Page 110 of River Wild

I’m Enforcer Nine. Or E9, as Marcus refers to me as.

Marcus has recruited twenty-one more enforcers since I joined them.

Twenty-one more fucked up people just like me because of sick fuckers like the one I’m waiting on.

I snatch up my cell from the passenger seat, answering it.

“Has he shown yet?” Marcus’s gravelly voice travels down the line.

I called him straight after I got Red home safely to let him know what I was doing. I always check in with Marcus when I’m onto one of these sick fuckers.

Marcus North is in his mid-thirties. Unmarried. No kids. And he’s as messed up as I am. He started the group when he was in his early twenties. A coping mechanism, I would guess. Not that he’s ever spoken of his past to me. Like I never have to him.

But it’s easy enough to recognize a person carrying the same weight as you.

I see it in Red, too. And that scares the fucking shit out of me.

“No,” I tell him, stubbing out my cigar on my cigar box. I put it back in the box to finish later.

“You’re definitely sure it was him?”

“One hundred percent.”

I don’t forget their faces. Every one of these sick fuckers’ faces is burned into my mind. Just like my stepfather is and always will be.

Marcus sighs. “He’s going to be a problem; you know that.”

“I know.”

A shadowy figure approaches the house, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“He’s here. Gotta go.”

“Do what’s necessary. Check back in when it’s done.”

I toss my cell onto the passenger seat. Grab my ball cap, pull it low over my eyes. Then, I pause, looking at my cigar cutter. I pick it up and slip it into my pocket.

I get out of my truck and cross the street, walking quickly, blending into the shadows. My large strides easily eating up the space between me and him.

My heart pounds in my chest. Adrenaline coursing through my veins. Ready. So fucking ready for this.

I move around the house. Slipping down the side, I let myself into the garden through the back gate.

I tread soundlessly over the pathway leading around to the back door.

The kitchen is in darkness.

I try the door. Locked.

It takes me less than thirty seconds to have it open.

I soundlessly slip inside the house, closing the door behind me.

I can hear the television on in the adjacent living room.

I hear the toilet flush. He’s in the downstairs bathroom.

I head in that direction on silent feet. For a big man, I can move quietly when I want to.