Page 2 of The Sinner’s Desire (The Sinner’s Touch #1)
Two Years Later
Somewhere in Maine, United States
“I don’t want anyone left standing.”
“The FBI will want to question them,” Blood says beside me, outside the house we’re about to raid, somewhere in a godforsaken corner of Maine.
“The FBI had more than enough time to save him, and they didn’t. Feds work by the book—and in this case, that didn’t do shit. We make our own rules.”
I’ve taken part in hostage rescues before—back when I was still active in our private security firm, and long before that, as a special forces soldier.
I couldn’t tell you how many victims I’ve helped free.
But nothing stokes my rage like someone preying on the vulnerable—whether it’s kids or the elderly.
Even criminals have a moral code. Some line they don’t cross. But the bastards we’re dealing with now? They don’t care about anything.
“Why are we even getting involved? From what we’ve dug up, they’re more of a gang than a real organization, Amos.”
“Because they target defenseless old people. This is the fifth kidnapping in seven months. Ransoms were paid in all of them. Not one victim made it back to their family. That shit ends tonight.”
“Okay, I get it. We go in, get the victim out. No one involved in this lives to see the sunrise.”
I nod, my entire focus zeroed in on the mission.
Every muscle in my body is tense, ready for war. But it’s not just about rescuing the ninety-seven-year-old man—a retired judge—that drives me tonight. It’s my absolute contempt for cowards.
Children and the elderly . . . they’re two sides of the same coin. Both physically vulnerable. And knowing there’s a gang out there specializing in hunting them makes my thirst for blood rise to something almost feral.
In the pitch-black of night, the only thing guiding us is the night vision lenses strapped over our eyes. I spot our men moving through the underbrush, quiet as ghosts.
The house where the judge is being held looks abandoned.
It took a whole damn tech operation—drones, thermal mapping, tracking—to even find the place buried in the swamp.
Which tells me these criminals aren’t amateurs.
First, because they only go after millionaires.
Second, because they study their targets for months before the kidnapping.
The ransom was scheduled to be paid tomorrow, which means the judge has just a few hours left—if these fuckers follow the pattern. Every time, as soon as they get the money, communication stops. The victims are never seen again.
They leave no trace behind—or rather, no trace the police can see —but our specialty is doing what those who work within the law cannot: crossing the line of legality whenever it suits our interests.
Outside the house, there’s only one vehicle, a van, but that’s not what grabs my attention. It’s the word painted on it: Refrigerated Truck.
Disgust rolls through me as realization hits like a hammer.
That’s why no one’s ever found the victims.
“Blood,” I call, pointing at the vehicle.
He follows my finger—and when he looks back at me, I know he gets it. “Fuck me. They grind the bodies.”
“And you still think I should hand them over to the police?” I scoff. “Change of plan. We get the judge out, then find out who’s in charge in there. We interrogate him.”
I see one of our men approaching the only window. The operation needs to move fast—before they realize what’s happening and try to eliminate the judge as a loose end.
Our earpieces buzz softly, all at once. That’s the signal. It begins.
We’re armed to the teeth, ready to kill or die—just another mission.
There’s only one entrance to the house, which plays in our favor. The place is surrounded. Doesn’t matter who’s inside—they don’t stand a chance.
I’ve heard the sound of gunfire too many times to count. But unlike most people, that noise doesn’t scare me. It calms me.
The screams of wounded criminals are like balm to my wounds.
Hearing them beg for death makes me smile. Their pleas for mercy are my version of justice.
Just like I thought, they weren’t expecting us. The breach is fast. Only one of our men is hit, but his vest takes it.
Within five minutes, it’s done. We’re inside. It’s over.
One of my oldest men rushes down the hallway. “I found the judge—but he’s out cold. Probably drugged. I’ll get him out of here.”
I nod in approval. “Were they the only ones?” I ask, gesturing at the bodies on the floor.
Almost like clockwork, Blood returns—dragging a man in a sheriff’s uniform. “You were right, Amos. Not as sloppy as we thought. This one’s the leader.”
“The local sheriff? ” I ask, already tasting bile in my mouth.
Blood nods. “What do you want me to do with him?”
The son of a bitch smirks. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you won’t get away with this. I’ve got connections with—”
He doesn’t get to finish.
Blood puts him in a chokehold, knocking him out cold. “I hate arrogant assholes,” he says with a shrug. “But he’s right about one thing: we’ll need to be careful. He’s scum, sure, but still a sheriff. What’s the call?”
“Interrogate him. Then give him the same end as the others.”
“And then we torch the house, like always?”
“No. They don’t deserve the dignity of a burial. Fire might leave something behind. Use the refrigerated truck. Feed them to the machines. Then burn the place down.”