullets embed into the beams behind with a thud.

The booming sound echoes in my ears even after I’m done.

I take in measured breaths, my fingers twitch along the gun.

I feel more in control by the second, until a warning shiver rushes down my spine.

I spin around and point the muzzle at the figure leaning against the wall in a relaxed position.

His eyes—the exact shape and shade as mine—are looking back at me, studying, scrutinizing. Same plump lips, caramel skin, wide nose, and arched eyebrows. Same face.

I find it fucking annoying to have an identical twin. It means there’s someone with my face out there in the world, doing shit. Even Serena can’t distinguish between us, letting him stroll around everywhere he fucking pleases—unless he decides to wear that damn mask.

He’s observing me the same intense way I’m regarding him. It’s uncanny how alike we look.

We must have unique features, though, we aren’t clones.

For starters, he has no piercings on his face.

And when he pushes down the hood of his sweater, a green bandana is wrapped around his forehead and a thick lock of hair falls on top of it.

Light brown strands like mine, but wavy and short.

He has a mole on his neck and no taste in clothes whatsoever—unless trashy style is in vogue.

I keep my expression blank while a sense of irritation starts burning inside of me.

How the fuck didn’t I notice him getting in?

Was he already inside the house when I arrived?

He’s holding Annie, my Glock 40, as he pushes against the wall and takes a couple of steps toward me, gun down by his side.

Same height, but he seems brawnier than me, can’t tell with all those layers of cheap clothes on him.

I need to tell Rami about these differences, so that Serena can tell us apart next time and stop my bio bro from breaking and entering into my house.

I should call him right now, but that’s exactly what he wants me to do.

He let me see his face on purpose. It’s a way to show me his good faith .

Or maybe a trick to gain my trust before pouncing.

Mm. My interest is piqued. I want to see where this is going.

“What makes you think you can just invade my space?”

“Isn’t that what family members do, Uriel?” His voice is gruff and deep, with a little rasp to it.

“Are we family? A psychopath and a sociopath, father would be so proud,” I state sarcastically.

“Ha. He didn’t even recognize me when I slit his throat,” he confesses to the killing nonchalantly.

I was told father was killed in prison by another inmate.

Did he sneak inside just to murder him? Or end up inside on purpose?

I had my own plan for how to end father’s miserable life; he beat me to it.

I lower my gun, still remaining alert. “Uncle, was his death an accident?” A car accident four months before father. I never thought about the possibility of my biological brother being the perpetuator.

He takes his time to answer, looking around. “I ran him over with a truck. Held him under the heavy tires for a few extra seconds as his bones cracked. Old sins have long shadows, you know?”

“Do you expect a thank you? You took my revenge away from me,” I hiss, remembering how unsatisfied and enraged I felt when I’d discovered both men were dead.

“You started killing late…at eighteen.” He makes a taunting whistling sound. “I started way younger. Was mostly forced to do it, but I enjoyed it. I don’t prolong their end, though…unlike you.”

“You did some deep research.” I sniff. “Do you also happen to know the color of my damn underwear?”

He smirks, starting to walk around the room, glancing around. “No, because you don’t wear any.”

Deep research it is.

“We both didn’t when we were kids; hated it,” he adds. I don’t remember not wearing it when I was a kid. I don’t now because it makes me feel itchy and restrained.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. I’m not expecting a direct reply from a psychopath, but I can discern a few things from the way he avoids questions.

“Azrael. My name is Azrael.”

Azrael. “The Angel of Death.” Meg was always interested in religious narratives, that’s why she gave us, her foster kids, the seven names of the angels of wrath.

He nods. “Ezra, if you prefer. You all got angel names, I thought I should get one as well.”

“Why?” His candidness, the willingness to answer my questions must be part of a conniving plan. He can easily manipulate the conversation and seems to have a grandiose sense of self-worth. He’s also giving me his back while studying the room, as if he’s not afraid of me.

“I was experimented on as well. Longer than you guys. Don’t I deserve an angel name, too?”

A week before Linda and Meg came to rescue us, he was moved to another facility. They only discovered about…Ezra’s existence six months after I was released, when one of the men responsible for the experiment confessed it. But by the time Linda got there, they had already left once again with Ezra.

“I have a feeling you are not here to be part of the family.”

In his gaze, I can see the same deviousness that I find in my eyes every time I look in the mirror. “So that’s what you call it? Family.” He seems to ponder on the word for a moment. “I’m here mainly because we have an enemy in common.”

“Phoenix.”

“Father shot our mother dead; is that why you like guns?” he changes subject.

“No. Why do you like arrows? Do you have Robin Hood syndrome or something?”

“I see,” he mutters cryptically.

“You took a nice piece. It shoots underwater,” I remind him he’s still gripping Annie.

He looks down at the firearm in his hand before turning a wicked look my way. “A pity the lake is cold as shit, then.”

Would he have used me as a target? “Why the dead body on my front step?”

I see a hint of excitement in his eyes. “That was a happy coincidence. I was working.”

Rami found out Ezra is an assassin for hire on the dark web. “White Death. Did you choose that handler name because of your mask or vice versa?”

“I wasn’t the only one researching deeply.” A small smirk appears on his lips.

“After you dumped the first body, I felt compelled to do so,” I counter.