Alena’s Revenge by K.A Knight

Chapter Twenty-Five

Alena

Ichange out of the dress the old me would have loved. The expensive material, the confidence it brought. I would have gotten free drinks all night and taken some rando home. Now? All I can think about is how easily it can be stained and how hard it is to move in if I need to run or grab a weapon.

I did look fucking good though, scars and all, and Idris’s reaction made it all worthwhile. But now I’m back to being Bitch, the words carved into my stomach acting as proof. I pop more of the doctor’s pills and down some water. We aren’t stopping or resting until this is done. The adrenaline of getting payback against all those who hurt me and thousands of others spurs me on.

Some of the names we get are crossed off—dead. Spider’s and Max’s work, whoever he is, apparently. We are the clean-up, catching the stragglers and the hard to find ones. And, of course, Nikolić, who we’re saving for last.

Idris grabs his phone, dials someone, and simply grunts before hanging up. “She’s still there, cameras confirm it. She’s booked the entire restaurant. She was meeting with someone, but they’ve left,” he informs me, and the look he gives me is downright terrifying and sexy as hell. With a twist of the wheel, he slams on the gas, racing through the evening traffic.

Hard to think that just last night I was still a captive, a stolen girl, and now I’m the hunter.

The feeling is heady, and when we pull up outside the restaurant, I can’t help the grin I’m wearing or the excitement coursing through my veins. I feel invincible with Idris, untouchable. A girl could get used to this.

There’s a valet in a suit outside, and he frowns when we pull in. “I’m afraid we are closed, sir,” he starts, but Idris just storms past him without a glance.

“Sir,” he snaps, and reaches for his phone. Me? I walk past and bitch-slap him.

“Oops, sorry.” I grin innocently before turning and finding Idris watching me from the doors. His eyes move from the man to me as he grins and draws his gun.

“Be ready for anything, try not to get shot,” is all he says as he turns and rips open the door. I follow after him, Beretta in hand. He begins shooting as soon as he enters, walking through the restaurant like a man would walk through fire. A haze of bullets rains down, as well as shouts and commands from Bessie the cow’s security.

She’s obviously special to Nikolić and the operation. Probably gets the women in, the cunt. It seems apt she will die by the man she thought she tricked. The bitch was too cocky.

I stay behind Idris, using him as a shield. The restaurant is one of those fancy ones with glass windows all around and simple, rustic tables with chandeliers. It’s almost blacked out with low lighting and luxurious gold and black décor. It screams money and elitism. To the right is a glass staircase, and I see two men in suits sneaking down it, so I center myself, aim, and fire. I hit the glass under one, and it shatters, making him fall.

Shit.

“Good shot,” Idris calls, and I just nod like I meant to do that all along. I fire at the other, missing three times before I hit him in the chest and he tumbles down the stairs. Turning back, I duck the swing of another man, and then Idris is there, pistol-whipping him before he flips him over his shoulder and onto a table, and in the same move, Idris stabs down with his gun and shoots before whirling to face the others streaming into the room.

We hear the waiters’ screams as they rush out of the back door into the kitchen. I’m betting Bessie cow is hiding upstairs, stupid woman. Clearly, she can only be tough when her enemies are chained. Idris moves across the room fluidly, firing and taking as many out as he can before dropping his clip and reloading in mere seconds. He swings a shotgun around and fires, each move calculated, purposeful, hitting its intended target.

He moves like fucking water.

I turn and slide across a table like I’ve always seen in the movies, and glide straight into a man reloading his semiautomatic. I knock him to the floor, then I grab his gun, turn, and fire. It recoils, and I fall back to the table, but at least I hit him. Dropping it, I turn with my handgun raised, sticking to what I know.

Idris is engaged in hand-to-hand combat with four men. They dart in and out, kicking and punching, but he holds his own. He throws them into tables. One punches at him, but Idris grabs his arm, twists under it, and snaps it before throwing him into the side of the stairs while he screams.

Shit, that’s hot.

I notice there are no more, so instead, I head for the stairs, intent on proving my worth. “Bitch,” he yells, but he has to concentrate on his fight as I take the steps two at a time, leaping over the broken one I shot.

At the top, I duck and look around.

There are three men in front of a table where I see a scared-looking Bessie hiding. There is a half drank bottle of champagne on her table with empty plates. She’s in a skintight, emerald dress and heels, looking pretty as hell. And terrified. Of me.

Of him.

“Hey there, cow!” I call and then duck as a barrage of bullets heads my way. Laughing, I cup my hands around my mouth. “Moo.” I wait as they keep firing, and then I hear them stop, knowing they have to be reloading. When I look up, I see them doing just that.

My time to shine, baby. I have to move fast.

Straightening, I aim and fire as I walk. I hit one in the shoulder, and he falls back to the table. I hit the other in the leg, and he crumples with a scream. I miss the third altogether, and my gun clicks empty. Shit. I drop it and try to grab a knife, but he’s raising his gun. Suddenly, his head explodes and he falls to the side, and then Idris is there. He looks me over, his eyes narrowed—that tells me I’ll be in trouble later.

I can’t wait.

