Page 233 of Craving Venom
“This place’s got a heartbeat,” I whisper.
“It’s got more than that,” Terry murmurs. “You’re crawling over thirty-two million dollars in laundering and pussy. Don’t fuck it up.”
I smirk.
Not unless fucking it up is the point.
I slip through the shaft and kick out the next vent cover. With the rope in hand I descend slowly and land in a hallway bathed in red light that stains everything.
Target one: security asshole with a hard-on for young tits.
He’s stationed by the north door with one hand halfway down his pants, eyes locked on the camera feeds. I move behind him and wrap the cord around his throat. With one swift jerk his spine pops and his dick wilts as I drag his body behind a supply cabinet and use his shirt to wipe the blood from the corner.
“Target down,” I announce.
“The next one’s patrolling the east corridor with his gun on the left and a limp on the right from a shoulder injury last month,” Terry feeds me the details.
I duck into the hallway, flick the switchblade from my boot. The second guard’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
I shove the blade through his side, sliding it between the ribs and up into the lung. He gasps, but the sound never makes it past his throat. I catch his body as it drops, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other twisting the knife, just for fun.
“You’re clear to breach lounge door. Thermal shows two heat signatures, one standing, one seated.”
I wipe the blade on the dead guard’s shirt, tuck it back into my boot, and move. The hallway bends left, a sharp turn leading straight to the lounge door
I release the lock, and find two guards standing between me and the final door. But their eyes snap to me half a second too late. My silencer’s already aimed.
Two suppressed thuds echo through the room, and two bodies hit the floor, dropping as heavy and useless as sacks of meat.
I step over them without slowing down. Blood pools beneath one’s neck, steaming in the low red light. The only thing standing between me and John Bailey is four inches of reinforced oak and a lock that wants to play games.
“Locked,” I grit.
“I know,” Terry’s in my ear again. “D.O.M’s changed the sequence protocol again. But they’re arrogant pricks. Still using the same mainframe.”
I press my gloved hand to the scanner beside the door. “Tell me you’ve got a back door.”
“I’ve got more than that. You’re gonna hotwire the override relay. Panel to your left, pop the cover.”
I snap it open with the butt of my gun, exposing the wires behind it. My fingers move through insulation, rerouting Terry’s instructions through my muscle memory. We’ve done this before.
D.O.M knows I know their patterns. They expect me to come.
But after every initiation, they still book The Aether Club for handover. Same place. Same blood-soaked routine. Like tradition makes it sacred.
I don’t give a fuck about their reasons.
I’m just here to end it.
The lock clicks open and the door swings inward, spilling thick air into the hallway. Velvet and leather wrap around me, heavy with the stink of pussy and power, hitting me low in the gut as I step inside. The walls bleed deep red, and gold fixtures cast a soft, ugly light across every twisted corner. Crystal glasses litter the tables, ashtrays overflow with half-burned cigars, and two security cameras blink dumb and blind from the shadows above, watching nothing, seeing even less.
And right in the middle of the room is John Bailey.
He’s lounging on a black leather couch. His expensive suit is lying wrinkled on the floor. A girl’s on his lap. Her tits are out. Her hair’s a tangled halo. Her skin’s pale and shaking. She’s straddling him, positioned exactly where someone wanted her.
Nina.
Her eyes are hollow.
