Page 16 of ’Til You Break

Then I cried.

When they turned to me, they didn’t use the knife. Instead, one of them drove the jagged end of a broken beer bottle into my chest.

I should have died with her that night.

Sometimes, I wish I had.

But someone up above—or perhaps someone far below—had other plans. Whether by accident or design, the killers spared my life and fled the moment the sound of approaching sirens began. It was the greatest mistake they ever made.

In a matter of seconds, they stole my hopes. My future. Any chance I had of living an ordinary life.

I’ve spent the last twenty-seven years hunting them.

Preparing.

Training.

The past twenty-seven years have turned me into something this world will never be ready for.

I’m not a monster. I’m not some demon driven by revenge. I’m worse.

Much, much worse.

And the men who stole her from me are going to learn exactly what that means.

***

Last night, I met Jerry Lancaster. Stout, limping and full of piss and vinegar. His reclusive nature made him a hard target, but I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge. Our short meeting taught me three things about the pompous Brit.

The first was that he had a family.

The second, he’d part with all his wealth for one more day with them.

The last, a name. Mark Anderson.

Whereas Jerry lived in obscurity, the same couldn’t be said for Mark. He flaunted his ill-gotten gains for all the world to see. He drove a flashy car, wore expensive watches and drank only the finest top-shelf liquor money could buy.

It’s surprising his name hasn’t crossed my desk sooner. His rap sheet is longer than I am tall, and he acts as a middleman for a host of different criminal organizations throughout the city.

He’s clever, too. He conducts his business in plain sight to avoid suspicion. It sounds foolish but no one expects a criminal to commit a crime where everyone can see it.

So, that’s how I’ve ended up here in his club, nursing a warm beer while I watch him drift through a sea of drunk bodies.

It’s a nice place. Good music pours from the DJ’s booth, while neon lights splash color across the room. It feels like the eighties’ idea of what a cyberpunk nightclub might look like.

But I’m not here to have fun. Not while my mask burns a hole in my back pocket, begging to be worn.

A young brunette makes her way to Mark’s side. She leans in close and whispers something into his ear. His skin turns a sickly shade of white and the corner of my lip curls upward.

I tail him from the bar and watch him disappear into a VIP booth on a secluded platform. I snap a few pictures with my phone, mostly to capture the men waiting for him.

Every step brings me closer to the truth. Even if these men have nothing to do with the people I’m hunting, I’d still be cleaning scum off the streets by taking them out. I edge closer for a better look. Their cheerful expressions make me feel sick. They’re smoking cigars, drinking expensive liquor and plotting God knows what while pretending to be respectable businessmen. It takes every ounce of my restraint not to reach for the mask.

“Need a drink?” The voice catches me off guard.

I was so absorbed in watching Mark that I hadn’t realized how close I’d drifted to the bar.

I turn towards the timid young bartender.