The Devil and I by Kay Alastor
Chapter Fourteen
Lucas
By the time Rayna has drifted into a deep sleep, it is already 10:30 pm. When I reluctantly slide out from between the bedsheets, I am relieved that she doesn't even stir. Leaving her here in our bed feels like a small death, but I know the misery of being away from her will be well worth it in the end.
The most important thing to me now is Rayna, and that includes hunting down and slaughtering the piece of shit that raped her. The honour of ending that scum bag's life is mine, and mine alone. I've been meticulously planning this for five long days now, and it is finally time to unleash the devil in me and set it loose on the dark city streets of Toronto.
My thoughts are dark as I enter the garage, duffle bag in hand, wandering past my police cruiser and over to my secondary vehicle: an unassuming black sedan. The license plates are blacked out, but the police scanner inside the vehicle will help me dodge the cops and avoid being pulled over. It also means I won't be identified on any traffic cameras as I travel through the city.
I pop the trunk of the sleek black car to make sure it's empty, before heading for the passenger side door to deposit my bag in the foot well. While I'm there, I pull free a few small black boxes and pop them open to check the contents. My fingertips glide across the smooth, cool vials of various sedatives and drugs. Certain that I have all that I'll need tonight, I tuck the boxes back under the seat and close the door behind me.
My mind roams back to Rayna while I walk back over to the driver's side of my car. The image of her naked in my bed helps to soothe the black rage sitting in the pit of my stomach. I finally get to destroy the man that made her want to end her life, and that realization comes with a myriad of severe emotions.
I pop open the back door and pull free a smaller duffle bag, setting it on the seat so I can easily pull my planned attire from its depths. Pulling my sweat pants off my hips, I toss them into the corner of the garage and get myself dressed. Black cargo pants, a black tee beneath a black hoodie, and a heavy pair of tactical boots. The last two pieces, black leather gloves and a balaclava, get tucked into the front pockets of my pants.
With my body now wrapped in shadowy material, I get into the car and start it up. As the whisper-quiet garage door opens, I shoot one last glance towards the door that leads back inside the house. I'm going to miss her tonight, but I'm doing what needs to be done. I'll do whatever it takes to punish the fucker that haunts her dreams at night. He may be a monster, but I'm far bigger and badder than he could ever dream to be.
The drive to Toronto is long, taking me down nearly empty roads that wind through the massive forest. One of the benefits to living so far out is that I have plenty of time to get my head in the game before I reach the nightclub Mark likes to frequent.
It didn't take long for me to figure out this man's habits once I got a hold of his social media accounts. He is one of those people that posts a ton of photos with his buddies and constantly tags locations.
Everyone thinks doing so is harmless, but that is far from the truth. All it takes is capturing the attention of one psychopath, and suddenly a dangerous individual figures out all of your routines.
The illusion of safety he lives with means that I know exactly where he likes to spend his Friday nights. Club Medusa lets women in for free on Fridays, which is likely the reason Mark coaxed his sleazy friends to go out tonight. He made a post about it last night, tagging his buddies and asking if anyone wanted to come with him. The idiot made it so damn easy for me to find him.
Time passes unusually fast on the drive into Toronto, and before I know it I am pulling onto highway 401 West. My car's built in GPS makes quick work of the intricate concrete jungle, taking me directly to the nightclub's surrounding streets. Thankfully, these places are notorious for being tucked in between long alleyways.
Toronto is an impressively dense city, with plenty of dark places to move around unseen. For someone like me, it's easy to hunt here. I've been working these streets as a cop for years, and that meant I knew the underbelly of this city like the back of my hand. That was great for me, and bad for whoever had the misfortune of becoming my target. Nobody knew noble, quiet, hard-working Officer Black doubled as a psychopath.
I drive in and out of the streets surrounding the club as I survey the area, choosing to park along a dead one-way street separated from the club by a chain-link fence. The club has its own underground parking, which leaves the streets outside of it relatively empty for me.
I pull up into a space beneath a broken streetlight, close enough to the club that moving between these two spaces will be pretty damn easy for me.
Before I can find an appropriate vantage point somewhere outside of the club, I'll need to make a hole in that chain-link fence so I can pass through it. I pull out the leather gloves I stuffed into one of my pockets and then slide them onto my hands. Twisting in my seat, I grab a pair of bolt cutters from the footwell behind me.
