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.

not even the sound of the TV I thought might

muzzle of the rifle hanging low, I inch my way to the lounge door,

Still nothing.

I turn the handle, peer

I lower the gun

… into a slaughterhouse.

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

couple of others are new. Most are men in, as they say, their prime. Some are middle-aged. One looks barely out of his teens, perhaps freshly

red, eyes sightless and staring, but the pupils huge. The room reeks of the vomit which trails from mouths,

plastic faces and canned laughter. It feels…

when I tentatively test it with

himself throw

Wonder what she used?

got it down all of them

glasses lie scattered everywhere; some with their contents half-consumed, others spilled

Why?

on

… weren’t they?

Outlived their usefulness?

Sheer spite?

Boredom?

Unsettled, I hover…

What to do next?

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: Juliana’s handbook on Poisonous and Psychoactive Plants, stuffing

insight into