Page 37 of SKIN

There were five of us in total back at Briarwood. Adrian at the reins, the rest of us the muscle. The whole operation was a bit of a mystery—the sort that involved both sides of the equally corrupt law. Though I had to admit the pay was decent, if not inconsistent. I didn’t care enough to question it. Not yet anyway. I had more important shit on my mind. Shit that involved me keeping my mouth shut and my eye open.

I was an observer after all. And human behavior was my favorite curiosity.

Two more taps on my shoulder had my attention focused in front of us as Casper compressed his body, like a rodent collapsing its ribs, and slipped through a tiny hinged window with ease. I listened for a thud, some sort of indicator that he made it on the other side but there was only silence. Guy was definitely some sort of circus freak, if nothing else.

Seconds later, the large front door to Prescott Estates was squeaking open and Donnie and I were rushing through. I glanced up, a crystal chandelier swaying above us and a tapestry on the far wall bristling with our movement. My eyes flicked to the portrait of some rich white guy hanging front and center along the grand staircase before swooping corner to corner. Other than the pendulum swinging from the old grandfather clock to our immediate right, there were no signs of life.

Didn’t know why we were here. Didn’t much care either. Shit was just another paycheck to me. If my hands got dirty in the process, even better.

“Up the stairs, third door on the left. Alarm’s down and cameras blacked out for the next ten minutes. In and out and don’t fucking touch anything,” Bugs hissed over the mics in each of our ears.

None of us bothered to reply. He knew we heard him.

I glanced behind me. Casper was nowhere to be found. Fucker could be on the roof for all I knew. He was quick; even more than that, he was efficient.

Ten minutes wasn’t much time. But it was enough to have us grabbing Tate Prescott from his Egyptian cotton sheets and pillow top mattress, a bag over his head as we dropped him kicking and screaming into the back of the van. A quick dose of ketamine had the fucker sedated within minutes, Donnie pinning our target at the waist and securing his limbs while Casper jumped into the driver’s seat.

My job was to make sure Prescott didn’t cause a problem before we made it back to Briarwood. I had every cocktail imaginable on hand. Including a few bottles of Narcan. I had to ensure he made it there alive too. At least in this instance. Every job was different.

Had to admit I didn’t mind the thrill either. It was a different kind of high from the operating room. Mix up one of the vials and the guy would be sent right into a seizure, foaming at the mouth, his eyes rolling to the back of his skull right in front of us.

The temptation was there. To send him over the edge just to bring him back again. But right now, the cash was more enticing. Bugs had an in with some tech guys and I needed better surveillance equipment to keep an eye on Emily. Wouldn’t be long before I had an entire setup dedicated to her and everything I wanted to do to her.

The sound of the gates creaking open and welcoming us home to Briarwood had me looking up and packing away my kit. Before Donnie and I were hefting Prescott onto a shoulder each and dragging him through a different set of doors.

“What’d he do?” I grunted in Casper’s direction.

We had Tate Prescott strapped to the metal slab in Adrian’s personal operating room. An IV strung up on a pole. A cardiac monitor hooked up to his chest and a respirator at his side. I’d done my part. Now I was just curious.

“Do you care?” Casper jumped down from the counter, taking two steps forward to lean over the table. He pried open one of Prescott’s eyelids, dropping it only to repeat the process on the other side.

Before I could respond, Adrian was pushing into the room. Dressed head to toe in a sterile gown and med boots. He eyed Casper, then quickly landed his glare on me. “Scrub up or get out.”

47

COHEN

The air was tinged with the distinctive scent of copper, my gaze honed in on the rib cage cracked open in front of me. Like some fucked-up Sunday roast. Slightly pinker in the middle against the aging not-quite-white bones while the buzz of the suction tube drowned out the rest of the machinery. I could almost hear the contracting of the cardiomyocytes whenever the suction stopped as Prescott’s heart throbbed in time with the blipping of the machine to my right.

There was that sound again. The rhythmic pulsing in my eardrums.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

My nerves were still misfiring, sending faulty signals to my brain, which made it difficult to determine which sensations were real and which were phantasmal. I cracked my neck from side to side, trying to release some of the built up fluid in the joints, and watched in stunned silence as Adrian used a makeshift tattoo gun to scrawl a name across the thin tissue of Prescott’s pericardium.

Marisela.

I canted my head to one side, unable to stop myself from taking some visual measurements. Shit was more than a habit. It was second nature. By the time my eyes swept back along the chest cavity, I was certain if we didn’t kill Tate Prescott, heart disease would do the job for us.

Adrian eyed his handiwork for a moment before lifting his gaze to meet mine, a smirk curling one side of his mouth.

“Who’s Marisela?”

The good doctor dropped the gun onto the medical tray, ink mixing with blood as it splattered across the blue surgical pad. “Our client.” He shrugged, then gestured a red-tinged glove to the slab. “Also his wife.”

“His wife paid you to do this.” It wasn’t surprise that had my brows pulled tight across my forehead. I didn’t give a shit about the Hippocratic Oath or follow any sort of moral code outside my own. Again, I was just curious. Enjoyed figuring out what made someone tick. What drove them. Their motives. Who hired us and why.

“No, she paid us to take him from the house and hold him for a few days. Scare 'em straight. Keep him out of his mistress’s bed. I did this…” Adrian threw a hand out towards Prescott again. “…on the house. Want our clients to know how much we really care about their overall… customer satisfaction.” He grinned, and if fear were something I was prone to feeling, a shiver would have traveled down my spine.

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