Page 1 of The Karma Project
Prologue
Zoe
Today I want to die. Not because of anything in particular, but just because the utter thought of ceasing to exist sounds devastatingly euphoric. To make the noise stop. To stop this stabbing pain in the lowest pit of my stomach that’s causing a burning sensation that crawls all over my skin, making me want to peel it off. To stop the guilt that festers every time I take a breath— an oxygen thief. To stop the constant urge to detonate over anything and everything that dares to love me—because in all—I could never deserve such an honor. Today I want to die.
For the longest time, I thought I was just unlucky. That sometimes life doesn’t work out for everyone, and for people like me; things just never get better. I had settled into the life of being unlucky, reveled in it, and found comfort in knowing that no matter what; I would just be categorically unlucky.
That was until I realized luck had nothing to do with it. It’s karma. It’s the idea of what goes around comes around, and what goes up must come down. Didn’t some philosopher speak to that once? However, it isn’tmykarma. Well, it wasn’t at first—somewhere down the line, after all my wrongdoing, I’m sure it has switched to mine. But I am the poor soul stuck with my father’s karmic retaliation. The karma that he deserves has been thrown against me as some sort of sick cosmic joke—I’m sure he’d celebrate and feast on the fact that once again, he still gets to hurt me even from his grave.
Too bad I killed him before he had the chance to see.
1
Inertia
Max
It’s been four years since I took over the business. Four years since the boss, Kahl Hera, was murdered. I had launched an internal investigation to see who would be capable of killing the most hated and untouchable man of Seattle. Nothing came of it originally, but over the last four years, there has been a web of homicides that have connected Kahl’s. The murder scenes are always different and unique in the aspect of how the victims died, but there is one factor that never changes. There, in the right palm of each victim, is a sparrow carved deeply into their skin. That’s where the killer gets their nickname—The Sparrow.
The Sparrow has always been one step ahead of me, no more, no less. I even caught a glimpse of their silhouette last month when they were vacating a scene. I would have chased after them, had my jaw not been on the floor of the old, abandoned warehouse in complete shock and admiration. At this particular scene, The Sparrow had strung up Archer Calhoun from his ribcage. His ribs have been broken apart and pulled from his back as if to mimic wings. The Viking Blood Eagle. I hadn’t seen it done before, in real life that is—I was starstruck.
Completely overcome with adoration. I have always appreciated the work of The Sparrow, but this scene was a work of art. I was even partly jealous that I hadn’t come up with this kill myself. I can’t think of a more perfect way of killingArcher Calhoun. He was known as the ‘Destroyer of Innocence’, primarily due to his part in the Seattle sex trafficking ring; specifically, because he’d be the one to kidnap the young girls and beat them into compliance before he sold them the training houses. I had been hunting him for six weeks up until the day that The Sparrow beat me to it.
It’s clear that I am a fan of The Sparrow’s work, but whoever they may be, they keep getting in the way of my hits. Not all of them, but typically the ones with the more in-demand targets on their heads. Although the targets always end up dead, I’m not the one getting paid for it.
The Archer interference lost me three million dollars. I never got the name of the person who submitted the hit, but something tells me it has to do with the kidnapping of the governor's daughter.
I can feel myself getting closer to finding out who The Sparrow is. They may even work for my very company, but I still have not the slightest clue.
I don’t like not knowing. I am always in control, and I am never wrong. This makes my adoration for The Sparrow turn into a heated itch of hate, and I will not stop until I catch them.
I hunted down most of the clients whose hits were taken care of before I could, to see if they went off to pay someone else to do the dirty work. But still—No results. The Sparrow wasn’t getting paid.
Nobody ever does anything for free… which is what leads me to where I am today.
On the roof of a building on the corner of 125th street, in Northgate, Seattle. I purposely leaked some information ontonight’s hit because he seemed to have similar attributes to the other stolen hits.
Rape charges, domestic violence, and if he doesn’t already sound like a stand-up guy, a child abuse record. The hit for Peter Michaeles wasn’t set because of his record. The hit came from a good client of mine who caught Peter cheating him in one of my underground gambling circles. The price for his blood is high and even if The Sparrow doesn’t show tonight, I’ll get paid well enough.
I watched Peter turn his lights out three hours ago, and I know he is fast asleep. Completely unknowing that he has a predator stalking him like prey. The idiot has his window open, and his curtains drawn and I have a clear view of his sleeping body sprawled across his mattress.
The goal is to lure out The Sparrow, first to see them in action, and second—.
There.
I spot a shadow creep across the dimly lit apartment I’ve been scouting for the last two days. Ithasto be The Sparrow. I can’t help but feel completely frustrated with myself for not seeing The Sparrow enter the apartment complex, but there is also excitement roaring in my pulse so loudly I can’t even hear the city.
I press into my earpiece and whisper, “Operation caged bird is a go.”
“Copy.” Dean responds at once and I can hear the concrete echo underneath his boots.
Typically, I like to work alone, at least on targets like Peter. He’s a weak man.Pete would crumble the second I stepped in his direction, but tonight’s hit is special.
Obviously, The Sparrow is skilled, and I would hate to have to kill someone with such talent. So, I brought my brothers along with me. Four stones for one bird.
Dean is one year older than me, he's our muscle. We met in a foster home. Dean has always been big—massive, really—and he’s our muscle, the most physically intimidating out of all of us.
Then there is Brandon, the youngest of the four. Dean and I met Brandon on the streets after we had been thrown from our halfway houses after we turned eighteen. Brandon is light and quick on his feet. Incredibly stealthy and quiet—he's our watcher. He is always aware of his surroundings, and nothing goes unnoticed from him. He’s unbelievably good with numbers and all things technology.
