Night Fury: First Act (Night Fury 1)

Fake it till you make it.

Still sounding distracted, he utters, “So Bob’s your old man? Must be nice for him—you steppin’ into the family business. He has to be proud of you.”

“He started training me young, and frankly, I’m looking forward to tonight. I’ve been preparing for it a long time.” I bunch my nose. “Bob is the closest thing I have to a father, but I was brought here as an orphan when I was just a few weeks old. He’s cool though. I’ve never felt anything but loved.”

Marco’s brows pull down in the middle. “Oh, but—”

With a shake of my head, I cut him off, “I know he’s protective of me.”

His confused reaction is understandable. Bob is everything to me a father should be. And I love him.

He shakes his head as if to clear it, brings his palms down on his jean-clad thighs and spouts, “Okay, then. Let’s get to it.”

He hands me a printed document and I read through it. My stomach dips.

I try to hide my reaction, but Marco spots it immediately. “You know him?”

I nod.

“You ever see him act anything shifty-like?”

“No. Never,” I whisper. I try really damn hard to see past the printed photo on the document, but I’m stuck staring. Before I can overthink this, Marco pulls my chair around to face his. His expression unsympathetic, he orders, “Turn the page.”

I’m suddenly anxious. My stomach does somersaults.

The first page of the document is just a target bio; the second page lists the alleged crimes committed.

I swallow hard and turn the page.

The words begin to blur after a minute of reading. My anger pulses through my temples, and I hold the pages so tightly my knuckles turn sheet-white.

I can’t help myself from asking a stupid question. “This has been confirmed?”

Without answering, Marco turns to a third page.

More photographs.

“Yep,” he counts the photos on the page, “one, two, three, four times over.” I feel his eyes on me. I can’t take my wide eyes off the page. They flicker from photo to photo. Quietly, he asks, “You still feel something for this f**king animal?”

My voice shakes with anger as I answer, “Not a damn thing.”

And I mean it.

Unable to glimpse away from the horrifying photos, I jump when a soft hand rests on my back. Blinking, I look up, flushed and emotional. Sister Arianne stands at my back removing her habit.

Ari—codename: War Paint—looks over my shoulder to the photos and jeers, “Choquant, no? Who knew? If I could take care of this salaud more than once, I would take pleasure in it,” she sneers and adds, “Putain trou du cul.”

Silence seems fitting, especially since I don’t know what to say.

“Tonight, we will make sure he cannot hurt anyone ever again.”

I remain silent. Ari softly strokes my hair and asks, “Does this not make you happy, cheri? To make the world safer? To protect?”

My emotions run wild. My anger has always been a problem, and some small part of me prays for a release—an outlet for my fury. Standing quickly, I don’t look at either Marco or Ari. I simply announce, “He’s mine.”

Neither one answers.

I look up at Ari and repeat myself, “This f**ker is mine.” Without a backwards glance, I make my way up the stairs, out of Mirage and find solace in the one place I can.

The rest of the afternoon is spent reflecting and praying in my garden. I pray for God to give me the strength to hunt a f**king animal.

Regardless, hunt, I will.

Chapter Six

Name: Marcel Dupont

Age: 48

Hair colour: Grey, short cut

Eye colour: Blue

Weight: 190 lbs

Build: Medium

Height: 5 feet, 9 inches

Other: Distinct scar on upper lip. Large nose.

“This will be easier than most. He knows us. He trusts us,” Ari whispers. “He will be sorry.”

She stands in the middle of the ground floor of Mirage wearing black athletic tights and a black tank. Her arms raised, she stands patiently as Clark and Marco work swiftly, strapping her body with everything we need for the night.

They’re so preoccupied, they don’t notice when I take the printed page of photographs, fold it neatly and place it in my pocket.

Part of me was worried I’d feel too much. Now that same part of me is worried I’m not feeling enough. My mind is at war with my faith.

I choose to ignore both. For tonight.

“Cat?”

I turn to face Ari; she nods down to her body and when I see it, my heart stutters. “Koneko,” I say in awe.

My katana is strapped across her torso. The sword is the most beautiful thing I have ever owned.

Ari winks at me, and the bright light reflecting off her blade causes Koneko to wink at me too.

I get what she’s trying to do, but I’m not sure I want my favourite weapon tarnished by dirty blood.

“You okay?” Clark appears in front of me.

I do my best to sound chipper. “Heck yeah. Tonight is the night.”

Unconvinced by my bad acting, he leans closer to me and says quietly, “You don’t need to prove anything.”

My gaze slides back to Ari and I whisper, “Yes. I do.”

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to.

We both know it’s true.

Chapter Seven

Final preparations have been made, everyone is in place, and Intel is being steadily streamed through my earpiece.

We are a go.

Ari—dressed in her habit—places herself at the front door of the Dupont residence, while I walk around the small property to await my signal in the backyard.

Marcel will get the surprise of his life tonight. It’s a shame it will be his last.

Perhaps it’s better this way—starting with a person I know, that is. It can only get easier from here, I’m sure.

Marcel Dupont.

Churchgoer. Landscaper. Gardener. Husband. Father.

Wife beater. Drunk. Paedophile.

I cannot let him live. I won’t.

Crackling sounds fill in my ear. Clark all but yells, “Can you hear me? Night Fury? War Paint?”

I answer in a whisper, “I can hear you—a little quieter, please.”

Ari responds in my ear, “War Paint here. Are we a go?”

Marco comes in with, “We have it on good authority Mr Dupont got a little handsy with his wife again last night. She took off right after and took their son with her. It’s just a guess, but I’d say Marcel is having a one-man cocktail party tonight.”