Killer Instinct Read Free Page B

bedside table lies a butcher knife he would have used to intimidate and torture his latest victim. I walk over to it, pick it up, and its large blade catches the light of the flickering candles. Holding it in front of me, I slowly stalk back across the bedroom to his hog-tied form.
    He sees me coming, and his body begins violently shaking with the fear he more than deserves to feel. I wave the blade in front of his face, and he whimpers like the pathetic rapist that he is. The snivels roll through my body, fueling it with a desire for righteousness.
    “P-p-please don’t,” he begs.
    Please don’t what? Do to you what you’ve done to so many others? Make you pay for your disgusting self? Assure no one else will ever suffer by you again?
    He responds to my silence with a high-pitched wail that heats my core to near boiling. With one last wave of the blade, I run it up his bare shaved thigh and draw a stream of blood. He screams even louder, before falling completely silent as realization dawns that I left his precious pecker alone. But as soon as that sinks in, he starts screaming again.
    I yank his mask off and cram it in his mouth, and he goes blessedly mute.
    The woman’s thrashing body has my attention swerving over to the bed. I disengage the Taser cartridge and go to her. Crying and whimpering, she stares wide-eyed at me.
    I cover her naked body with a blanket and pull the gauze from her mouth.
    “Please,” she croaks. “Please help me.”
    I look around the room. I had thought about this part really well—how to help her and stay anonymous at the same time. I take the phone off the bedside table and lay it right beside her head.
    “Please”—she jerks at her restraints—“are you sure he’s secure?”
    I nod as I dial 911. The sound of the operator answering shoots realization through me. I have to get out of here. I bolt from the scene, through her house, across her yard, and back to my Jeep.
    She’ll be okay. Help will come soon.
    I climb into my Wrangler, take my ski mask off, and shove it in my glove compartment. The Weasel’s blood catches my eye. Shit .
    Shit. Shit. Shit.
    It’s on my glove compartment, my clothes, my door handle, and anything I touched with my gloved hands. I messed up. Big time. I’m such an imbecile. I’ll have to be more careful, more alert, more organized next time. No fumbling, no awkward dodging, no leftover blood. I need to have it all figured out. It has to be cleaner. Premeditated.
    Okay, think. It’s eleven forty-five, and I have to be home in fifteen minutes. I have a change of clothes, and I have a first aid kit with alcohol wipes. I’ll shove my blood-streaked clothes in a plastic bag and immediately wash them when I get home. I’ll wipe my Jeep down with alcohol and then wash it tomorrow and detail the inside. No one will know anything.
    Quickly I change, and as I’m slipping out of my cargo pants, my fingers brush the tranquilizer gun still in my pocket, loaded with enough stolen sedative to destroy a man three times the Weasel’s size.
    I didn’t kill him after all. . . .

Chapter Five
    TWO MORNINGS LATER I’M IN the kitchen, and the Weasel is all over the news. Just the thought of tasering him and helping that woman fills me with a craving to do it all over again.
    Yes, he’s all over the news, as is the Masked Savior.
    Masked Savior? You’ve got to be kidding me.
    “Ugh, that’s awful,” my sister groans. “That man raping those women. God, Lane, why are you watching that? Turn the channel.”
    I give my sister a look. What’s the big deal? It’s just the news.
    Daisy rolls her eyes. “Don’t you feel anything ?”
    I grab the remote and turn the channel. I’m not as unfeeling as people think. I show sympathy where it’s warranted. I show hatred to those who deserve it. I just don’t have emotions over the usual things, and to me that has its advantages. Why am I the only one who appreciates this?
    “And while we’re on the subject of