Page 1 of Stalker

PROLOGUE

Stalker

Even monsters had wishes.

Not just desires, but true aspirations regarding their life or perhaps their afterlife.

I was no exception, the longings increasingly difficult to ignore. But tonight, my wants were simple.

I yearned to rid the earth of a single piece of scum.

Jimmy Reardon managed to get off a single, sharp scream just as I plunged my knife into his gut, but the sound wasn’t satisfying. Not nearly enough. I yanked the serrated blade through his chest cavity, stopping the advance of the sharp implement just inside his heart.

At least he had the decency to issue a guttural grunt.

In truth, that was probably the only sound the bastard could provide.

He had the look of a wounded deer, eyes frozen in headlights as he continued to peer up at me. When he blinked, I knew he was still partially cognizant.

“You’ve been a very bad boy, Jimmy. You love to hurt women. In fact, you get off on doing so. Well, your reign of terror ends today.”

Jimmy’s dark secret was much more disgusting than simply abusing a few women in his life. The sick fuck had ceremoniously stalked, captured, tortured, and slaughtered his victims under the guise of medical research.

What a worthless fuck.

The pompous asshole had managed to fool so many people, pretending as if he cared about them during the day while using his notoriety, wealth, and social status to lure unsuspecting much younger females into his predatory lair.

I knew his name, as I usually did the men succumbing to my wrath. I’d followed him for almost a week on and off to ensure my initial assessment of his misdeeds had been correct.

His terrifying reign on the women to whom he professed his love was ongoing. The poor girls, victims of his disgusting level of abuse, quickly learned they were simply one of many.

That level of information I refused to take the time to discover. I was a busy man after all, helping run a multibillion-dollar company. This piece of shit was nothing but gum I was scraping off my steel-toed boot.

The audacity of the man to beg me for salvation, to try to convince me he was innocent remained appalling.

As the light began to fade from his eyes, the groaning he’d done earlier getting fainter, I was forced to face the fact there’d been no excitement with the kill. None. As I pulled the blade free, twisting and turning the sharp weapon in the warm glow of light, I finally realized why.

The fucker hadn’t fought me.

Not for one extra minute of his miserable life.

Up until a few seconds ago, he hadn’t screamed or tried to make a run for it. He hadn’t pulled out his phone and threatened me with calling the police if I didn’t leave him alone.

He’d allowed his arrogance alone to stand up to me.

Maybe he’d ignorantly believed I was some random killer, incapable of doing what it took to end his life. Or maybe he thought I’d grow bored, eventually fading from the scene.

Whatever the case, as I rose to my full height, all I felt was a dull sense of emptiness.

That happened sometimes. I’d experienced the nothingness in the past at least once. Both times were stark reminders that I had to up my game.

I wanted the sons of bitches who enjoyed terrorizing others to feel the same kind of fear they inflicted on their victims. I longed to have them beg me for their worthless lives, tears streaming down their cheeks while they pissed their pants.

All I was doing was ridding the world of dangerous vermin.

At least that’s what a psychiatrist would likely say if presenting my case to a jury.

I laughed and pulled out a rag from my jacket, carefully wiping the knife. At least I could breathe comfortably again. I always did so after spilling blood. It was a toxic trait to linger at the scene, but I needed the high provided by the coppery stench. I glanced down at my hand, marveling at the way the strings of crimson slowly slid toward my outstretched fingers.

---