He moves to the table, and I skip behind him. Picking up one of their guns, I shoot the other two guards in the chest as Idris takes a seat opposite a scared Bessie. But she sits back, faking confidence, playing the long game as I grab the champagne and sip it while I watch her.

She doesn’t even notice me, her eyes trained on him. “Boogeyman,” she greets coolly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He simply relaxes in the chair and places his gun on the table as he stares at her. I notice a bead of sweat trickling down her neck and laugh as I chug the bottle.

“I did what I had to,” she blurts. “I had a job—”

“You shouldn’t have accepted it,” is all he says. I finish the bottle and toss it on the floor before perching on one of his legs. He presses his hand to my back to keep me there as they stare at each other.

“Killing me won’t change anything. You’ll never get to him,” she hisses.

“It will sure as shit make me happy,” he snaps. “He’ll die too, but don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you—”

She sits up taller, a flirty smile on her lips. “No? I knew you liked me.”

“First, we’re going to have some fun,” he finishes, and she pales further. He stands and places me on the chair before he rounds the table to tower above her.

“You choose. Your lying mouth or traitorous hands first, Bessie?” he asks, twirling a knife.

“It’s Lola,” she sneers, and he stabs her hand, pinning it to the table as she screams. Even I wince. Shit, that has to hurt.

“I don’t give a fuck. No one will remember your name after today,” he growls.

Her other hand slaps the table as she swears and screams at him. Her perfect makeup is ruined as tears slip down her face. She sucks in desperate breaths and her lips quiver, even as she tries to fake her strength. “He’ll kill you.”

“Nikolić won’t—”

She laughs, the sound choked. “Not him. You have no idea who even runs this operation. He owns everything and everyone.”

“Even you?” Idris retorts.

She nods. “The bastard probably knew you were coming. That’s who I was meeting. He set it up and then left halfway through, wishing me good night. When I said I would see him tomorrow, he just laughed, the fucker. I thought he…”

“He what?” I prompt.

She looks at me, licking her lips, and I see vulnerability there, even through the haze of agony. “Liked me. I was a fool, you will be too. He’s untouchable.”

“No one is,” is all Idris says, having no sympathy for the love-struck girl. She made her choice—a foolish one. One that cost lives and ruined countless others. If he betrayed her, she deserves it.

She deserves everything she gets.

He pulls the knife out, and she falls back with a screech, holding her wounded hand to her chest and ruining her dress as blood coats her skin and the fabric. “You should know criminals have no loyalty to anyone but themselves,” Idris snarls.

“Doesn’t the same go for assassins?” she counters and looks at me. “He’ll kill you, he has to. You know far too much, I’m betting. Don’t you know that’s what they do? Use people, betray them, and kill them. He told me so.”

“The American?” I query.

She nods. “He knows them all somehow, knows Donald.”

“That’s enough,” Idris snaps. “That’s not our problem, that’s Donald’s. You are our problem, one soon to be resolved.”

“He’ll kill you! Help me get free and I’ll—” She tries to convince me, leaning forward in her desperation, but Idris smacks her back. One hit, and she’s out cold, her face slack and eyes closed. How boring. He sighs and looks at me.

“She talks too much,” I comment, pouting.

“She always did,” he replies, “and bakes the worst fucking cookies.”

I can’t help but laugh and lean forward, running my fingers across the bloody tablecloth. “What shall we do while we wait?” I purr. He smirks, his eyes dropping to my body, but she gasps and wakes up.

Groaning, I sit back. “What a fucking cockblock,” I snap as Idris laughs, grabs her half drank glass, and tosses it over her as she sputters.

“Don’t pass out just yet, we’re about to have fun.”

I watch as he teases her, plays with her. If what she says is true, the American sold her out, knew we were coming. Knew we were cleaning house and is allowing us to. Why? But like Idris said, that’s not our issue, not our hunt. That’s Donald’s. We are simply here for revenge, and then…

What? I have no idea. I focus on one second, then the next, the same way I survived.

Her screaming punctures my inner monologue. He cut her dress away, leaving her in her matching panties and bra—she was planning on getting lucky, poor girl—and used it to hang her from the ceiling beam above us. She dangles there, kicking her legs and screaming at him.

Tied up like we were.

He really does have a thoughtful side.

I put my feet up on the white tablecloth and relax as I watch him work. He truly is a master. He knows where to cut, hit, and even burn for maximum pain without making her pass out. It’s a beautiful thing to see, like watching an art exhibition… just with more blood.

Like a true sculptor at work.

I tilt my head as I survey her blood dripping down her nearly coated body. He’s really fucking angry, and it’s fucking hot as hell. His nostrils are flared, and his eyes are hard and narrowed. His fists are clenched, and his muscles are tight. If this is what he does to people who he didn’t even trust but annoyed him, then what would he do to someone he truly liked?

I shiver from the thought, my pussy clenching as I imagine all that fury aimed at me. Between her screams, she just cries, resigned but not speaking, giving us nothing. Her loyalty to the American is strong, and my respect for the cow goes up a smidge.

But everyone breaks.

