Primal Pursuit

I rearrange myself and zip up, getting my phone from my pocket.

Caelian.

“Word?” I ask.

“Plane leaves in an hour. Be there.” He hangs up.

I shove a hand through my hair and turn back to Rabbit. She’s shaking, staring at me with her ever-present anger.

“Unfortunately, I have to go.”

“Really?” she asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I thought it was your MO. Are you going to leave me money like a hooker this time?”

“Do you want to be treated like a hooker?”

I don’t deny it, because sure I wanted to help her out. She’s broke. I’ve got more than enough money, but I didn’t have to leave a pile of bills for her.

“You’re an?—”

“I know, Rabbit. I know. Look, stay here while I’mgone. You’ve got the code, and I’ll have the doorman add you as a guest.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m not a charity case.”

“I’m fucking aware.” Then I check the time. “Stay or go. Search the place. Amass makeshift weapons. Write a manifesto about my demise. But just get ready.”

“Ready for what?”

I grab her again, pulling her hard against me, slamming my lips on hers, and kiss her like my goal is to extract her goddamn soul from her body, then lean my forehead against hers.

“Get ready to run, Rabbit, because I’ll be back soon. And then I’m coming for you.”

Chapter

Eighteen

DAVIAN

My next weekand a half is intense. No personal phone. No calls. Nothing but my job.

Some of these fuckers are hard to get to, and more than once I need to fucking take out their guards.

Most of my kills are planned out and opportunistic sniper shots. There’s a team set up to clean the moment my targets hit the ground. But it’s logistical headaches, and I don’t touch cigarettes or booze during it. Some hits need to be coordinated with the team, especially when there are girls ready to ship.

In Croatia, I fucking go in and blow the brains out of the head of operations who’s raping an underaged girl. Right in the middle of his hairy ass rising and falling, her sobs filling the air, I fucking blow the motherfucker’s brains out. Those who watched, I already took out with a knife to the base of the skull. All three. This fucker was way too into getting his rocks off to even notice.

I have to kick him off her, and she’s a fucking mess. I find a blanket and some clothes for her and hand her to awoman on the team. The woman’s handy with a gun, but I need her for her medical assistance and just…female presence in cases like this girl.

I move on to my next hit.

I never use the names of the members on my team. Nicknames, sure. Generic ones. It’s a way of distancing myself from them. I can’t be worrying about them when I’m on a job. Everything needs to be about taking out my target, and there is no room for error. No room for hesitation. I have to be consumed by killing the absolute cunts on my hit list. And nothing. Else. Matters.

The young girl we just saved isn’t alone in her experience.

A few others are in similar situations, but not as bad or as young.

From London to Estonia, to Hungary and then Belfast, I cut a swath of death. I make hit after hit after hit. The bloody swath is tempered by the girls we send to France and then to the States and the White Cliffs of Dover where the port we work from is usually reserved for fishing. We also house girls who don’t want to leave, sorting out the ones who need to because going home is worse, and those who can work in some of our places in London.

No one is forced into it. But many choose the life of protection. Sex is all they know, and the unknown scares them more. Those who want to strike out on their own need to do it in the States where we can watch them until the aftermath of cleaning up the dregs and particular rings are destroyed.