Hot Revenge Box Set 4

The climb to Juliana’s apartment isn’t difficult, even in the low evening light. I’ve done it once before, so I already have my bearings and know exactly which way to go. My target is the lady’s bedroom.

If I find her in there, I can cut the head from the serpent on the spot. If I don’t, I can wait for an opportunity to do so.

Knowing that there’s likely to be anything from half a dozen to twenty men in the next room, I’m happier now that I have the rifle slung over my shoulder. The Glock too is comforting, sitting in its holster under my jacket, and with plenty of spare magazines in one pocket.

With a knife, a KA-BAR, in its usual spot, the sheath to the back, I’m comfortable that I’m good for any up-close resistance. But I have spares, a small switchblade strapped to one calf, and an A-F fighting knife to the other. A length of cheese wire is a lightweight addition, pinned inside my belt.

A last-minute addition is the tyre iron shoved into the belt. It doubles as weapon and means-of-entry, but shifts disconcertingly as I move, threatening to work loose, and I’m cursing myself for not holstering it properly.

From street level as I begin my climb, I can see the apartment is brightly lit. Every window shines out onto the street, Juliana’s bedroom included. But there’s no movement beyond the lights; none of the shifting shadows of people walking around the room. A flickering blue light suggests a TV might be playing, but there’s none of the human activity that might accompany it.

Four floors up: I swing up and over the balcony edge, then immediately drop to the floor, ducking out of sight of any prying eyes. As it turns out, I don’t need the iron. Juliana’s door stands open to the night air, with no more than a mosquito screen separating outdoors from indoors

Moving carefully, quietly, placing my feet with care, I dart a look inside, but it’s unoccupied.

It’s still the same rat’s-nest tangle of bling and junk. The bed is unmade and, although a double, looks to have been occupied only by one.

The rifle in my hands, I slip inside. Two doors - the first to the dressing room I saw on my first visit here. I set it ajar, just in case I need to slip out of sight quickly.

The second door, leading to the lounge beyond, stands closed.

Then, rifle in hand, I stand and listen…

Nothing.

Street traffic: check.

Cicadas: check.

thing, not even the sound of the TV I thought might

hanging low, I inch my

Still nothing.

outward, I turn the

I lower the

… into a slaughterhouse.

with none of the mess and gore one might normally associate with such a place. Perhaps slaughterhouse

recognize. I saw them on my first visit. A couple of others are new. Most are men in, as they say, their prime. Some are middle-aged. One looks barely out

in twisted and contorted angles; faces are blotched red, eyes sightless and staring, but the pupils huge. The room reeks of the vomit which trails from mouths, over clothes,

the sound turned low, some sit-com acted out by fake smiles, plastic faces and canned laughter. It feels… inappropriate… and with the toe of my boot, I nudge the

bathroom, a glass of something on the washstand which, when I tentatively test it with the tip of

himself throw it

Wonder what she used?

it down all

doesn’t take too much thought. Beer glasses lie scattered everywhere; some with their contents half-consumed, others

Why?

on her

… weren’t they?

Outlived their usefulness?

Sheer spite?

Boredom?

Unsettled, I hover…

What to do next?

comparing what I saw on the previous visit, with what’s here now. In truth, it’s hard to see the difference in the magpie’s nest of stuff. But on an impulse. I open the bedside drawer where I found the one book in the room:

gain some insight