Page 66 of Brutal Knight

I frowned.This asshole didn't give a shit about his family's safety.Given the neighborhood he lived in, he should have every window and door locked. Even now, I could hear the sound of a car alarm going off.

The front of the house was dark and I didn’t spend much time going through the sparse living room and kitchen, making sure there wouldn’t be any surprises. I made my way down the hall, stepping over empty beer cans, my eyes moving over the black marks on the tile, the hole punched through the wall.

There was one bathroom: empty.

Two rooms remained. The door to the bedroom to my left squeaked as I opened it.

There was nothing but a mattress and an old dresser in the room. No pictures on the walls, no knickknacks on the dresser, nothing to make the place feel homey except for dirty clothes tossed on the floor.

A woman, the wife, lay in the bed, wrapped up in a blue blanket. She faced the wall, her brown hair bunched in a loose ponytail. From the doorway, I could see the bruises on her neck.

I watched her carefully, trying to decide what to do with her.

I had mixed feelings about women who didn't protect their kids.

Deciding to leave her alone, I silently shut the door, then turned around, facing the girls’ room.

A surge of anger coursed through me. My whole body was alert, my fingers tingling, my back ramrod straight. I squeezed my fist tighter, grounding myself by noting the feel of the leather handle. Then I took in a breath, counted to four, then let it out.

Tampering down my rage, I forced all emotion out of my body.

It didn’t take long.

I placed my bag on the ground; I wouldn’t need much tonight. Then I turned the knob and stepped inside.

There were two beds. A single one that sat, facing the doorway. A girl of about four sat on the single bed, her back pressed to the wall. Her hair was in pigtails, one of them crooked, and she wore pink pajamas. A stuffed cat was clasped in her fingers, her little chest moving in and out like a fluttering, panicked bird as she stared across the room.

The other bed was full sized, and it was hidden in the darkest corner of the room. I could only make out moving shadows in that one.

The eyes of the four year old moved to me, widening. I put my finger to my lips and she glanced from me to the other bed, not speaking. I pulled out their handwritten letter and, unfolding it, held it up to her.

Her eyes grew as wide as saucers. She only stared at it for a long moment. I didn’t move; I would never take control away from little girls who had felt powerless most their lives.

After a long moment, she nodded, her pigtails brushing against the back wall.

Shit. The back of my eyes burned.

The courage of little girls like this, growing up way before they should.

Fuck! I wanted to scream and rage and break everything in this goddamn house, then burn it to the ground.

Instead, I forced myself to be calm, then, sliding the paper in my pocket, I pulled out my gun.

I moved slowly and silently into the room, going first to the single bed. I held out my hand, and waited.

After a long, hesitating moment, the four year old reached forward. Her little fingers shook as she clasped my hand.

I squeezed it reassuringly as she slowly, quietly, slid from the bed. Together, we walked across to the other side of the room where the father still hadn’t noticed us. The guy was probably too drunk.

Not that it would’ve mattered.

As we approached the other bed, I put the barrel of my gun to the father's head and clicked off the safety. "Don't fucking move.”

The man froze, his large body suddenly still.

The four year old by my side reached forward, taking her sister's hand, clutching it tight, whispering, “It’s gonna be okay.”

This would be the last night they would ever worry about that asshole again.

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