Page 97 of Broken
It wasn’t the Piranha, so Prescott went downstairs and stood behind the open front door. Now, he waited for his mark to show. If he didn’t, Prescott would return the next night, and every fucking night until this dickwad showed his motherfucking face.
According to the Piranha’s file, his most recent killing spree happened in a group house on a Pennsylvania university campus where he shot everyone who lived there, then dragged their bodies into the living room, where he’d posed them in a bizarre pagan scenario. Some of the victims had been dismembered. A gruesome scene that defied any logic. But he wasn’t there to analyze the Piranha, he was there to take the monster out.
As the minutes ticked by, he focused on his breathing, and on staying vigilant.
A car drove by, then minutes later, another.
While his thoughts kept wandering to Jacqueline, he’d inhale, forcing her from his mind on the exhale. Thinking about her was much more enticing, but staying focused would give him a better chance of making it out alive.
A car drove up, the engine went silent. Prescott steeled his spine. The vehicle door opened, then slammed shut.
Footsteps on the sidewalk, then the chain link gate squeaked on its rusty hinges, as if crying out a warning.
If it was the Piranha, he couldn’t wait to take this predator out for good.
“Fuckin’ door’s open,” the man grumbled.
As he walked up the cement steps, his phone’s flashlight lit the way.
Prescott flipped up his night goggles, so he wasn’t blinded by the light. When the man shut the front door, Prescott got his answer. Stanley Deanson had just stepped into his trap.
“Deanson,” Prescott rasped.
The man whirled around.
Prescott grabbed Deanson’s phone, shoved it in his pocket. Plunged into darkness, Prescott flipped down the goggles and eyed his target. Deanson had pulled a gun.
“Who the fuck are you?” the Piranha asked.
“Your worst fuckin’ nightmare.”POP! POP!
Prescott shot him in the chest, twice.
Deanson crumpled to the floor, blood pouring from him.
Prescott grabbed Deanson’s gun.
“Nice job,” Deanson bleated. “Someone finally got me.”
“How many?” Prescott bit out.
Gasping for air, his chest rising and falling fast, Deanson murmured, “I’m gonna take that number with me to the great beyond.”
“You’ve been keeping track, like a secret score card. C’mon, Deanson, what’s the number?”
“Sixty-one,” he whispered.
“That makes sixty-twomylucky number.”
POP! POP! POP!
Two bullets to the brain, one more to the chest. Prescott wasn’t removing his glove and leaving a print on Deanson’s carotid, so he waited for his panting to slow.
Then, Deanson stilled.
Only silence filled the dead of night.
The hatred in Prescott’s heart dissolved, leaving only pity. Everyone has one life. Just one. This man chose to spend his torturing and killing. Deanson’s purpose in life was stealing it from others.
