Savage Heart (Wreck & Ruin 2)

I’d been asked several times over the years why I did what I did. Why I reveled in the kill, and enjoyed taking life like one may enjoy a cold beer after work.

People believe there must have been something that drove me to it, like something inside me snapped and this was the consequence, but none of that is true.

I killed because I enjoyed it. I killed because the power of it made me feel alive when everything else around me doesn’t make me feel like I’m living at all. I like how blood feels on my skin and the screams I can draw from my victims, the fact that I get paid for it is a bonus. Money makes the world go round and no one truly cares where it comes from. People don’t see the blood on the bills when I hand over thousands of pounds to them, they just see a personal gain.

People questioned my morality on an everyday occurrence, but they really didn’t need to, I didn’t have any. I’d continue to kill for as long as I pleased or until I was physically stopped and that was unlikely to happen. There was a reason I was known as the Ghost, after all.

I didn’t need to drag out my kills for them to give me that thrill, a quick one or a slow one didn’t matter to me, and I knew committing one now would help settle this burn inside my chest, the sting left after what Isobel had said earlier.

I supposed if there were any morality left in me, it was her and only her.

I clock my target sat at a small table towards the back of the restaurant, a young woman sat before him. Their plates are empty, and he is currently nursing a red wine.

Did Clayton know I had been secretly taking out men employed by him over these last few years I had been under his employment? That I had been going after the people using his services? Probably. Would he do something about it? Of course not, he didn’t have the balls to. He’d made a mistake three years ago and he knew it and now, he wouldn’t push that limit again.

Men like Clayton were all the same, all bark and no bite. He carried himself with fake confidence, the confidence that money could buy, he looked big and powerful, and people believed it, but I saw beneath that exterior. It was the same thing for his business partner, Derek.

Neither of them were very bright, and they certainly didn’t have skill on their side, only money and rumors. Granted, it had earned them a lot over the many years in which they had been heading up their organization they called the Syndicate, and they’d grown it to an extraordinary size, but the foundation was weak.

I’d seen it happen twice now, first with the leader of the mafia heading up Brookeshill in the US, and then with Isobel’s brother, Kingston. They underestimate their targets every time.

The men I was targeting under Clayton and Derek’s payroll weren’t completely random of course. No, there were reasons behind my motivations.

I wait at the bar, swirling my whiskey in the short crystal glass. For the most part I’m ignored but every now and then I sense eyes on me, most wary, others obviously appreciative. I pay no attention to them. For half an hour I wait for them to finish up their meal and drinks, and then I follow them with my eyes as they leave. The woman clings to the man, adorned in diamonds and gold. I recognized her face too.

After they exit, I down the remainder of my drink and slide from the stool, following them out. The bitter wind bites at me, the gusts harsh and icy but there was no snow tonight at least. I see them as they round the corner and disappear, heading towards their parked car in the underground lot behind the restaurant.

I follow silently behind them. I’m careful as I track them into the parking garage, treading lightly to not let my steps echo, slowly withdrawing my gun, before slipping behind a silver van parked three cars down from theirs.

The beep of the locks disengaging on their car is loud, and only when I hear both sets of doors open do I step out from my hiding space, level my gun and fire once.

My bullet meets it’s mark first time. Straight between the eyes of the woman. Her blood splatters against the window and seat and she slumps in the chair.

The man, a guy called Timothy, was a regular customer of the Syndicate’s. I knew of at least one occasion when he had visited Isobel, and then attempted to do so again after I had claimed her.

It was personal.

He yells and falls away from the car but too late, I fire the gun again, taking out his kneecap.

He hits the concrete hard, his cry of pain loud and violent in the quiet of the night. No one’s around to save him.

“Hello Timothy,” I stop at his side, looking down at where he bleeds onto the floor.

“W-who are you?” He stammers. “Why are you doing this?”

I grin.

“It isn’t me you need to be worried about,” I admit.

Despite the pain and obvious excessive blood loss, his brows pull down in confusion. He doesn’t care about the blonde I’d just killed. She deserved that fate, and he knew that.

In the lives we lead, death wouldn’t come peacefully, it would come violently and chaotically. It was an unwritten rule that we all had to agree with. A deal with the Devil if you will.

It didn’t matter which side you were on.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t give him a chance as I bring the butt of my gun down against his temple and knock him out. Leaving the woman in the car, I drag him back to my own, shoving him into the trunk before tying his hands and feet, and then I pull out of the lot and head back to my house forty minutes away.

Leaving Isobel after what we had shared was a hard decision to make, but a necessary one. She needed to see I was committed to her, that I would do it all for her. And her words hurt more than she would ever know.

I let the quiet of the drive cool the burn her words left me with, and when I arrive back at the house I’m more settled than I was when I left. I suppose the kill helped.

The house is dark and silent as I carry Timothy through the corridors, and then down the stairs into the basement where he joins the two others I have down here.

They no longer scream and cry for help, long since ran their voices rough and dry and now too weak to do anything but whimper and groan.

My gifts to Isobel.

I tie my newest one to the wall like the others, and don’t tend to the gunshot wound on his knee. I mean he won’t bleed out, I think, at least. There should’ve been more here, but I guess I got carried away in my need to defend the woman I loved.

“Please,” Timothy begs, coming to, “I have money.”

“So do I,” I shrug and leave.

I head up the stairs to where Isobel waits, only to find her sleeping, her underwear still pushed to the side, the shirt I’d covered her with bunched around her stomach.

Shit.

I go to her and gently unlock the restraints holding her wrists to the bed, but I can’t let her be free yet. She’ll try to run, and I can’t have that now.

I restrain her hands at her front and then unhook her ankles, doing the same thing and tying them together to ensure she can’t get away. I pull her clothing back into place and then gently lift her from the bed.

She stirs in my arms, subconsciously turning her head to tuck it into my chest. My grip on her tightens. This was how it should be, how it always was.

I take her through to the bathroom and switch on the shower before I gently rouse her from her sleep. She wakes slowly, drowsy with the last grips of sleep on her consciousness, but then her eyes snap open and they find mine.

Instantly, without a second thought, she tries to get to her feet and run. Her restraints cause her to fall though I’m quick to catch her before she can hit the floor.

She lashes out at me, tied hands hitting me, head whipping forward as if to slam it against my face. Grabbing her, I hold her to me, wrapping tight around her perfect body, feeling her flesh yield under my hands.

“Let me go!” She hisses, “You fucking psycho!”

“Shh, Snow, shh,” I kiss her cheek, “shh.”