Page 10 of Enemy of the State

I hear a dark chuckle, and I know, even without being able to see, that it came from Digs. The hypnotic sound sends a shiver through me, all the way down to my toes, and I feel like I’m wading into a lake in early spring, daring to submerge myself in what I know are sure to be dangerously cool waters.

“She’s not wrong,” Honey Eyes remarks.

“What kind of name is Digs anyway? Is it because you dig graves or something equally ridiculous?”When they give me the silent treatment, I add, “I already know your name, you sod.”

Another beat of silence passes before he finally answers me. “Short for Diggory.”

I’m gobsmacked that he answered me at all, let alone honestly. “So not even as cool as ‘grave digger’ then?”

I hear some low chuckles before Digs addresses me again, his tone all-business now. “As fun as this has been, it’s time foryouto start giving up some answers.”

When I don’t reply, my left foot is yanked into the air so my leg extends. Something cold and abrasive runs along the bridge of my bare foot. Bracing myself for whatever Satan—I mean Digs—can attack me with, I mentally take myself on a trip into one of my favorite memories.

The night air is crisp and cold. A veil of powdery snow resembling fluffy clouds blankets my surroundings, the radiant glow from the moon glittering against the white particles like reflective tape. I nestle into the little perch I made for myself on the rooftop of the building across from the nightclub.

Pulsing techno music escapes into the night every time the doors are opened—too often for my liking—but all has been quiet for the last hour. I know from the extensive reconnaissance I’ve done over the last few weeks that my target always exits through the front door and always at 3:27am.

Creatures of habit are easy, boring kills, but for once I’m grateful. I’ve been tracking this wanker for three weeks, ever since I found out he was still alive.

I glance down at my watch and see that it’s 3:25 a.m. Flicking off the safety as I lean over the scope of my rifle, I peer through the viewfinder trained on the doors. Giddiness bubbles through me, and I take a calming breath to keep my emotions at bay. I can host a personal party later. Besides, there won’t be anything to celebrate if I blow this because I got fuckingexcited.

Like clockwork, two minutes later, James Vungaärd walks through the double doors of his nightclub, flanked by two security guards. The driver of his waiting SUV rounds the front of the car to open the door to the backseat for him.

With the crosshairs trained on his head, I suck in air and hold it. Undiluted joy races through me as I exhale, pulling the trigger of the bolt action AR-15, the silencer muffling the sound of my shot.

I watch through the glass of the scope as he falls backwards, blood immediately pooling around his head, painting the pristine snow abeautiful shade of deep crimson. His security team scrambles around him, one of them pulling out his sidepiece, his eyes darting around frantically as he searches for the perpetrator. He’ll never find me. No one ever does.

Retribution is a funny thing. It’s like taking a hit of a drug that you know you’ll only be able to savor once. It doesn’t bring back those you’ve lost and you’ll only be able to taste the intoxicating nectar of justice in your dreams, but it’s electrifying, nonetheless.

Observing the chaos for another minute or two through my binoculars, I revel in the sight of my parents’ murderer lying dead on the icy sidewalk that’s now his tomb.

While elation and satisfaction gallop through me at top speed as I pack up my rifle, there’s a thin membrane of disappointment that threatens to eclipse the delight that exacting my revenge brought me.

It’s over—in this lifetime, anyway.

I’ll pick up where I left off when I find him in Hell. Fortunately for my parents, but unfortunately for James Vungaärd, vengeance is something I think I might excel in.

Cracking through the flimsy crust of malcontent, a wicked, slaked smile stretches across my face as I sling my bag over my shoulder, disappearing into the night, knowing that this was the only acceptable version of justice.

When I come out of my dreamy memory, it’s to my own agony. I bite down on my tongue to keep from screaming, but that doesn’t stop the tears from wetting the rag covering my eyes and tracking down my dirty face. Blood fills my mouth, but I hardly notice it over the searing pain ricocheting through my body.

As my suffering continues, I pray toKiputyttö, Pain Girl in Finnish mythology, to take my pain from me and hide it away in Pain Rock, so her snakes might eat my torment. I know she doesn’t exist, but she’s my best shot at easing my anguish.

Just then, Honey Eyes removes my blindfold, and I look down to find that I’m missing the second, third, and fourth toenails on my left foot, though I suppose that’s better than the drill I thoughtthey’d take to the ball of my foot. Deep crimson stains the floor and Digs’s forearms where he’s crouched before me. I’m sure my blood is on his massive hands as well, but his black gloves hide that.

“You really don’t have anything to say?” Digs asks, locking his vast, oceanic gaze with mine as he stares up at me.

I say nothing. I don’t have anything to say to him, but even if I did, I’m utterly incapable of speech at the moment.

“Maybe removing a few more will jog your memory.”

I hiss out a breath, enough to form words and choke out, “Take them all.”

His eyes widen a fraction at my brazen but honest statement. Sighing, he drops the metal pliers still in his hand, and they clatter to the floor, ringing out in the otherwise quiet room. The sound is still echoing in my mind as I close my eyes, willing myself to pass the fuck out. This pain is scorching, burning me from the inside out, and I have no idea how I’ll be able to walk out of here. But I don’t need to be able to walk and I certainly don’t need toenails.

I simply need to be alive when my brother retrieves me.

Sean

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