Page 8 of Ghost

"I'll always be with you, Beatrix."

"I love you, Daddy."

"I love you too, Bumble Bea."

I blink my eyes to the same pounding in my head and the same smell of dirt and mildew, making me realize I am no longer dreaming but still trapped in a nightmare.

5

GHOST

I look at my watch and fixate on the second hand as it moves. As time ticks away, my thoughts transport me back to the moment I made my first vengeance kill. The satisfaction of pulling the trigger and watching life leave Sanchez's body still resonates. Now, I finally get to end the life of the man who sought to kill me but murdered another. The rage inside me intensifies, vibrating from my core and throughout my body. The hunger to see Mejia dead grows with every breath I take.

I'm jolted to the present as an ominous howling gust moves through the tops of tall oak trees as a northern wind blows. I smell the dampness in the air before hearing rolling thunder in the distance.

I look down once more and note the time. It's nearly noon, and my blood runs so cold it sends a chill down my spine.Life and its cruel irony.At this precise time, four years ago, I found out my wife was dead. Murdered at the hands of the man I aim to kill today.

For four years, I have worked alone and sought vengeance, taking my rage and using it to rid the corrupt humans thriving among us. I've brought the damned souls to the smoldering gates of hell and laid their rotting corpses at Satan's feet in the name of justice. All in the attempt to rid the world of evil while I try to outrun my demons, acutely aware I'm slowly digging my grave, filled with the bitter taste of hate and in a constant state of unrest.

Perhaps I'll finally find peace with Mejia’s blood on my hands.

I focus my attention back on the house. There has been no activity for hours, and from my surveillance, he is the only person in the home. I rise from my crouched position and check my weapons, then walk out from the tree line and cautiously approach the side of the house. Careful not to rattle the chain-link fence enclosing the backyard, I climb over it and move toward the back door. I crouch on one knee, dig my tools out of my front pocket, and pick the lock. Something moves, causing the leaves of the bush near the porch to rustle. I pause, waiting to see if anything emerges, but nothing appears.

With my gun raised, I slowly turn the handle and open the door, entering a laundry room that leads into the kitchen. The rooms are dark as I make my way through the home. Once I’ve cleared the first floor, I head for a set of steps leading to the second level of the house. Before ascending the steps, I feel something brush against my ankle, causing me to cast my eyes toward the floor, where I notice a gray kitten at my feet, smaller than my boot.Where the hell did you come from?Its presence is a brief distraction before I continue up the stairs.

There's a dim light casting across the hallway and the sound of someone moving and water running coming from the light source's location. My adrenaline kicks into high gear, which heightens my senses, and I keep my weapon raised and approach. As I step to the partially-opened bathroom door, I see his reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink. There he is, my wife's murderer, washing a bloody cat-like scratch across his right cheek.

"The good for nothin' whore," Mejia hisses. "She's going to be beggin' for death by the time I'm done using her." He spits into the sink and then turns off the water. His face tightens and his movement stills. His eyes lift, looking in the mirror. I step forward, letting him see me emerge from the shadows, and his empty stare locks with mine.

Before he can react, I burst into the bathroom, making him backpedal until the backs of his knees hit the toilet while the barrel end of my gun stays pressed against his eye socket. "Have a seat, motherfucker." I force him to lower his ass onto the toilet. He studies me for a beat before speaking.

"I know you." He grins menacingly. "You're that soldier boy I meant to kill a few years ago." Mejia regards me with amusement. "You cost me a lucrative payday not being where you were supposed to be that day." Then he smirks. "Lucky for me, that sweet woman of yours was good compensation."

Needing to inflict pain but not willing to kill him yet, I grip a handful of his hair, haul him off the toilet, and slam his face against the edge of the ceramic sink bowl several times before standing up and hitting his back against the wall. I wrap my hand around his scrawny neck. Blood runs profusely from his disfigured nose. Being the twisted motherfucker he is, Mejia breathes heavily and laughs through the pain.

"You enjoy the kill just as much as I do.” His face reddens. “You are no different from me,” he spits as I constrict his airway, intending to take his life with my bare hand.

The adrenaline pumping through my veins barely lets me register the searing heat rippling across my side. I tear my eyes away from the son of a bitch's face and look down to find his hand wrapped around the handle of a blade he sunk into my side.

I absorb the pain radiating through my flesh from the wound he inflicted. The darkness inside me feeds off it. He shoves the blade further into my body as I begin prying open his mouth, forcing the barrel of my gun through his clenching teeth and down his throat. Mejia gags, coughing and gasping for air, but he never breaks his hold on the knife sunk in my side, and his soulless eyes stay locked on mine. I have nothing to say. All I want is for my face to be the last he sees.

I pull the fucking trigger, and just like that, my mission is complete.

I pull the blade from my side, gritting my teeth before dropping the knife to the floor. I snatch a hand towel off the wall hanging by the sink and press it against the wound. Giving one last look at Mejia’s lifeless body, I walk out of the bathroom.

Once downstairs, I head for the exit, but meowing causes me to turn. Spotting the fuzzball making the commotion near a slightly ajar door, I holster my weapon, wipe my bloody hand on my pants leg while keeping pressure to my side with the other, and stride over to where the kitten is. “Hey there.” I lift the kitten and hold it in front of me, then look around and realize the little guy must have wandered in through the back door. “Was that you outside in the bushes?”

A soft moan coming from the cracked door catches my attention. "Someone down there?" I ask the kitten, who promptly meows as if it understood. With the furball in my hand, I pull open the door leading to the basement and descend into a dimly lit space. On the far side of the room, my eyes stop scanning when I notice a dirty cot on the floor and a young woman lying in the fetal position. "Shit," I hiss and rush toward her. Placing the kitten on the floor, I kneel and run my eyes over her body, which is battered and covered in bruises. I brush her red hair from her face to see it swollen and bruised. "You're the woman he was referring to upstairs." I lift her arm to press my fingers against her wrist, feeling for her pulse. It's steady. That's when I spot the bee tattoo beneath my fingertips. The young woman moans again, and one of her swollen eyes cracks open, locking onto my face.

"Help me," she says in a defeated whisper.

Without giving more thought to the situation, I scoop the woman into my arms, grunting through the pain I’m beginning to feel at my side as my adrenaline wears off. "You're safe now," I tell her, and feel her body relax against my chest. A soft meow has me turning my head, and the kitten stares at me. “Come on.” I pick the little guy up, too, and carry the woman and kitten out of the house.

It's a decent trek through the woods back to the location of my truck. On the way, it begins raining, and the three of us are soaked when I finally get to my ride.

I open the passenger door, place the woman in my truck, grab a blanket stuffed behind the seat, and wrap her in it. Using the corner of the blanket, I dry the kitten off and set it beside my passenger before buckling her in and closing the door. Before I climb in behind the steering wheel, I dig through a bag tossed in the bed of my truck and take out a large roll of gauze from the first aid kit. I lift my shirt to inspect the puncture wound on my side, which I pack with gauze to control the bleeding until I get home. Needing something to keep it in place, I dig inside the truck’s tool box, pull out a roll of duct tape, then wrap it around my torso to hold the gauze in place. I start the engine and blast the heat to help dry our clothing.

Turning on my seat toward the stranger in my presence, I look her over. Water drips from my hair, rolling down my face as I stare at the young woman. Even covered in bruises, I notice her beauty.

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