The Wrong Kind of Love

Caleb’s stern focus shifts to Tom. “You said you’d let her go if I came.”

"I did, didn't I? Sorry to say, I lied." With a slow smile, Tom moves toward Caleb. “I thought making your father suffer would be enough, that fucking and killing your whore of a mother, and then your pretty little virginal sister would be enough."

Caleb swallows hard, unable to hide the pain that flits across his face.

"Oh, how she screamed," Tom whispers. "I broke Grace piece by piece until your mother begged me to kill her own daughter. Out of mercy.” He throws his head back on a laugh.

The man is a monster of the worst kind, and everything in me breaks for Grace, for their mother, for Jude and Caleb. “And now, I’m going to have you fuck Jude’s precious little whore, and I'm going to film it. Oh, how it will shatter his cold little heart.”

A sick feeling settles in my gut, but it’s tempered with a horrible resignation. Tom will play his games, and there’s nothing I can do.

“Fuck you!” Caleb’s nostrils flare, his jaw sets.

Before I can tell him to just do as he’s told, Tom presses his gun against Caleb's temple. Then cocks it. "Fuck her, or I'll kill her."

In a heartbeat, I find myself staring down the barrel of his gun. I smile and lean forward until the cold metal pressed against my forehead. "Do it,” I whisper.

Death does not scare me anymore, but continuing to live in this hell does. Caleb begs for my life as I stare straight into Tom’s eyes, daring him to end it right here, right now. But he must see how much I want it. He drops the gun to his side on a smirk, then brings his lips to my ear.

"I'm not done with you yet, little bird. You're worth more to me alive."

My heart plummets. Tom’s face is still inches from mine when he lifts his arm, and the bang of the gun echoes around the empty warehouse. Caleb falls to the ground in a heap, a trail of blood oozing from his head.

I scream.

Chapter Jude

It's been five days, and I've already killed nine of Joe's guys. Each time I put a bullet in one of their heads, I feel my control slipping.

We park across the field from a two story house. The next name on my list.

Marney takes the rope from the floorboard and winds it around his shoulder on our way across the lawn.

The flood light flickers when we step onto the porch. Marney presses his back to the brick face and cocks the gun when I ring the doorbell. Then we wait.

A shadow appears behind the frosted glass door, attempting to peer out. I quickly raise the gun, aim at the person's shoulder and shoot through the glass. It shatters and falls in sheets to the ground as the person on the other side collapses.

"Well, hell, Jude," Marney groans, shaking his head as he reaches through the broken glass and unlocks the door. "Just got ants in your pants, don't you?"

I kick the door the rest of the way in, and step inside the foyer. "I don't have time to wait around for shit."

The guy leans against the stairwell; his hand clutched at his bloodied shoulder. He's attempting to load the pistol in his lap with one hand, but I snatch it from him.

I tuck his pistol into the waist of my jeans. "Where is Tom Campbell?”

"I don't know."

"And I don't like being lied to.” I motion at Marney. "Tie him up."

Marney mumbles to himself as he unwinds the rope from his shoulder. He crosses the man's arms behind his back, quickly binding his wrists together as I head toward the fireplace in the corner of the living room. “Telling me will make this a lot easier on you,” I say, taking the iron fire poker from the side of the hearth.

I turn around just as Marney shoves the man down on a recliner. “You gonna tell me?”

“I don’t know Tom Campbell.”

Bullshit. Hate consumes the last piece of sanity I have, and I take a running start, bringing the poker back behind my head like a baseball bat and swinging. The heavy metal meets his knees with a loud crack. The man howls in pain like a wild animal caught in a bear trap, then buckles over.

I point the end of the poker at him. "You fucking tell me where he is." Everyone has a breaking point, and I will find his.

When he refuses to answer, I turn the gas to the fireplace. Flames rise in the hearth, and I hold the poker over them, waiting for the pointed tip to glow red before I turn to face him. “Hold him still, Marney.”

The man’s gaze trains on the end of the poker and a string of pleas fall from his lips.