Moments of Malevolence (The Hunters Book 1)

“LET ME GUESS. SHE RAN.” Kyson laughs as I sit across from him at the round mahogany table. He has a glass in front of him that he isn’t touching. His leg starts bouncing while he smirks at me. If he wasn’t my brother, I would hit him. Fucking hard.

Kenzo says nothing as he sits next to Kyson, just observing like he does best. If I wasn’t in a mood, I might find it amusing that we’re all sitting on ornate white chairs trimmed with gold that look like they came out of a fucking Victorian movie. They must be the real deal because the dainty as fuck legs isn’t buckling under our weight. Who booked this place anyway.

“She ran,” I confirm.

“You didn’t try drowning her, did you?” He raises a brow at his question.

“Nope.”

“So what did you do? They all want a piece of you till they find out how crazy you are.”

I grin, thinking about how hard she came, the way her back arched and her eyes squeezed shut. It’s been a few weeks since that night, but Kyson hasn’t asked about it until now.

“None of your goddamn business.”

“Aw, come on, you always tell.”

“Not about this one.”

“She did seem a little crazy. Maybe that’s what you need… Someone crazy like you.”

I don’t respond.

There is no need for any more words.

I don’t always share what’s happening in my life with my brothers. They may be ruthless and the most loyal of fuckers to ever have existed, but some things I keep to myself.

Like Sage…

Standing and walking away, I take my phone with me. Kyson yells out as I leave, but I pay him no attention as I close the door behind me and go straight for the bed. We’re in a different hotel tonight with a new job at hand.

We don’t take a lot of jobs anymore, but when we do, we get paid a substantial amount. And when I say substantial, I mean in the millions.

We’re worth it.

We will hunt down your prey when no one else can.

Then we will kill them.

And the body will never be discovered unless it’s required. We hardly ever outsource. A few know of what we do, but those who are informed would take it to their grave. Grayson is one of those men. He owns a club full of people fucking, some would call it a promiscuous club, a place full of desires, but I like to keep it simple, it’s a sex club. He grew up with us and came from the same neighborhood. And he’s almost as fucked-up as us because of it. Almost.

Pressing call on my phone, it rings three times before I hear her sexy voice. “You’ve reached Sage from You Beat It, We Spit It. First, let’s start with your name.”

“Zuko.”

I hear her breath suck in on the other end at the mention of my name.

It’s been a few weeks since I called her.

And how I have missed her sweet sexy voice.

“I thought you would stop calling,” she says.

“Do you want me to?” When she doesn’t reply after a few moments, I ask, “Have you missed me?”

“I don’t know.” I hear the surprise in her voice. “Have you missed me?”

“I’ve been thinking about another woman. Would you consider that cheating? That it’s her who I want to bend over right now and fuck.”

“So why did you call me?”

“Because I like to hear you come.” And I tell no lies. I do, very much so. I’m pretty sure she uses a vibrator on the other end of that phone, and her voice picks up and gets harsher as she comes. “Can I text you?” I ask. “If I want to call and can’t, can I text?”

“The same rates still apply,” she states. “Regardless of text or call.”

“I don’t care about the cost.” I growl out the words becoming impatient. “If I paid you enough, would you send me a picture of yourself?”

“Depends on the price.”

The door bursts open, and Kyson stands there dressed in his usual black suit. “Get the fuck up, it’s go time.”

“Who was that?” she asks.

“I’ll text you,” I tell her, then end the call.

“You found him?” Kyson nods as Kenzo rolls up his sleeves showcasing his arms which are covered in ink before he opens his phone, typing out something, barely looking up at us as we leave.

“Pops said yellow shirt,” Kenzo replies. When he does finally lift his gaze, he mutters, “Found him,” as he slides his phone into his pocket.

“He’s been hiding from us. It’s been a long time.” Kyson sneers.

“Six months. Did he really think we wouldn’t find him?” Kenzo relays as he slides his gun into his waistband at his back.

As we step outside, two ladies stroll by us, giggling.

Kyson smiles at them, always the ladies’ man.

The night breeze is cooler this time of year, and some wear jackets, while others opt to wear jeans or long pants. All three of us are dressed in black from head to toe. It’s not because we prefer the color—it’s solely because it’s harder to see the blood.

