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10

HUNTER

T hree times a week, I punch the shit out of a boxing bag. I love the adrenaline and rush it gives me, imaging it’s one of the sick fucks that I intend to put down like fucking dogs.

It would be better if it was all of the ten sick fucks who raped my butterfly. Three of them had put their dicks in her mouth whilst she was sleeping, others had them in other parts of her body and then there was a couple who couldn’t be arrested, because they couldn’t be identified by the FBI, because they were wearing masks. I had Noah investigate who they were and one of them is my trainer, which is why I’m here. One died in a car accident, and the other cancer got him, so they died without feeling my wrath.

They were lucky, unlike my trainer. The one in front of me.

My trainer doesn’t know that I know his true identity.

He may have fixed his nose, and uses brown contacts for his eyes, but I know a pervert when I see one. But he’s so much more than that, he’s a rapist .

Her aunt was taping the sessions and blackmailing certain clients who participated in them. I got it out of one of the security guy’s who were hired to do security that night, before I blew his head off. Then when I shot her aunt and saw the key on her neck, I ripped it off. With Noah’s help we discovered which bank held her safety deposit box.

Penelope’s aunt was a bitch.

But her aunt wasn’t stupid, she kept some evidence in the house, which the Feds used to put some of the men away. But not all of them, because she kept the others in her safety deposit box. As if they were some hidden treasure. Once I went to the bank and sat down to watch the videos, I knew if her aunt wasn’t dead, then I would take her to the cabin—the one I go to sometimes to fish and torture sadists like her and torture the fuck out of her.

She didn’t deserve to have a quick death, not like the one I gave her.

Harris Tenner was in one of the videos. The one who is training me for an imaginary fight back home in Russia. So he thinks . I know my native language, which comes in handy with my line of work, when I’m working undercover, like I am now. I know a few others too, and speak to them like a pro. When I asked him for help and flashed some money his way, he didn’t hesitate. I knew one day. Like tonight, I would take him and make him pay for what he did to my butterfly. He’s the last one on my list. The last one who hasn’t been sent away by the Feds. I’ve been leaving the worst of them all to last.

“I think, me ready go home. You best trainer I had, if you can with me,” I say in my pigeon English.

Of course, Harris is going to say yes. He has been to Moscow several times and the last time he was kicked out and rescued by the American Foreign minister when he was a big time boxer, because of his fetish with young females, kids and boys. The younger, the better for him. He’s sick. Depraved in the head. Now he lays low. In this boxing studio, he pretends he’s the average trainer by day. But at night, he knows therapists, people who help him play out his sick fantasy, and it all costs bucks. Bucks in which he’s willing to train someone or do anything to get his hands on them.

“Sure. Anything for you.”

Yes, because he has a new identity. Not only did he did he do cosmetic surgery and now has a new nose and oval eyes, but also his name, date of birth and even his social security number, just to get back to Russia or anywhere in the world. He ratted on some bigger predators to the FBI, played innocent, and the government paid him dearly for it. In this sick world, even if you are a predator, the government will overlook your actions if you turn in an even bigger predator.

I rush up to him with my boxing gloves on, and hug him.

“You make me happy. Happy.”

I choke on my words, because the happiness comes from all the sick things I intend to do to him. He thinks I’m going to take him to Russia with me, when I fight. Not in his fucking dreams.

“I’ve never been to Russia before. I’ve heard it’s nice. You’ve come a long way. It would be great to see you in action.”

Like a lamb to the slaughter.

“Why not we go to my place for drink? Vodka!”

I swing my shoulders from left to right to act playful. If he knew the real me, then he would know it’s all an act. I've been pretending for the last couple of weeks. I don’t act. This is how badly I want this to happen, because putting a bullet through his skull isn’t enough, he deserves only to be tortured to death.

The first time I signed up here, I wore a hoodie and black sweats, which isn’t suspicious because nearly every guy who trains here does the same thing. Then I started to check out the best times to get here, it’s a little far from the hideout, but easy to get to on the subway. I haven’t used the subway in years, but I pretended I’m a security guard by day and training at the gym by night. I had to make sure there were no red flags in case he ever checked up on me.

Noah said Harris checked my story, just like I knew Harris would. Noah sorted out my job, so I had to work there for a couple of weeks before joining the training studio. He may have changed the information on the system, just a little so if Harris did check, then he would think I’d been working there for two years and not two weeks.

It’s better to be safe than sorry, because I hate it when a plan falls apart. Once Harris was happy my story checked out. He then let me into his world. I pretend my English isn’t good, that it’s enough to get by and nothing more. A trick I learned from the last mug, once someone thinks your English isn’t great, they openly discuss things with others thinking you don’t understand them. Private phone calls he had in his office whilst I was sitting there, but others were asked to leave.

I made a friend, Kevin.

A Youtuber said that after seeing Mike Tyson and Jake Paul fight, he decided it can’t be hard to get into boxing, so like Jake Paul, he started training in this gym hoping to get a deal with Netflix too.

Harris said after that night, he had kids who’d never trained in their lives thought that if Jake Paul could fight with a legend then they all could. I laughed at the idea, until I got talking to some of them and realized Harris wasn’t exaggerating, it was fucking true.

“Sure. Your place. You’ve never invited me, so I’ve never been,” Harris says as he pats me on the back.

You’ve never asked?

“I want take you before, but you say….” I stutter, move my hands as if I’m struggling to find the word to say.

“Far.”

He filled in the missing word I was trying to say and smiled as he did. The kind of smile a stranger gives a parent when they've found their missing child. The kind of smile I'll have on my face when he's dead.

“For,” I repeat. Mispronouncing the word and acting as if he’s giving me an English lesson.

He corrects me. “No. Far.”

He loves doing that, it makes him feel superior and I let him. Not only does he think that he’s teaching me boxing, but someone who doesn’t even have a High school diploma believes he can teach me English too.

It’s a fucking joke!

I nod my head slowly and then open my mouth, as if the air I breathe is about to be sucked out of me as I repeat, “Fur.”

He laughs and smacks me on the back. “Yes. Yes.”

Idiot!

I smile at him, as if I’m proud about getting it right, knowing full well that I didn’t. Maybe I should have gone into acting. Fuck , it’s part of the criteria with this job. Make the sick fucks of the world think they’re better than you. Even though the only thing you want to do is tear them from limb-to-limb.

“Let’s go. Car.”

“You have a car? I thought you came here on the bus.”

Shit! I got so excited I forgot myself.

“Yes, yes. Bus. We go in bus. I think car is bus.”

He smiles and once again he pats me on the back. His dark eyes light up. “We really need to work on your English. Sometimes I think it’s getting better but then other times not.”

“What?” I ask. My brow furrows as if I’m trying to process what he’s saying. I squint tilting my head and rubbing my chin whilst avoiding his stare.

He shakes his head. I shake my head, as if I don’t understand what he’s saying. This is something he does at times, he speaks so fast as if he’s trying to trick me. As if he gets a fucking kick out of me not understanding everything he says.

I deserve a fucking award for this act. The idiot thinks I don’t understand him. We’re leaving the gym. It’s too bad this is the last time he’ll ever be back here. I’ll let him know about my English levels when the time is right, but that time isn’t now.

I sling my bag on my back and then move toward the door feeling a sense of adrenaline running through my veins. I stand tall with my shoulders back and my chest puffed out.

Every time I watch him as he locks up, the only thing running through my mind is that this is the last time he will ever be here, but he doesn’t know that. He checks the locks, and it doesn’t matter if the place is locked or not. This is the last time he’s ever coming here.

He’s not making it past tonight.

And he’ll soon find out the reason why.