Page 2 of Beautiful Killer

CHAPTER ONE

Zeke

“I have him,” I said into the hands-free walkie I was wearing. “Third floor, second apartment from the left. He’s alone.”

“Keep him in your sights, we’re moving in now,” Van said back.

Van King and his brother Hunter owned the King Agency, the P.I. firm I worked for. Van and I had also gone to high school and enlisted together. We had our own way of doing things, and often that meant working outside the law.

Not this time, though.

My finger rested along the barrel of my rifle. I hadn’t moved in an hour and a half, my focus razor sharp, locked on the guy across the street. If he tried to leave that apartment, I’d immobilize him. We’d been paid to bring this guy in by any means. He was wanted in four states, had robbed three jewelry stores and two pawn shops. He’d also killed three innocent people and injured two others. The cops couldn’t pin this asshole down and, though highly irregular, had brought us in to work alongside local law enforcement to get the job done.

Mainly because we had contacts, ways of getting information the NYPD didn’t. Contacts we wouldn’t share and the cops preferred not to know about.

My target grabbed a bag and started stuffing something in it. Clothes. “He’s packing up, about to head out,” I said.

Van’s walkie crackled in my ear. “Don’t let him leave.”

I inched my finger back to the trigger . . .

An image flashed through my head, flickering like an old movie projector behind my eyes. Suddenly, I was on a different roof, in a different country, at a different time. I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to shake it. But I knew what was coming and I also knew I couldn’t stop it. Sweat slid down my temples. I had to hold it. Just a few more minutes.

My hand started to shake.

Shit.

I took a deep breath, focused on my breathing, slow and steady. It was the only thing that helped me keep my shit together when this happened, when the memories forced their way into my frontal lobe and tried to fuck me up.

Tightening my muscles, I worked at controlling the shakes. The target slung his bag over his head . . . then turned to go. Now or never.

I got the guy in my crosshairs, released a breath, . . . and squeezed the trigger. The sound of shattering glass was swallowed by a frenetic New York City during rush hour. I watched through my sight as blood spread, soaking his shirt at the shoulder, his mouth open in a soundless scream. I lined him up again for another shot. If that didn’t slow him down, I’d take out one of his legs. The target dropped to the floor, though, propping himself against the wall.

I didn’t take my eyes off him until the door burst open three minutes later. Which would have been more than enough time for the guy to get away. Van and Neco, another of our agents, ran into the room. Ruby, a recent addition to our field team, and Neco’s woman, came into view as well. Her gun was on our target while Neco cuffed him, and Van checked out the rest of the apartment.

I rolled to my back, put my rifle on the ground beside me, and pulled myself up so I was leaning against the small wall edging the roof. The tremor in my hand intensified and I curled my fingers into a fist. Those images I didn’t want in my damn head forced their way deeper. Blood. Bodies, now unrecognizable, sprawled across the ground.

Grief overwhelmed me, hit so hard I didn’t know how to process it. It had been over a year and at times like this, it felt like yesterday. These . . . attacks, shit, I didn’t know what to call them, hit at random, like my subconscious popping in for a “hi, how are ya,” followed by a giant “fuck you.” Dragging back all the pain, making sure I never forgot the way I felt that day. Taking me back to a time when I hadn’t taken the damn shot, when I’d hesitated—when I’d second guessed, and my men had paid the price for it.

I’d been lost when I got home, but in the end I’d called Van and finally accepted the job my friend had been offering me since he set up his P.I. firm. I’d made a vow to myself that day, and to those men that lost their lives and their families. I’d take down as many pieces of garbage as I could, like the asshole I’d shot tonight, and I’d keep on doing it, until I couldn’t do it anymore. It wouldn’t bring my guys back, or make up for my failure, my soul would be forever marked by what I’d done—but I could do this.

It was all I had. All I could offer.

Nothing else got me out of bed in the morning, no one else, and that’s how I wanted it.

I was empty, had nothing else to give. I’d die on the job and I didn’t care when or how. The weight of those souls, they were heavy, a burden that I more than deserved to carry, but tonight, they were almost more than I could bear. Which is why I stayed where I was when I heard the scrape of a boot on the rooftop not far from me, when someone moved out of the shadows. I didn’t reach for my gun or the knife down the side of my boot, choosing not to think about why, and stared down the barrel of the nine-millimeter aimed at me. I sat, and waited. This guy, whoever he was, had been tailing me for a week. I’d let him. I’d been waiting for him to make his move, had counted on it. Looked like tonight was the night.

“To your knees,” the guy said. “Hands out at your sides.”

I did as he asked. “Do I know you?”

“No.” He shook his head. “You knew my brother, though. He was sentenced to ten fucking years because of you.”

In this job, we sent a lot of assholes away. I had no idea who he was talking about.

He dragged his forearm across his mouth. “Killed himself a week ago.”

I said nothing. What could I say?