Page 22 of Broken Discipline
That kind of distraction would only work for so long. Perhaps Iwantedher to see me at work, to know exactly what I was capable of. I put a boning knife into a fold-up sheath and checked the leather case for syringes.
“Let her come,” I said.
With those words, I went to the parking area, then sat in the driver’s seat of one of the cargo vans. I found Ramona on my GPS tracking app; she was still exactly where Chip said she was.
Eventually, her green car trailed behind me, and I notified my guard to stop following her. I kept my speed slow so she could follow me. Her hands gripped the steering wheel as she followed my van.
After three hours, I parked outside of an apartment complex. A wide parking lot separated the sets of buildings, stretching three stories tall. Ramona pulled into the far corner, doing her best to avoid detection. I waited until I knew she was ready, then got out of the van.
Cat shit littered the white decorative rocks outside. In the Carter Care uniform—a gray button-up long-sleeved shirt, black cargo pants, and black boots—I blended in. The uniform was similar to that of a pest control worker, and because of that, the neighbors ignored me as I passed. No one cared that a strange uniformed man went up the stairs to the third floor. No one noticed when I oiled the hinges so the door wouldn’t make a sound. No one scrutinized me as I used a pick to unlock the front door.
The stairs creaked as Ramona ascended, and at that moment, I let myself into the apartment, leaving the door ajar. Perfectly timed, the occupant went into the bathroom, the automatic fan whirring into motion. I let myself into his hall closet and waited.
I didn’t know this man. He wasn’t a Carter Care contract. He was simply someone I had observed during a different contract, a disposable man I knew might come in handy as bait someday. He was always on edge and had a fair array of weapons. I didn’t care about his life, and killing him wouldn’t bring me joy.
But his death would help me teach Ramona that I was in control.
Right as the toilet flushed, Ramona opened the front door. Her pink blouse swayed with her movement, black pants snug against her hips. The man lurched out of the bathroom like a madman, his bloodshot eyes bulging, sweat covering his shaved head. He pulled a knife from his back pocket, the blade quivering in his grip.
“Who the fuck are you?” he howled, his eyes leering at Ramona. A gasp escaped her lips.
“Where’s—” she stopped, hyperventilating. “Where’s Finn?”
The man ran forward, swooping his arm through the air like the knife was an ice cream scoop. He was a skinny, unwieldy son of a bitch, but he still got close enough that after he missed, she punched him in the face. The crack of knuckle against bone cracked through the air and the man howled, grasping his face. I stepped out of the closet. His back was turned to me now, but Ramona saw me.
“Now you’ve done it,” the man said.
He raced toward her and she screamed, running toward the door. He grabbed onto her waist and she tripped, both of them crashing to the ground. I grabbed the hypodermic needle out of the case in my pocket, swiftly removing the cap, readying the injection.
The man raised his knife and Ramona’s eyes widened, a tear rushing down the side of her face. I pricked the needle into the man’s neck. He stuttered as the substance released into his bloodstream, the knife dropping from his hands, landing beside Ramona’s head. I pulled him off of her, laying him on his side. The man was frozen in time.
Ramona gawked. Each breath panted out of her in a frenzy, but her eyes were glued to him.
“What—” she started, “—what did you do to him?”
“Paralytic,” I explained. “It works for a few hours.”
“Then what?” she asked. “Will he die?”
The man gurgled his spit, choking on thin air. Usually, it was a simple, three-step process: sedative, paralytic, potassium. They died peacefully, but most of all,cleanly.To any outsiders, it would look like a heart attack. I used to enjoy the hunt and the kill, but I had learned that satisfying deaths weren’t always the best option. Work was work. You saved the fun kills for other times. Like Kien.
Or like right now. Listening to the man choke on nothing while Ramona panicked was entertaining. She held her own neck as if a fist was crushing her windpipe; she knew that I was dangerous now. I could kill anyone. Even her.
“Is he going to die?” she whispered.
I nodded. I wasn’t going to save him.
She shook her head frantically, then pulled out her phone. “I’m calling the police.”
“And tell them what?” I asked, cocking my head to the side. “That you followed me into a stranger’s house and were attacked by the resident who lives here?” I chuckled. “I saved you, Ramona. If I hadn’t paralyzed him, he would have stabbed your face like a pincushion.”
Her fingers froze on the phone. She knew I was telling the truth. There was no good way to get out of this situation.
Her lips parted. Her light brown eyes met mine, full of wonder and fury. My cock twitched, imagining her on her knees, her pretty little mouth wrapped around me, those big brown eyes on mine.
“He’s going to die of asphyxiation,” she said. “You did this on purpose. You wanted me to see you do this. You’re manipulating me.”
The corners of my lips twitched. She was catching on now. She stowed her phone, then took a step backward.