There are a lot of elderly individuals living in this neighbourhood, and that means you don't see a lot of foot traffic along this tiny one-way street. It's dark, it's quiet, and there's nobody here to watch me alter the environment to suit my needs.
With my tool in hand, I exit the vehicle and jog quietly over to the fence. My eyes scan the area to make sure no one is watching before I lean in and begin cutting away at the fencing. Once the hole is big enough to accommodate myself and the package I'll be transporting, I jog back to my car to drop off the bolt cutters so I can grab my duffle bag.
I quietly close the car door and leave the trunk ajar as I head through the hole I just created, walking along the wall of the building towards the back door to the club. The building itself is the largest on the block. It is old, and looking a little worse for the wear. Club owners in Toronto love when their business looks rough on the outside, but sophisticated or wild on the inside.
There are multiple industrial-sized garbage disposal units sprawled along the wall of the building, scattered haphazardly underneath several dim light fixtures. A few of the lights are shattered, casting dark zones between the poorly lit spaces leading up to the back door of the club. I choose the closest lightless area and position myself behind one of the beat up dumpsters. I get into position, my eyes trained on the door as a few smokers filter in and out.
I release a deep, slow breath to steady myself. I let the threads of humanity that hold me together fall away, letting my darker self rise to the forefront, unhindered by the things I use to appear normal to everyone around me. My shoulders tense as the input of adrenaline and excitement fire me up, so I roll them until the tension bleeds away. A calmness settles over me, allowing my mind to remain clear in preparation for tonight's endeavor.
Once my breathing is deep and steady, I move to take a step towards the back door of the club. I'll step inside, walk along the perimeter and figure out where the motherfucker is hanging out. Once I see him move towards an exit, I'll get out there first. I know Mark is a heavy smoker, so it's only a matter of time before he steps out for a break.
Before I can completely step out from the darkness of my chosen vantage point, the back door swings open and two male voices rise excitedly just above the chaotic blast of music pouring outside from within the walls of the club.
I take a step back, my heart suddenly hammering violently behind the cage of my chest. Am I seeing what I think I am? Did the universe really just dump this sorry sack of shit at my feet like a sacrifice to the devil?
Mark stumbles outside, swaying on his feet as he and his buddy stomp down the short stair case into the alleyway beyond. His friend cackles like a lunatic, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and popping it between his lips.
“Aw, fuck, dude. I got this bitch in the bag. She's coming home with me,” Mark's friend slurs his speech, lighting his cigarette and shuffling down in the opposite direction from where I am standing. His mop of long, messy brown hair is greasy, and he nearly sets it on fire, trying to re-light his already lit stick.
“Fuck yeah, man. If Kelly doesn't put out, I'm gonna have to slip her a lil' somethin', somethin'. You catch me?” Mark's laughter makes me cringe, his heavily slurred speech proving him to be just as wasted as his idiot friend is. My eyes narrow at the commentary between them, feeding the slow boil of rage simmering in my gut.
This motherfucker is dressed in dirty jeans and a dark graphic tee, acting exactly as one would expect a rapist to act. Arrogant, sloppy, and clearly fucking moronic. The only reason he got away with it is because Rayna was too busy trying to recover from her injuries to deal with him in court.
Unlike Mark, I'm a calculated monster. I come prepared, I leave no witnesses, and I don't get caught. I'm a talented monster, and that affords me the opportunity to react to the obvious gift the universe has bestowed upon me tonight.
As the guys discuss taking advantage of the women inside, I lean down and quietly pull what I need from my bag. Two syringes, both yellow in hue, get tucked into my back pocket. I pull a third syringe out and pop the cap, pulling back on the plunger, and sucking an air bubble into the barrel. Replacing the cap, I tuck the syringe of blue fluid into my opposite pocket.
One of these men will die here in the alleyway from an arterial air embolism, and the other will be knocked unconscious for transport.
With my syringes in place, I tug the balaclava from the front pocket of my pants and slip it on. With nothing but my eyes and mouth exposed, I'm ready to pick these men off one at a time. I reach down for one more thing I'll need, tucking it into the front pocket of the hoodie masking my upper body. I've got one eye fixed on the backdoor as I watch Mark and his friend move deeper into the alley between the club and the abandoned warehouse next to it.
“Gotta take a leak, dude.” Mark's speech is a disaster as he begins pushing a few boxes out from the wall to tuck himself between them. “There's no way I'm s-standing in that fuckin' line.” The sound of his zipper being pulled down is the catalyst, and with the precision and silence of a honed predator, I move.
