Page 35 of Inflict

Connor cut the engine to his Harley a good block away from the Russian’s home, and stared down the dark street. Pools of light intercepted the darkness every so often from streetlamps up above his head. He walked his bike another half of a block, weaving in and out of the parked cars on the side of the road, yet noting how the street was quiet.

As it should be, for nearly two in the morning.

Had Mikhail lived in the heart of Brighton, or even in a busier part of Brooklyn, Connor might have chosen a different time to make his presence known to the Russian mobster. This particular time of night, however, was just grand for the area. It was quiet enough, the houses and rows of brownstones were dim with sleeping occupants, and once Connor got his bike closer to the two-level home in which Mikhail lived, he would have a fast, clear getaway.

He couldn’t ask for more than that, when it came to a hit.

Yet, he could …

He could ask not to be there at all.

Connor pushed those thoughts to the side, deciding it was better if he didn’t get lost to his conscience, or rather, his lack thereof, for the evening. He didn’t feel like questioning himself on the fact that as much as he didn’t want to be there, a larger part of him still hummed with excitement and anticipation of what would come next.

He was better at denying that he wasn’t a monster, when he could pretend otherwise. He was better at denying he didn’t enjoy his ability to kill, when a victim wasn’t waiting at his feet.

Except he wasn’t better at those things at all.

Connor was no better than his father underneath the mask he wore. Sean was simply more liable to take his mask off, and show the world his truths, while he laughed in their faces and enjoyed every moment of it.

Cut from the same cloth …

Connor moved the kickstand out on the Harley once he was happy with his position. Down the street, only three houses before another long row of brownstones, stood the two-level home he needed to breach. He pulled his helmet off, and hung it on the handlebar, before making sure his black bandana was still tied firmly around the lower portion of his face. The black fabric toted a large print of the bottom half of a skull, hiding the majority of his features, but still allowing him to speak without being muffled.

That was, if he needed to.

Connor tugged on a pair of black, leather riding gloves. Not the same ones he used to ride his Harley, but a new pair, fresh off the shelf. He had a bit of a partiality to his riding gloves, and since whatever he used for the evening would have to be destroyed, he’d grabbed a second pair.

Flexing his fingers, Connor felt the new leather crack around his joints and knuckles. Damn. He didn’t like gloves at all when he was doing a job, to be honest. He much preferred bare skin, as it made the experience all the more heightened in the moment. He was able to feel the heat of the blood, or even feel the slip of his blade when it nipped his own skin.

Others in the business preferred things like gloves to separate them from the act.

Not Connor.

He liked to be in it.

The black pullover he wore was only to save his leather jacket from ruin. Connor shoved his jacket into the saddlebag on the back of the bike, and stepped off. One more check of his phone, and his father’s last message.

Even with the phone tucked safely away, and the message out of his sight, Connor wasn’t able to get rid of the words. Not from inside his mind, anyway. He could practically hear his father saying them, instead of typing the words out, and he imagined Sean had done so with his usual pleased sneer.

Take your time while you’re there. I know you like that.

In a way, his father’s orders irritated him.

In another, it made his suspicions come alive all over again.

It would be one thing, if this job had come from a place of punishment or revenge on Mikhail. Should the man deserve a painful death, one that was dragged on so that the utmost pain could be achieved, then Connor could understand.

That wasn’t the case at all.

No, this was just Sean feeding into what he already knew about his son.

Connor hated it.

Yet, a part of him was still … grateful.

He hated that even more.

Connor strolled down the street, careful to avoid stepping under any of the streetlights, just in case someone happened to be awake and looking out their windows. Despite knowing better, he let his thoughts wander.