Page 36 of Shadows of the Past
Luckily, this club is overcrowded, and its location is perfect. It’s in a notoriously rough part of the city, with few cameras around. By the time anyone realizes he’s gone, his bones will be rotting at the bottom of the ocean.
But not before he screams.
I park the car behind the building and check my gear. Everything I need is within reach.
A syringe filled with a sedative, two knives, and the pistol tucked securely at my back. I’ve got my kit of other tools ready too, just in case creativity strikes.
Luckily for me, my face isn’t well-known in these circles. If someone remembers seeing me here, they’ll have no way to track me.
The club reeks of smoke, dense enough to make finding my target a physical effort. He’s over thirty-five, not an imposing man on his own, but next to Julia, he’s a giant.
Images of her torment invade my mind, the way they always do when my own nightmares crawl out from the shadows. Her screams from that night echo through me, raw and unrelenting.
When I see him heading toward the bathroom, I move. He barely has time to shut the door before I grab his neck and plunge the syringe into his skin.
There’s no time for protest. By the time I haul him out, two men enter, but they probably think I’m just a buddy dragging his drunk friend home.
I use the back exit, not the front, and the salty air slams into me. This is her home. This is the place she grew up. I take a deepinhale, as if hoping to catch traces of the scent she leaves onourpillows.
Martin mumbles incoherently, but I don’t care to decipher his words. I load him into the back of the SUV.
Fifteen minutes—that’s how long it’ll take me to reach his house. The place where he’ll die. The place where he became Julia’s nightmare. The place where I’ll make sure to take a piece of him back forher.
When I pull up in front of what passes for a house—something resembling a shipping container—I make sure I don’t appear on any cameras within a three-mile radius.
I entered the country using a different name. No one will suspect me, and I won’t let Ivan catch wind of this.
As I drag Martin out of the car, his head smacks against the doorframe, and a groan of agony escapes him.
"You’ll make plenty more sounds like that," I mutter.
The living room reeks of mildew and rot, and I grab a chair, securing him with tight knots. When I’m certain he can’t move, I sit back and wait for him to wake up.
The sedative works fast because it’s meant to weaken him, not put him to sleep. Within minutes, his head begins to stir and he groans in pain.
Perhaps I hit him harder than I thought.
"¿Qué coño?!" he spits, voice ragged and confused.
When his eyes land on me, all I catch is disbelief. I’m not as massive as some of Ivan’s soldiers, but I train daily, and at over six feet tall, I’m far from invisible.
"I’ll tell you why you’re here, just so you’ll know, every second you bleed, exactly why you’re doing it: JULIA."
I see it in his eyes: panic, then anger. Good. Let’s see how long it takes to turn into resignation.
"Julia? Who’s Julia?" His accent is heavy, and for a moment, he genuinely seems confused. That annoys me even more.
To him, Julia was just another face in the crowd, another girl he destroyed.
It takes him a few seconds, but recognition flickers. Then he laughs.
"The dark-haired girl? Oh, don’t tell me she was your little sweetheart. You didn’t miss much, you know. In fact, I did you a favor."
I raise an eyebrow, refusing to show how much I’m boiling inside. Soon, my knives will make my feelings clear.
"I won’t deny it—I liked how she fought back. It’s always more exciting when they resist. But you have to admit, I broke her in well."
When his words don’t provoke me, he swallows hard and continues.
