Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

Her red scarf is still in my pocket. I told myself I took it with me because I didn’t want to leave my DNA at her workplace, but that’s all a load of shit, of course. There was so much of my blood in that clinic when I left, that the amount soaked into her hair accessory was pitiful in comparison, and wouldn’t have registered. I wanted to have something of hers—a memento—so I stole it. Until then, I’ve never stolen a single thing in my whole life.

I should check up on her.

The need to make sure she’s safe rises within me like a tidal wave. It’s an unexplainable, ridiculous pull messing with myhead, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake it. It’s been haunting me every minute of every day for the past week, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I don’t care about people. In fact, most of the time, I barely care about myself, so this concern for someone else’s well-being is completely foreign to me.

I’m going to look in on her today.

The moment I make that decision, it gets easier to draw a breath.

Yes. I’m heading back to Boston once I’m done here.

But the thing is, I never planned on leaving Mr. Run-For-Fun’s property alive.

In my line of work, the smallest mistake or a slight oversight could mean certain death. I figured it was high time for me to make one. I’d never give Kruger, the motherfucker who made me into what I am, the satisfaction of thinking he had won this unspoken war between us by taking my own life. Never. But everyone makes mistakes in the field.

The jogger veers to the left, taking a trail toward the small pond, two bodyguards following a few feet behind. There are cameras on the lampposts along the running path, but they are not directed at the area around the body of water. If I take my shot when they return to the path, the surveillance people will see it, and the whole compound will go into lockdown.

That’s my plan. Just one tiny mistake—firing after my target has moved out of the camera’s blind spot—and I’m dead. If there is hell in the afterlife, I’m sure that’s where I’m going to end up. I don’t give a shit. I’m already in hell, and I haven’t even left the earth, yet.

Shoot now, while they are out of the camera’s range? Or wait until they are back in view, make the kill, and sign my own death warrant? Cub or my demise?

If I let myself be taken out, I wouldn’t be able to make sure the girl is okay. Ineedto make sure she’s safe, and that need is stronger than the wish to finally end my existence.

I slide my finger to the trigger, ready to squeeze. The jogger keeps his pace around the pond. His security detail is trailing him, lined up like ducks in a row. With my scope aimed at one of the bodyguards, I fire. The man stumbles, falling facedown on the grass. The other bodyguard has already drawn his gun and positioned himself in front of Mr. Soon-To-Be-Dead-Anyway, covering him with his body. The way they are standing, if I shoot at the bodyguard’s neck, the bullet will probably pass through and end up in my target’s face. Two birds, one stone. Too bad this contract arrived with a special requirement—the jogger’s face must be left untouched.

I lower my scope and send the bullet flying. It strikes the bodyguard’s upper torso, just above his collarbone. The man’s legs buckle under him. I aim at his head next, the shot hitting him between his eyebrows. Mr. Yellow-Pants has turned around and is trying to escape. I bet he’s pissed himself by now, but it’ll be hard to tell with his fashion choice. I shoot both of his legs.

My position is all the way on the other side of the pond, so it takes me almost five minutes to reach the jogger. He’s wailing as he rolls back and forth on the grass. I take out my phone, turn on the video camera, then crouch next to him.

“Hold this.” I grab his hand and place the phone into his palm. “There. In front of your face.”

“Please!” the man whimpers and shakes his head. The phone slips from his grasp.

“I don’t have all day.” I place the phone in his hand again. “Hold it in front of your face.”

He continues whimpering but keeps the phone raised in front of him.

“Just like that. Nice.” I pull out my knife and press the blade to his throat. “Now, I need you to look at the camera and say: ‘I’m sorry for banging your wife, Mr. Delaney.’”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry . . .” he stutters, then starts crying. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

“That’s not in the script.” I stop the recording, then hit the start button again. “Once more. Loud and clear, please.”

“I’m sorry for banging your wife, Mr. Delaney!” he screams.

“Perfect.” I nod and slice his throat open.

I send the video to Kruger, then turn around and head back to get my rifle. Fucking private contracts and their special requests.

* * *

There’s just one thing I hate more than people. Traffic jams.

I picked an indirect route to Boston to avoid the packed roads, so why in hell is there a line of vehicles in front of me blocking the on-ramp to the overpass? It has nothing to do with the rush hour, because the cars aren’t moving, and some of the drivers have exited their rides. A crowd has gathered in the middle of the road. I leave my car and head over there to check out what’s going on.

“Please, don’t do it,” a female’s voice reaches me. “We can work it out, Jeremiah.”

The group is standing in silence, staring at the man on the other side of the bridge railing who’s looking at the road below as if he’s intending to jump. The woman I heard earlier is a few steps behind him, gibbering something about a divorce. I fucking hate drama.