Blood likes to splatter.

Blood likes to stain.

If I wore a white shirt, as I have once before, blood is a bitch to get out. It lingers where it’s not wanted. And I would end up throwing that shirt out.

Doesn’t help I can’t wash my clothes to save my life.

But black, well, it’s easier. It’s also better for blending in. And then, as the years went on, our wardrobe just consisted of black for convenience.

Killing isn’t just a sport. It’s a way of life for some, and no matter how dark and fucked-up it is, some of us are born to do it.

“Yellow,” Kenzo confirms as he and I step into the bar. Ronaldo the hit we have been chasing, spots us as his head turns in our direction. His eyes go wide, and in a flash, he is up and running to the back door. Kyson is already there waiting for him. When we step out into the alley, we find Kyson already has him on the ground, his boot on his bright yellow shirt holding him immobile.

Ronaldo is a runner.

He always has been.

“Come on, boys. Please.” It’s a plea, but it doesn’t faze us. “We’re friends. You can’t do this.”

That is false.

We are anything but friends.

Kyson pushes his foot down even harder, and Ronaldo lets off a little scream like the bitch he is. The door to the alley opens, and Kenzo immediately has his gun pointed at some random schmuck who is in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The guy lifts his hands in surrender as he says, “I didn’t see anything.” He steps back slowly, hands still in the air, as the door shuts in his face.

I bend down and grab a handful of Ronaldo’s hair, pulling his face up from the filthy ground. I lick my lips and taste water, and then I lift my face to the sky.

It’s about to storm.

Smiling, I glance back to Ronaldo in his bright yellow shirt.

“No more running for you,” I tell him.

He groans but says nothing more. I let his head drop, and I move to his legs. Removing my knife, I slice his jeans open as he stays deadly still.

“Don’t. Please, don’t.” He starts to cry like a little baby.

“You ran, Ronaldo. You know better,” I tell him.

Kyson is still holding him down with his foot, so he doesn’t move. Kenzo shifts to the door and holds it shut so no one else can accidentally come outside.

There are few lights at the back of the bar—it was a stupid mistake on his part to run out here—but it made it easier for us.

“I’ll do anything, please.”

Ronaldo owes someone a lot of money. Who, I don’t know, nor do I care. But that person has the ability to pay for our services and our services he will get.

There is a lengthy process to even get to us. And even then, it’s not usually us the client deals with directly. It’s Pops; he is basically our finder. Though we do some deals on the side when it pleases us. We don’t need Pops, but we keep him around all the same.

“You’ve run long enough, Ronaldo,” I tell him as my knife glints in the moonlight while I reach for his leg and grip his calf. I place the blade on the back of his Achilles tendon and hold him as tight as possible as it slides across his flesh. It’s slow, and one of the worst pains you can imagine. The healing process itself is a bitch, but it’s best done because Ronaldo, as I said, is a runner.

And now he won’t be able to run.

Or possibly breathe.

I haven’t decided which one serves our purposes.

We were paid to put the fear of God into Ronaldo, and once he has paid, we will kill him. He just doesn’t know that bit of information yet.

But sometimes, just sometimes, we slip and kill them sooner. Well, I wouldn’t say slip, considering we don’t fuck up. It’s not in our nature to do that. It really depends on what mood I am in. And right now, as I lift the knife and look at the crimson blood that stains it, I wonder if it’s Ronaldo’s time as well.

Should he die tonight, like the scum he is on the dirty cement ground?

Or maybe another day?

Kyson removes his foot from Ronaldo’s back and bends down until he is in his face.

Kenzo slides his gun back in place and walks over to his twin.

“You have two days, then we’ll be back. You better have paid your dues and said your goodbyes.” Kyson reaches for his face and kisses his forehead before he pulls back.

And we all know what that means. He’s just given him the kiss of death.

Kyson is going to be the one to kill him.

I remember the first time I saw him do that. He was barely an adult, technically still a teenager. He came to one of my jobs with me. He was talking to the guy, then leaned down and kissed his forehead, whispered something to him before he stood, and smashed his head into the ground with his boot, effectively fucking him up. He finished him off with a shot to the head.

Really, when you think about it, it’s all fucked-up shit.

But we love it.