Page 10 of Reclaimed

"Who are you?" one of the guys scoffs, flicking his cigarette at me as he pushes off the wall. In a pathetic attempt at intimidation, he saunters forward and steps in front of me. “I said–” he stops, eyes widening as he catches sight of the syndicate patch on my tactical vest.

That's what I thought, dipshit.

He doesn’t try to finish his sentence. Doesn’t even make a sound when I shoulder-check him, knocking him off balance as I pass.

One look at the insignia on my chest was all it took for the wannabe tough guy to back down like a little bitch. The mercs skull and dagger emblem warns most to keep their distance– pretty sure the only one who'd get a colder shoulder is the grim reaper himself.

A single fluorescent bulb buzzes overhead as I enter the building, damn near tripping over a scruffy-looking man passed out on the ground with a brown paper bag clutched to his chest. The low murmur of voices drifts down from the second floor as I move towards the stairs, reaching for the banister. The sight of a bloody handprint smeared on the dingy white rail gives me pause. There’s no telling where it came from, but my gut tells me I’m on the right path. And my instincts have never failed me before.

Each step lands with a dull thud against the concrete stairs as I take them two at a time, following the sporadic trail of blood drops. The pungent stench of stale cigars and cheap weed hits me as I round a corner at the end of the hall, tendrils of smoke curling around me as I come to a stop in front of two men on a tattered sofa sharing a blunt.

An entire minute passes before they even register my presence.

"Whoa bro," one startles, choking on his inhale as he holds the blunt out to his buddy. "Where'd you come from?"

"Oh, shit," the other says, barking a laugh. "How's a guy your size move so quietly?"

"Dude, did my ears stop working?" the first asks, slapping the back of his hand against the other's chest.

"MICAH!" his friend twists his head and yells.

"Why’ya yelling?" he responds, and they both start laughing.

Good fucking god.

Slipping my phone from my pocket, I open A311's profile and click on the picture. Her impassive stare fills my screen, dark brown hair framing her face in waves.

"Seen her?" I ask, annoyance tightening my jaw as I hold my phone out towards the dynamic dipshits.

Micah squints at the screen as he leans forward. "She's hot," he drawls, bloodshot eyes lazily flitting up to mine. "What's it worth to you?"

In one smooth motion, I draw the Glock from my hip and press the barrel firmly between his brows. "Less than the lead I'm about to bury in your fucking skull."

Whether he’s faded to oblivion or just plain stupid, the guy barely even reacts to the threat, a smug grin curving his lips as he glances up at me. "C'mon man. Help me, help you," he says with a laugh. "That tight little body looked yummy, I'd gladly pay five–"

I don't have time for this.

A twitch of my trigger finger, and brain matter splatters against the wall behind him, the gunshot echoing off the concrete as his corpse slouches to the side.

"OH FUCK MAN!" the other guy shouts, clutching a hand to his chest.

"Your turn," I deadpan, swinging the blood-splattered Glock in his direction.

The unmistakable smell of piss floods my nostrils. I glance down, rolling my eyes as a dark spot spreads across the front of his jeans. "Th-there," he stammers, pointing down the hall. "Tw-ent-ty s-sev-ven, I th-think." His mouth hinges open and shut with every word like a broken puppet, eyes wide with terror.

I drink in his fear like oxygen, a smile coming to my lips as I holster my gun and pivot on a heel.

My pulse kicks up, the thrill of violence mingling with adrenaline as a twisted smirk spreads across my face. As much as I like the hunt, the struggle is the real moment of pure fucking bliss– when they realize they're caught and give everything they have at a last chance. I bask in the thrill of it, soak up that terror until they wear themselves out.

Then I go in for the kill.

Something dark and primal unfurls beneath my ribs as anticipation spikes. I hope A311 puts up a fight.

"Knock, knock," I drawl, twisting open the door for apartment 27 and kicking a busted lamp out of the way as I step inside. "Repo Man."

My eyes sweep over the place in a quick assessment. There’s light spilling from a room to my right, so I stalk down the hall, half expecting to find her cowering in a corner when I turn into the bedroom.

She’s not.