Page 68 of Hostile Vows
His eyes dart from the lethal weapon in my hands to my unforgiving expression. A furrowed frown contorts his swarthy, tearstained face. “It’sProject H… you know about this particular stock and all the transportation schedules.”
I freeze. “What the fuck is Project H?”
“The fuck, Souza? What… you can’t stomach it now you’re here? I work for you.”
“I didn’t authorize the trafficking of young girls, motherfucker.” I prowl around the bed.
“Sure, you did, and those pretty little girls out there are funding your family businesses.”
This is it—the impetuous surge—the apocalypse.
I’m gone.
Hearing the pitiful bleating of broken souls, a radioactive hatred surfaces from deep within my bones. I let the rage take over without objection. My temper becomes the trigger of an automatic assault rifle; my unsatisfied wrath projects through penetrating lead. The victim's muscles violently jerk from every energetic slug, making the bed rattle beneath him. Blood spills, its rich hue soaking into the mattress, and hundreds of spatters decorate bland plastered walls.
No one will miss this bastard. He’ll simply vanish like every other guy who’s crossed me before him.
I glance over at Reno when he appears in the doorway, his flared nostrils and menacing scowl equally as anarchic as my own. My friend might be a man of few words, but his actions speak louder than any strung together sentence.
Neither of us is fazed by the carnage I’ve discharged. Not when my men had to round up hapless female prisoners, stripped of the clothes they were stolen in, suppressed by flesh cutting chains, and left in a dank cellar to await a life worse than death.
If that alone hadn’t tipped me over the edge, the two dark-haired girls covered in fresh cuts and brutal bruises were the final catalyst. I’d found them naked and in bed next to the asshole whose torn-up guts are everywhere. They’ve witnessed my unsparing outrage, endured the sound of every flying bullet, and observed the knee-jerk justice I deemed fitting.
No fucking regrets.
The sobbing teens cower in the far corner of the room, covered in the floral duvet I’d thrown over them. If my wife wants to meet a real monster, she can eyeball this worthless fucking corpse.
“We’ll take care of the rest of them,” Reno mutters, his rough voice capped with frost.
“No.” I pivot to fully face him, my uncontrollable rampage wholly justified and urgent.
I finally breathe and continue to reload the rifle. He eyes me quietly, probably wondering if I’ll ever return from the darkness I’m lost in. Whether I want to or not depends on my decision to free myself from the numbness it offers.
“Call in a utility chopper and get all the girls out of here. The rest of these fuckers are all mine.”
* * *
“After I check in on India, I’ll crash for a few hours, okay?” Reno talks to me through a headset.
The helicopter vertically descends onto the roof helipad of our condo and the pilot kills the engine. Silence doesn’t appease the conveyor belt of thoughts moving at top speed through my brain.
“No worries.” I unclip my seat belt and rip off the headphones. “We’ll increase security. Organize plainclothes soldiers to surround her wherever she goes.”
Neither of them questions my plans. She’s family, and after the past few hours, I’d happily pay a million dollars to guarantee her safety. That’s priceless.
When all three of us exit the aircraft, we prowl under the slow rotation of the blades, blood dried into our combat gear, and dark-crimson splashes cover our faces. I take a second to enjoy the hazy blush of dawn before moving indoors. Pretty pastel shades don’t help to soothe the confusion twisting inside of me.
I need answers.
And I think I’ve—done the unthinkable—fallen for my wife.
Entering the building, Reno punches the button for the elevator and disappears inside while we make our way to the penthouse entrance.
Letterman follows me in and goes straight to the liquor cabinet. Our mutual silence is broken by my lighter sparking up the tip of a blunt. He twists the cap off a full bottle of Jack Daniels and offers it to me first. I nod and accept, taking my time to drink as much as I can in one sitting. Once I’m done, I hand it back and inhale hash deep into my lungs.
“I need a shower.” My voice rumbles in the early morning hush that's better than wretched pleading and explosive gunfire.
“What the fuck was that?” Letterman glances over at me, dark crescents under his eyes and a charcoal smudge on his cheekbone. “The oldest was at least fifteen.”
