Page 3 of Ivy’s Poison

I quickly sheathed my dagger to yank this twisted as fuck rapist from the car. I reached in with both hands and felt a sense of gratification with his response. It was a start. His eyes were wide as Mars as his naked body was ripped from his luxury vehicle. Slamming him to the ground, I took pleasure as his head jolted harshly. I was considered an oversized man, standing at six-feet-three and weighing in at two-hundred and thirty-five pounds, and considering how livid and disgusted I was, it was easy to overpower this sick individual. Much to my satisfaction.

Positioned at his side, I pressed my work boot against his throat, my large leg laying over his chest to hold him down. I then retrieved my custom fixed-blade hunting knife. Then, as much as it turned my stomach because of where it had been, I grabbed a firm hold of his dying erection. I set the blade against the tainted skin.

Blood splattered as I severed his dick from his body.

He had chosen to hurt the child where no one could hear her screams. I was sure to avenge her and let her attacker scream for some time. Every time he reached out to hit me or scratch me, I stabbed his hands with absolute aim, half-severing one finger at a time.

As he lay there bleeding, howling in pain with both wounded hands and crotch, I stared at his sobbing mouth. Then I glanced at the bloody penis I had discarded on the ground. Picking up the flaccid piece of meat, I smiled evilly at the man who had now become the victim. Hungry, motherfucker? Snot dripping from his face, he shut his mouth in a hurry. Oh, yes, do put up a fight. Do make me torture you until you open wide.

I carved, Little girls are pure, into his skin before he finally opened his mouth to scream in agony. The penis he used as an unforgivable weapon was shoved into his mouth and down his throat as far as I could force it. His teeth may have scraped my knuckles, but I didn’t give two shits. That baby laying in the back seat deserved so much more than I could give her. So, I sat there and watched the abuser suffocate on his own dick, wondering how many other little girls had suffered before I intervened.

He gagged then convulsed, most likely choking on vomit along with what was lodged in his esophagus. To add to his miserable death, I finally spoke out loud, “I will anonymously report this car to be sure that this child is returned to her family. Your family will learn what a monster you are after the cops test that semen you left behind.”

Tears dripped down the sides of his face before his body finally succumbed and stilled, his eyes drifting shut.

No, alligator tears don’t work on me. I stopped as an idea came to me. Alligator. I told the dead body, “That’s why you’re out here, isn’t it?” I exhaled frustration and anger, knowing that if I had not intervened, that little girl would never have been found. “Now, you will have what you intended for her.” I stood and grabbed his feet. “Let’s go, fucker.”

I dragged the body through more swampland and to the edge of some deeper water. Deep claw marks in the muddy embankment showed this was a place of entry and exit for a big ‘ol lizard on ‘roids. I dragged the dead body half into the water almost regretfully, wishing the fucker were still alive so I could watch him drown.

Stepping away, I prayed gators would fight over him and rip him to shreds. I didn’t want him to have an ounce of peace in the afterlife that I hoped he would spend in hell.

After covering my tracks and any sign I had ever been there, I found my way back out of the swamps. On a burner cell phone, I called 911, gave out details through a voice disguiser, then hung up, hoping like hell some relief would someday come to the family who was about to be destroyed.

The next day, the news spoke of the child that had gone missing from the babysitter’s and that there had been foul play. They also spoke of the owner of the car, a powerful businessman, now wanted for questioning. Had I not killed him, all his money would have set him free to hurt another child. Our judicial system had holes and deep pockets.

* * *

It was two months before Arthur sent me another encrypted email. I had spent the downtime on my property far outside of New Orleans, and was thankful for the reprieve. That little girl’s image had made its mark. I kept thinking of how her family’s pain was exactly why I lived as I did.

Being an assassin the money was phenomenal, but it came at a price. I refused to allow myself personal connections. Being without family was part of what made me perfect for this line of work. That combined with years of grueling training had me as lethal as they come.

And no one could be used against me as revenge or as a bargaining chip.

My only friends, men I considered brothers, were other assassins. I never feared for their safety. They were just as deadly as me. Besides, life-threatening danger was part of our gig.

Sitting on my back porch, I was watching what was left of the sun setting behind trees on my ten acres of land when my laptop dinged, informing me of an important email. My humble three-bedroom home may not have shown my wealth as far as décor, but it was highly protected with motion detectors, cameras, and sensors so that I could be at ease. If someone entered my grounds, I would be notified.

My immediate backyard was almost two acres of cleared land. I loved the coverage of the trees but felt safer with plenty of space in between them and my home. As for me and the organization I belonged to, we were quite skilled in protecting ourselves in hand-to-hand combat, but still, I took no chances. I didn’t want to be caught off guard while I slept, nor taken out on my own land.

Rising from my lounge chair, I said goodnight to the sun then headed indoors. I had lied to myself, claiming not to give two shits about the objects inside my house but, turning on a lamp, the silence in my barren home was as stifling as my barren soul. My worn couch begged for the dumpster, and my rocking chair silently dared me to sit down and have my ass hit the ground due to it being so old. I didn’t invest in material things; they had no purpose in my life, but they also spoke of the loneliness that was starting to eat away at me.

Scratching my beard, I walked to the kitchen in need of whiskey. I loved the shit. On the rocks. That’s why seeing my bottle empty made me twitch and growl. I smirked, thinking of that redheaded bitch. She was right. I growled all the fucking time. Damn, what I wouldn’t do for another piece of that crazy. When I woke up in that hotel room, I had never been so relaxed and spent. Yeah, she’d tried to kill me, but damn what a good lay. My dick hardened every time I thought of her. I hardened every time I scoured the internet for an “Ivy” that owned a Honda.

Just like I knew she would, that bitch up and disappeared.

I need a drink.

Sitting at my rickety desk, I opened the encrypted email. My new assignment stared back at me. It seemed the boss wanted the president of a motorcycle gang terminated. Too bad for this prez, that meant he would be exiting this earth soon. Good riddance. He was a cold son-of-a-bitch. I killed people for a living, yet this guy made me look like a girl scout. I’d already taken out one of his members, the VP. Another heartless bastard that not only sold women to be sex toys, but claimed his own daughter. As in, he made her wear a vest with his name so no other bikers could have rights to her. He was fucking his own kid. At least, that’s what I had been told.

This gang claimed to be Irish but were no countrymen. There were no accents nor an abundance of red hair. That rich heritage had been diluted long before I entered the scenario.

Killing the VP had been no easy feat, hence my specialty. Knives. I had to get in, slice a throat, and get out undetected. Presidents tended to be surrounded by their men even more so, which was why I was quite intrigued and entertained by the challenge. Either way, I would soon be back on the road. This particular band of thieves’ home was in Nebraska.

Still need a drink.

* * *

2 weeks later…