Deciding to move this along so I can get those bloody hands wrapped around my throat while he pounds into me like he’s pounding her with his fists, I get up and move to the bar in the corner. There’s an ice bucket sitting on the polished black and gold marble bar. I grab it, move behind the bar, and fill it with water in the sink before snatching a slightly dirty towel from the floor. I hesitate before taking a shot of whiskey and knocking it back, the warmth making me shudder. I stride back over to Idris, where he’s shaking out his bloody hand.

“Here, try this,” I offer.

Idris’s head turns, and he looks at the bucket and then at me. “You make me so hard,” he growls.

I wink as he takes it, and then I return to my prime position to observe. Pulling her down, he lays her on the table right in front of me, giving me an unobstructed view. Her legs twist as she sobs and fights.

“Please—”

He drapes the cloth over her face and then tips the bucket slowly over it. She chokes as the water fills her mouth, and I smirk, knowing exactly how that feels.

It was one of the first things they did to me. It feels like you’re drowning. The water goes up your nose and into your mouth, even when you try to keep it closed. It gets in your eyes so they sting for the next few hours, as does your throat. It’s horrible.

Fun to watch though, especially knowing this cunt almost got him killed and ordered me to be tortured. What’s that saying? Don’t dish out what you can’t handle.

Fucking karma, babe.

Her body twists as she struggles, kicking plates off the table. He finally stops pouring and removes the towel as she coughs up water onto her own face. Her eyes are red and her face is soaked as she wheezes and chokes. “Ple—” Cough. “Just kill me,” she begs breathlessly.

“Just kill you?” he snarls, getting in her face. “Did you just kill me? No, you ordered my torture, you ordered her torture.” He jerks his head at me. “You didn’t offer mercy, so why should you get it?”

“Please,” is all she says as he covers her head again and pours more water. It’s sick, but my pussy is wet as hell from watching him hurt her. From watching him make her pay for what she did to us.

He removes it again, and she turns her head, throwing up water as she cries and coughs. Picking up the knife from the table, he presses her other hand down and stabs the blade through her palm, pinning her to the table, and then he does the same with the other before impaling both feet. She passes out during the second stab, but wakes up when he throws the remaining ice-cold water on her face.

She’s given up, I see it in her eyes. The retreat, the defeat. How many girls’ eyes did she put that look in? How many kids’? Men’s? How many families did she destroy? How many mothers sit in their child’s empty room, crying, begging, and praying for their children to come home?

How many fathers sit up at night or drink themselves into oblivion to forget their child’s face or what might be happening to them right now? She doesn’t deserve mercy, she’s a monster bigger than either of us. We killed those who deserve it, while she destroyed innocents. Destroyed lives, marriages, and families.

I don’t care if this makes us just as bad as her. I remember the innocents’ cries, their screams, and hearing them beg for her to kill them. She did that. She deserves every inch of this treatment. Those women could have been lawyers, inventors, counsellors, mothers, and so much more. Their possibilities were endless, their lives had meaning. They had the chance to make an impact on the world in a way only they could. And now they never will. She snatched that away from them, stole their lives like they meant nothing.

She should be as ugly outside as she is inside, showing the rot in her soul.

“You’re not worth my time,” he eventually snarls an hour later.

I stand, knowing he’s had his fun. She’s broken, her eyes numb and empty as they roll to him, bloodshot and wounded. “Please, please kill me,” she begs again.

“I wonder how many begged you for that,” I sneer, even as I pass over his gun. He takes it and shoots, ending her life. It’s too easy a death if you ask me.

“We should go,” I murmur as we stand side by side, viewing her dead, splayed form. “Won’t the police be here… Wait, shouldn’t they be here already?”

“Spider stopped them. We have sources on the inside,” he explains.

“She deserved more,” I reply. “She should have suffered like they did, like I did, known what it was like.”

“It’s over,” is all he says, but I can’t walk away. I see that blonde’s face in my eyes, the one I’ll never know the name of. Whose life I took to save her. I see the countless other scared, empty, angry faces.

I have to do something. Dipping my fingers in her blood, I move to the wall behind her. They have to know. She deserves to be humiliated, embarrassed, exposed, and violated like we were. The unknown masses, the ghosts of her organisation.

She betrayed her fellow women.

I feel Idris watching me as I drag my fingers down the wall, writing a message. It’s not eloquent, but they have to know. If any survived, they have to know. I hope they see this. And for those who are part of this, who did this, they should see this too, should see what happens to those who are like her.

They suffer.

I have to re-dip my fingers a few times in her cooling blood, but when it’s finished, I step back and stare at the message, feeling slightly better.

I died screaming, like the countless women I helped traffic.

We are coming for you. Evil never wins.

There.

I grab her phone from her bag, take a picture, and then leak it online. She’s in the front, naked and exposed. It’s a cruel, horrible thing to do, but I don’t give a fuck if it makes me as evil as her. I’m no fucking hero, I’m a goddamn villain. She, they made me one.

I’ll be a monster to stop people like them so no other woman has to go through what I did, so no more families are ruined.

So the women of this city are safe.

I’ll become the very word carved into my stomach.

Bitch.