Page 4 of Hell’s Weapon

I have to give it to her, this killer could easily work for me, the level of torture would fit right in with what we deliver to some of the inmates in Tartarus. Hopefully she’ll survive the interview process I’m about to put her through. Once she’s been caught, of course.

Junior immediately starts gagging and the others can’t keep their disgust silent either. I ignore them all, tracking the heartbeat once more. I try to pick up her scent but all I can smell is the metallic tang of blood. And the bile Junior is now depositing in the champagne bucket on the drinks trolley in the corner.

Slowly moving around the room, I signal for a couple of the detectives to follow. The more senior ones recover their composure the quickest, and with looks of curiosity, obey my command without giving the game away.

We pass through to the kitchen, into a corridor, before finally reaching another more casual looking lounge.

And that’s where we find her. Sitting like she’s on a throne instead of a leather armchair. Facing the doorway, her back is straight, her legs crossed at the knee, arms draped on the armrests on either side.

My gaze immediately trails up the long expanse of her legs, from her delicate feet strapped into some stilettos all the way up to her wide curving hips. The black attire she’s wearing covers her almost head to foot but clings to her like a second skin. The matte lycra of her leggings especially, could be painted on.

The rest of her body is as toned and tight as those legs. The feminine curve of her hips, the dip in her waist before the perfect swell of her breasts, and wide, perfectly poised shoulders. In a different situation I’d absolutely be checking her out, but as it is, I’m scanning for weapons. Her long-sleeved top is just as tight as her leggings, although it's slightly cropped at her midriff, showing a sliver of toned abs. Unless she has something tucked behind her back there’s not a line in her clothing, not even a hint at the underwear she’s wearing–dear gods I hope she is wearing underwear–let alone any knives or guns.

Her torso is framed by long luscious hair, that my eyes linger on, when I notice the rainbow of bright colour weaved into the onyx black majority.

The twitch of her dark–maroon painted–lips draws my attention up to her face. The room is softly lit and it gives a glow to her lightly tanned skin.

When my eyes meet her rich chocolate ones, I’m hit with the full force of the lethal ability she holds. If the body in the other room wasn’t enough of an indicator, those eyes tell me she is no average killer. She’s fully in control. From one look, I know that everything she does is calculated. And with those long lashes, and striking eyeliner framing her eyes, I bet she can have anyone under her spell in seconds, men falling at her feet.

Before she slit their throats.

“Good evening, gentleman.” Her voice floats across the room like a siren’s melody. “You’ve finally caught up with me.”

Chapter 3

Milo

It’s too loud.

And too bright.

The food hall has been so much more unbearable since they integrated us, mixed all genders together. It’s like the men think that the louder and more obnoxious they are the more likely they will catch the attention of the women. It’s led to more punch ups, more shouting, more… everything.

And some of the women are just as vocal.

My attention gets pulled away from the porridge in front of me to one of the loudest guys. He’s one of the biggest too. At least six foot four and with shoulders that could rival a bull. He’s ripped the arms off the standard issue orange scrubs to make it a vest. I’m assuming his biceps simply didn’t fit into the fabric. I swear, his arms are bigger than my thighs. The left one is covered in tattoos; they map his skin all the way up from his wrist and disappear under the fabric at his shoulder. His other wrist, too, has some sort of band. Not that I’m noticing.

I just like tattoos. I’ve always wanted one but have never had the chance. I’m not even sure I could pull off a tattoo.

I’m not muscular in any way. I’m what you call lean. Small. Willowy. I like it that way, it means I can live my life undetected in here. People think I’m not worth the time. I’m one hundred percent at the bottom of the pecking order but that suits me fine. I’m invisible.

Number Thirty-Nine? He isn’t invisible. Not at all. He’s the popular guy. Always surrounded by at least half a dozen others. And his voice is as big as his physical presence. It carries around the large dining room and can be heard above the noise of the other hundred people in here. I can’t quite make out what’s being said currently, but he’s laughing and joking with several others, who all seem raptured by whatever story he’s telling. He pats one of them on the shoulder whilst saying something, leaning down from where he’s sitting on the table, feet on the bench seat, before breaking in raucous laughter.

He’s from Ireland. His accent reminds me of the fifth family I had. The one I stayed with the longest. I lived with them, Sinead and John McKinnon and their daughter Lia for four years. They were my favourite family of all the ones I grew up with. That is until they decided to move back to Southern Ireland spewing some bullshit about how I couldn’t go because my birth mother refused to grant me the permission I needed to leave the country with them.

They told me they fought the decision for a while, even tried writing to me after they’d left. But they had left, just like all the rest. Letters didn’t mean shit.

I was fourteen by that point. And no one wants a fucked up fourteen-year-old to foster. I’d had one more family after the McKinnons and that only lasted about seven months. Apparently, losing the family I loved had made me ‘unmanageable.’

Fuck the lot of them.

But I can’t help torturing myself by trying to listen to Wyatt, known as number Thirty-Nine, because maybe it’ll allow me to tune out the voices in my own head for a little while.

Did I mention that we're all numbered here? The guards and officers only refer to us as such. It’s stamped onto the left side of the chest of our scrubs. Many of the prisoners have shared their names, I’m trying to learn them but it can be hard to keep track.

I’m Nineteen.

My real name is Milo. I think the guards know that even if they don’t use it. They must, right? They must know what crimes each of us did to land ourselves in here too. As weird of a prison as this is.