Page 85 of The Collector
He knew Pierre well enough—his appetites, his rituals. The man didn't require his victims to be unwilling, but he preferred it that way. The fear, the resistance they put up—made the act fulfilling.
They were similar. Too similar for the Collector's liking.
In another life, they might've been friends. Might've hunted together, traded stories over blood and bourbon. But it didn't work that way.
Serial killers didn't collaborate. They didn't share territory. When you became aware of another— operating in your orbit, you didn't reach out.
You removed them. Cleanly. Quietly. Before they got curious. Before they got bold.
"Wire the funds we discussed to the account I gave you. Once I receive confirmation, I'll send the location where you can pick them up."
Pierre's excited tone shifted— to something more curious, suspicious as he replied. "Why go to all this trouble— for me? Is this a power play? You trying to take Raven down— now that the old man's out of the picture?"
A smile curled in the Collector's voice as he answered. "Indeed. And with the club scrambling to prepare for war with the Stallions, now is the perfect time to give you what you want… and gut Raven from the inside out and take the Kings for my own."
Pierre laughed. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard to the Collector; it was grating, smug, and indulgent. He despised the man. Not just for his appetites. But for the way he wore his need, loud and unapologetically, like a badge for the world to see.
He paused, considering that his hatred stemmed from something more profound. A recognition of the threat he posed to him.
Pierre wasn't just another predator. He was bold. Unpredictable. He didn't operate with precision—he operated with hunger, and hunger was messy. Hunger got noticed, which happened to be just what the Collector needed from him.
The Collector preferred silence. Clean lines. No ripples.
Pierre made ripples. And that made him dangerous, but a tool he could use nonetheless.
"Let's talk about the other requirements for getting the girl. Tell me what you have in place."
"What about them? I've already got plans in motion. Men in place —to fulfill those requests. Mateo will be the easier of thetwo to take out. Since his heart attack last year, he hardly leaves the house. I made arrangements to have his breakfast laced with the poison you gave me this morning."
The Collector swallowed hard. Tugged at his collar, irritation prickling beneath his skin.
Letting Pierre make the kill felt wrong. Like a betrayal. Not of the plan—but of himself.
His death was supposed to be personal. Precise. A signature kill.
Delegating it to Pierre—letting him leave the mark—was like handing over authorship of his vengeance. And the Collector didn't share authorship.
Not with amateurs. Not with monsters who didn't understand the art. But if he wanted him dead before the FBI closed in, he had no choice.
"Tony's scheduled to fly to Mexico this morning. I've placed a man on his flight—he'll take care of it. Strangulation. It will be clean. Contained—"
He paused, letting the implications settle.
"With the war now imminent, his death will read like a strategic move from the Stallions. A calculated strike. Taking out underbosses to get to Raven."
"Excellent, I'll require proof of death before I text the address to you." The Collector would need to time his arrival at the Cooper house in conjunction with Pierre's to dispose of him.
"That won't be an issue. Give me two hours, and I'll contact you with the pictures."
"Sounds like a plan, and Pierre— when I'm in charge of the Kings, I won't forget what you've done here today for me."
"Does that mean I will have free rein at the club, to do what I want in the future?"
The Collector paused. Thought for a moment. Then replied, voice low, and calculated as he answered, careful to say exactly what the man wanted to hear.
"You never can tell what the future will hold, Pierre. But I'll say this—if you and I work together, it'll be a masterpiece. Something the world won't see coming. Something they'll never forget."
Pierre laughed again.That stupid fucking laugh.The Collector hung up the phone. He couldn't wait to paint the walls of the Cooper house with his blood.