While Mark fumbles with his dick in an attempt to get it out and aim it away from himself, his buddy is taking repeated puffs of his cigarette, facing off in the direction Mark disappeared. This gives me the opportunity to hit the back door of the club first.
I hop up the tiny flight of steps, pulling a small steel bar from my pocket as I land on my feet. I slide the bar home, effectively jamming the door from the outside. With the pounding beat of music seeping through the walls, I don't make a single discernible sound. Jamming the door should afford me some time to take both men out, because once someone realizes the door is jammed, they'll need to use the exit on the opposite side of the building.
I reach back and pull one of the loaded syringes from my pocket, using my teeth to pop the top and toss it aside. Considering the amount of syringes and other drug paraphernalia all over this place, it won't matter where it lands. Nobody will think anything of it.
“I dunno, man... have you seen Kelly's tits?” Mark is getting louder, trying to be heard over the din of the music thrumming through the thick club walls. A box rattles and I assume he bumped into it, but I keep my focus on the nameless idiot standing between me and my real target.
The man stands there swaying on his feet, enjoying his smoke. He doesn't notice when I come to a stop behind him, angling the needle point of the syringe towards his throat. I watch the side of his neck until I catch the heavy pulse of his jugular vein. There it is. Home sweet home.
“Slip 'er somethin' so you can fuck her ass all night, man.” He laughs, and as soon as the sound dies, I lean forward and slip the needle into his throat. Before his alcohol-impaired brain registers the subtle sting, I depress the syringe and wrap my hand around his nose and mouth. I leave the needle lodged in his skin so I can focus on grappling the panicked man and hauling him back along the wall of the club.
He tries to fight me, but he is too damn inebriated to give me any real trouble. The alcohol makes him weak and messy, and he just isn't strong enough to pry my hand from his face. I've cut off most of his air supply with a single hand. Besides, I hit the mark like a trained professional. The chemical reaction erupts within him immediately, that large vein carrying the fast acting drug and the big bubble of air down towards his heart. He tries to scream, but his throat is already numb and the fog is starting to settle in. I hold him securely as he tries to thrash against me, his hands coming up to claw weakly at my heavily clothed shoulders.
“Ohhh yeaaaahhh. I'm takin' that ass for sure, my guy,” Mark shouts, and I listen carefully as the sound of his piss hitting the concrete starts to weaken. Restraining his friend is easy, considering I'm more than twice his size and professionally trained. I hold tightly to him, waiting for the drug to take full effect. I don't give a fuck if this guy lives or dies, as long as he's out like a light while I go after Mark. Unfortunately for him, between the purposeful overdose and the bubble of air in the syringe, things aren't looking good.
The man's panic works in my favour here. His rapidly beating heart is sucking the drugs down into his chest, all of those distress reactions making his blood flow nice and fast. Mark is fumbling around behind those boxes up ahead while he empties his full bladder, giving me all the time I need to render his buddy incapacitated.
As the sound of Mark pulling his zipper up reaches my ears, his friend goes limp in my grip. I let out the breath I'm holding and shuffle us further back behind a set of garbage cans and boxes, where I dump his body carelessly. Crouching, I lean forward to peer around the pile of trash and spot Mark stumbling back in our direction. I shuffle back again and make my way around the pile in a crouched position, coming out from somewhere behind Mark as he walks towards the back door.
“Kyle, man, where you at?” he calls out, glancing around for his buddy.
Unfortunately, he'll never see his shitbag friend again. I smile as I rise to my full height, pulling another syringe from the stash in my back pocket and uncapping it. I jog towards Mark as he turns to walk up the steps towards the door.
“What the f-fuck?” he stammers, his hand reaching out to grab the jammed door handle in confusion. I hop up behind him and grab the side of his throat, taking the fresh needle and jabbing it into the thick vein, pulsing wildly at the side of his neck. He sputters as I inject the drug, taking a step back off the steps and grabbing his shirt as I go.
I use my momentum as I step down to fling him to the ground, shock and fear electrifying his features as he lands on his ass on the filthy alley floor. He lifts a hand to fumble with the empty syringe hanging off the side of his neck, peering up at me with terror in his eyes.
“T-the fu-uck?!” he stammers again, his panic helping make my chemical cocktail work better and faster as it courses through his veins.
