Page 226 of Craving Venom
“Frank made him want to do this.”
Terry nods slowly. “Yeah. You beat him up real good, Zane. I saw the footage. Frank’s not coming back from that. But you and I both know that’s not the whole story.”
I finally look up at him.
“What are you implying?”
“Mark reminds you of Alex.”
Everything in me goes very, very still.
I don’t respond.
Because I don’t need to.
Instead, I shift my gaze to the far-left monitor. Davis Adams. Next name on our list. Top floor of an executive hotel downtown. Room 1711. I zoom in on the building’s thermal overlay, track the heat signatures. Elevator stopped at 17 two minutes ago. He’s alone.
I watch him for a full minute.
“You know,” Terry says quietly, “it’s okay to let yourself feel. Maybe that kid is your shot at redemption.”
Redemption’s for the ones who think they deserve a second chance. I never did. Not after Alex. I’m not looking for clean slates. I’m looking for fire. For screams. For something that hurts loud enough to drown the rest out.
“Terry, I don’t need redemption. What I need is destruction.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE MONSTER
The hallway reeks of bleach and cheap perfume, perfume that clings to hotel sheets long after the girl’s gone and the regret sinks in. Room 1711 looms ahead, a scuffed plaque on a polished door. It is paid in full by people who don’t want their names on anything.
Davis Adams plays college boy by day and bartender by night, but he’s a pimp in disguise, his suit too pristine for what he really does. He feeds dancer jobs to desperate girls, takes his cut with a smile, masking spinelessness in polished floors and skyline views.
I slide the lock pick into the keycard slot and feel the mechanism give with a quiet click. The door creaks open, already aware I didn’t come to announce myself.
First thing I hear is the wet slap of skin and breathless grunts. I step inside slow, let the door click shut behind me. The curtains are half-drawn and the TV blares soft moans with pixelated tits across the screen. Room stinks of sweat, lube, and that fake cherry scent they spray to cover up what never really goes away.
And there he is, Davis with his legs sprawled and his cock in his fist, jerking like the world is ending. On screen, some girl’s bent over with a glass dildo up her ass, screaming for more. He doesn’t hear me at first. Not until I’m two feet from the bed.
“Who the fuck—”
I lunge and he scrambles back, tripping over tangled sheets, his bare ass flashing in a pathetic parody of escape. I grab his ankle mid-turn. I slam him face-first into the headboard, and the sound his nose makes is wet and satisfying.
“You think this is a safe house?” I shove his face down harder.
He tries to twist free. His elbow jabs into my ribs weakly. I drive my knee into his spine and pin him.
“You hiding her here?” I spit beside his ear, dragging him upright by the hair. Blood’s already trickling from his nostrils. His breath comes in fast little sobs.
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“You think I came here to quiz you?” I slam his back into the wall, let him slide down it like the pathetic worm he is. “You got paid to smuggle an innocent girl. So where the fuck is Nina Flores?”
He wheezes, doubled over on the floor with his cock shriveled between shaking thighs. Blood drips from his nose onto the carpet in lazy splatters and his mouth gapes in a desperate search for oxygen between sobs.
Then I see that look of recognition as his jaw tightens and his pupils shrink to pinpricks as if I’m a goddamn ghost walking in carrying his death sentence.
“You know who I am.”
