Damnable Grace
Page 16

Her blue eyes closed. She was fucking shaking, then she splintered my fucking dead heart when she nodded, and said, “Just . . . just please get her away and safe. Next time, the Elders will not fail to kill her, truly.” I’d stared at her then, her eyes reopening. The bitch was crying, fucking standing up to us “Devil’s men” to protect Lilah. And something inside of me changed. I’d wanted to take her with us, and out of that fucking hellhole. I never thought much on why, but I’d regretted leaving her there ever since.
I ran her image through my head, comparing it to the bitch I’d seen in Meister’s arms. I closed my eyes and let my memory do what it had been trained to do. Her hair was the same shade of red, the length similar. I thought of her arms, their size and length. The bitch in Meister’s arms had been similar but she was thinner, a lot thinner.
My cheek twitched as a surge of anger swept through me. I shook my head to rid myself of the tightness in my chest. A good sniper never let emotion fuck with his head. Always objective, clinical, assessing.
I pictured her blue eyes. Those fucking ocean-blue eyes that had stared into mine. But the eyes of the red-haired bitch over Meister’s arms were closed.
Drugged? Unconscious? Knocked out? I didn’t know.
“Next,” a guard ordered, ripping me from my thoughts. I filed the details away for later when I was alone, when I could figure out all the information in my head. “Preference?” the guard asked. I shrugged, playing my part again.
“Just want pussy to nail,” I replied.
“Booth twenty-three,” he said. I set off down a narrow creaky hallway. Grunts and groans of men fucking their sluts filled my ears. Beds had been sectioned off by faded curtains, with handwritten numbers scrawled on scrap pieces of paper attached to the musty material. When I arrived at number twenty-three, I pulled back the curtain and stepped inside.
I drew in a sharp breath as I laid eyes on a bitch lying in the center of what looked like a small hospital bed. She was naked, her bones jutting out under her white-as-fuck skin. Her dark hair was slicked with sweat and dirt. Her eyes rolled as she fell in and out of consciousness, her head restless on the thin, drool-stained pillow beneath her. An IV was in the vein of her skinny, upturned arm, and a bag hung on a stand at her side.
Heroin, I assumed. Knew traffickers pulled that shit on the regular. Kept their captives docile.
I closed my eyes to keep my shit together, to keep my hand from reaching for my gun and going postal on these fuckers, adding to my record of 132 confirmed kills—the sniper in me couldn’t help but keep track of each heart I’d stopped. The psycho within fucking liked to.
The sound of some cunt coming next door made my eyes snap open. The bedsprings groaned under the rapid movement of his hips, and his breath came in short bursts. I imagined some pasty, overweight Klan fucker slumping, exhausted, over a fourteen-year-old kid. His putrid breath blowing on her passed-out face, his sweat dripping onto her bruised skin.
Calm, I ordered myself.
Unable to look down at the young trafficked bitch on the bed, I sat down on the edge of the mattress and tipped my head into my hands. Keep your shit together, Xavier Deyes. I took my head to where it needed to be . . .
The sweltering sun pounded down on my back as I waited, unmoving, for one of the fuckers to appear. “Two o’clock,” Bones said from beside me. I shifted, moving my gun to the new position. Through a small window, I saw a flicker of movement and braced my finger for the shot. “Wait . . . wait . . .” Bones said. “Now.” I shot a bullet straight through the window and into the fucker’s head.
“Direct hit,” Bones said under his breath, but I could hear his fucking joy. Direct hit . . .
I pictured the dusty, arid land, not too dissimilar to this fucking hellhole, in my head, pictured myself taking the shot, and let the calmness and training from my sniper days fill my every cell.
I pictured the map of the ghost town, plotting every detail of its layout. I saw myself standing at the corner of the main street, staring at the town from the side of this barn. Three guards walked the rooftops. The road was a mile long, around one hundred yards wide. The saloon was the busiest area. Two exits—the main entrance and a side door to the left. Three locks—one bolt, two padlocks.
I imagined staring at the dentist building. One way in and one way out. The entire building no more than one hundred and twenty-four square feet. One window in the front wall that was partially blocked by bars and dirt. Tin roof and decaying wooden walls.
Then I pictured the best spot to shoot from in this town. High range, southeast. Clear shot for almost every conceivable angle.
I blinked as I pulled myself from the depths of my mind. My hand ran over the handle of my gun. My foot tapped on the floor. A moan came from behind me, and I glanced at the drugged-up bitch on the bed. Whether I wanted them or not, flashes from the past came slamming to my head like a damn battering ram.
I tried to push the punishing sounds of gargling, of choking, from my ears. But the fucking memories came as fast as the bullets from an Uzi. When I opened my eyes, my always-steady firing hand was shaking. I curled my fingers into my palm and forced myself to look at the Klan-made whore on the bed.
Track marks ran like red stripes over her crepe-thin skin. Her lips were dry and cracked, and lesions mottled the ashen skin on her cheeks. Bruises created a palette of black, blue and yellow on her inner thighs, and I couldn’t even bring myself to look at the state of what lay north of that.
As I got to my feet, I ran my hand through my hair and scruffed up the long strands. I rubbed my hands over my face to make them look red, and lastly, dipped my fingers in the small water basin that sat beside the bed. I opened the rubber that was on the side of the bed, wrapped it in a tissue and tossed it into the trash. The can was already brimful of used rubbers.
I took one last look at the bitch on the bed and a pit caved in my stomach. She was here for the use of the paying Klansmen. And she looked a fucking state. What the fuck was Phebe gonna look like when I got to her? What the hell kinda drug concoction would she be on? Because I fucking would get to her. Even if I had to take out Meister with a single shot between the eyes.
End his reign as the head of Klan Kunt.
Then see if whatever was left of Red would be salvageable.
After this, I wasn’t holding out too much hope . . .
. . . but I had to try.