“Surprise, motherfucker,” I say with a snarl, taking a few steps forward. “Rayna sends her regards.”
The shock that spreads across his face is chased by a ghostly paleness, and I respond by spitting at his feet. Lifting one heavy foot, I kick forward to hit him square in the face. He is too damn drunk to do anything but register my boot as it soars towards him. The heavy sole of my boot connects to his face with a fleshy thud, and I watch as Mark falls back, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he goes.
The grin that spreads across my face is that of a psychopath, I'm sure. It grows so wide it hurts my face, and I'm suddenly immensely grateful for just how damn easy it was to take both of these men down. I don't stand there to appreciate my work, especially with the sound of someone trying the back door. I glance over to see it rattling, grunting in irritation that someone is interrupting this deeply satisfying moment.
I walk forward and bend down so that I can haul the smaller man up in my arms, tossing him over my shoulder like a sack of flour. Adrenaline spikes in my blood as I move along the wall down the alleyway towards my car. Before I reach the fence, I squat with the bastard on my shoulder and grab my duffle bag from the dark corner I left it in. I grunt as I heave us upright and step towards the chain-link fence, ducking slightly to slip through to the other side.
My car is still parked on a dark piece of the quiet street, and since I left the trunk ajar it pops open when I swat it. Rolling my shoulder forward, I dump the fucker in and slam the trunk closed. I'll need to properly secure him for transport, but I can't do that here.
I keep my eyes on the streets as I round my vehicle and slide into the driver's side, but nobody is out here on this tiny side road. Starting my car, I gently pull back onto the street and maintain a reasonable speed until I'm 10 miles out from the club. Once I'm far enough away from it, I pull the balaclava off my face and toss it into the passenger footwell. With a deep sigh, I drag my hand through my hair and scrub my palm down my face. The hard part is done, which leaves me with needing to find a spot to better secure my new passenger before we head North to the cabin.
It doesn't take long to make my way over to one of the smaller, less frequented overpasses along the outskirts of Toronto. This remote industrial area is rarely used by anyone right now other than some construction companies developing the area during the day and a very small homeless population. When I pull under the massive concrete slabs, it's empty. I flip my lights off and slide into the darkness, rolling to a quiet stop somewhere dead center.
Eager to get back on the highway heading North, I reach behind my seat for another bag I've stowed away, pull it up and exit the car. I make my way around the car to the back, where I unlock the trunk and pop it open. Mark is laying there in a mess of limbs, breathing deeply and evenly. I wish I could appreciate the reddened imprint I'm sure is marking his face, but the entire area is bathed in the heavy blackness of the overpass.
I work as quickly as I can, securing his arms and legs, connecting them along his spine with a heavier chain. It is tiring to shift his limp weight back and forth in the small space, but I get it done. Making a few more connections in his binds means he won't have the room to struggle, so it's worth the effort on my end.
Once everything is locked in place, I grab a thick rag and stuff it into his mouth. A wide strap of leather tied around his mouth over the rag is overkill, but my methods have kept me safe in the past so there's no reason to change things up now.
Lastly, I amble around to the passenger side of my car and pop the door open so I can grab my little black box of sedatives. Once I'm standing in front of him again, I open it up and pick out a reversible sedative to keep him out for the ride. With that, I give the man a once over and then lock him in. A quick look around the perimeter of the area as I'm getting back into my vehicle confirms we're still alone, other than some fat rats scurrying around along the pillars.
The silence that settles over me as I drive feels like a living, breathing entity. An insidious creature slithering between the dark places in my vehicle, reminding me of what is ahead. Normal people imagine the weight of taking a human life being heavy beyond measure, an overwhelming and soul rotting undertaking. For me, it feels like taking all the sickness inside of me and putting it to good use.
Ending the lives of rapists, pedophiles, abusers and criminals that get away with their crimes feels like my own personal brand of fucked up justice. Or perhaps that's just what I tell myself. In the end, it doesn't really matter how I justify it. It just doesn't weigh me down like it would somebody else. Even the most hardened criminals face remorse at the end of their days. I shrug it off like beads of water down a duck's back, letting it roll away and disappear until it is nothing but a memory. I did what needed to be done, and once it was over, I rarely gave it a second thought.
This time, however, I knew would be different. There was a whole new level of satisfaction to be had from killing my future wife's rapist. This time, it would be a sweet vengeance I wouldn't want to forget.