My beta, Sunflower Fran, has started a new project with the support of her group, Pay It Forward. It's her goal to seek out new writers and offer them the help they need to put themselves out there. Not just her services as a beta, but all the support a new author needs. PIF has amazing ladies who will help with banners, pre-reading and a built-in network of readers ready to give your story a try. So if you've considered writing, or have a few things stashed on your PC, this is a wonderful network of support. Please feel free to contact me or Fran, and come join the group if you might be interested :)
My lovely prereaders are Ninkita, 2browneyes and Sunshine1220! Thanks so much, ladies!
Gore rating—5 (less death, but a little more hands on)
The monster scratches and snarls as I push him back into his fucking cage so the cold, calculating part of my mind is in control. This voice is familiar to me, from long ago, but then it wasn't laced with age and anger.
Slowly, my fist unclenches, and Nahuel drops to the floor like a dead weight. "Maria," I say as I hold up my hands beside me and turn to the voice. The tip of her sawed-off, single-barrel shotgun is smashed into Caius' cheek.
I give her a smug grin and relax my stance. "One bullet, two men. Seems you're at a disadvantage here."
She laughs, but it's more of a cackle—enough to rattle my fucking ear drums—and moves suddenly. Her arms swing back, and she lands the butt of the shotgun to the back of Caius' neck. He drops to the floor like a sack of fucking bricks.
My eyes narrow at the old bitch. "So this is how you wanna play?" I widen my arms, ready to tackle her ass from here, but a move in my periphery catches my attention.
Nahuel—I'd almost forgotten his fucking ass.
My mind is calculating as I pull out my knife and pin the tip to his temple. "Maybe you should've kept your hostage," I say, pushing hard enough to break the skin, sending blood trickling from the wound. "Now, you're at the fucking disadvantage."
A snaggletooth smile forms on her wrinkly ass face. "Kill him, see if I care. I warned him, but he wouldn't listen." She cuts her dark, hate-filled eyes to Nahuel, who's trembling from head to fucking toe. "Such a sad little waste. I had big dreams for us, boy, and you went the stupid route. The Cullens bring death to everything they touch." She spits a giant fucking loogie at his feet. "This is your punishment for not listening to me."
I smirk—since she insisted—and brace my free hand on his head before driving the knife into his temple until the handle comes flush. His body tenses against the intrusion before slowly falling limp. I release him, and he slumps sideways to the floor.
Not as slowly as the monster would've liked, but somehow deeply fucking satisfying. "Guess we're even now." I shrug and bring my hands together in front of me, appearing completely relaxed—though I'm just waiting for the moment when I can snap her scrawny, brittle neck.
Her eyes flit to Caius before coming back to me. "Not quite," she says, squatting beside him while keeping the shotgun pointed my way.
She brushes her fingers through his hair like a deranged old bat. "He sure is a pretty one. I hate to have to kill him, but he's just another Cullen casualty."
Stretching out her arm, she grabs the machete Nahuel was holding earlier—right at her goddamn feet, no less—so I make every effort to distract her. "So what's this all about, Maria? I haven't seen you since before college."
She snorts. "Yeah, that's how the fancy-pantsy Cullens are. Don't mind giving us their blood money in exchange for drugs, but when we really need them, they abandon us. Amun, God rest his soul"—she does the sign of the cross while still holding the machete—"always did right by you people, even when I tried my best to get him to cut you loose."
I refrain from rolling my eyes as it's very fucking apparent she's bitter over something. "My father and Amun had a great relationship."
She reaches over and grabs Caius' ponytail, holding it taut so that she can use the machete to saw it off just above the hair thingy. I might even feel a little rush of glee when she dangles it in front of her face for a closer inspection—it always has looked stupid as fuck.
She tosses it to the dirt at her feet. "I'm sure their relationship was great if your name was Cullen, but all it ever brought us was trouble from the cartels. He asked for help, but your father never provided it. And now he's dead." She shakes her head sadly, but this hag isn't sad, she's out for blood. "If Nahuel would've listened to me, we could've built a grand enterprise."
My muscles are tense and at the ready, though I appear calm as a fucking cucumber on the outside. "He never had a chance."
She runs the machete along Caius' back like a loving caress—any minute she's going to drive it through him. When she fists his hair and yanks, exposing his neck to the blade, I react, diving across the few feet that separate us and tackling her to the dirt. The machete falls away, but she's quick. By the time we've landed, she's produced a knife and delivered a sweeping slash across the top of my left shoulder blade, slicing through the backpack strap and down toward my underarm.
It burns like fucking hell, but I ignore the pain and grip her wrist, beating her hand against a random chair that we knocked over during the scuffle. The knife falls, and I position one knee against her throat while I grab her middle three fingers and snap them motherfuckers in half. She howls, but I laugh in her fucking face and reposition myself, wrapping both hands around her neck and squeezing. She chokes before her mouth falls open in a silent scream, her uninjured hand flapping uselessly against my arm. Her face starts to flush, and her struggling becomes more sluggish the longer she goes without air.
When I'm sure she's out fucking cold, I stand and grab my 9 mil, sending two shots straight into her skull. Then I go over and nudge Caius with my foot—a little fucking harder than necessary, but who cares?
He slowly sits up, grabbing the back of his head—probably because of the pain radiating from there, but he gets a fucking surprise. "What the fuck!" He jumps up, his hands going crazy trying to find that missing ponytail.
I bark out a laugh—mostly because I'm a cruel motherfucker. "Maria took it as a souvenir." I tilt my head to the bundle of hair lying in the dirt.
His wild eyes focus on it before roaming the room, taking stock of the two assholes I've already killed. "You do all this?"
I give him a fucking look as I widen my arms. "Who the hell else?"
He shakes his head a little, trying to get his fucking shit together. "So what now?"
"We torch the place," I snap—like we originally goddamn planned. "Did you get fucking amnesia or something?"
He shakes his head again, giving himself a little smack—like that'll fucking help. "Got it, Boss. The accelerant."
Since this is a block structure, we're going to have to be meticulous when it comes to making sure it burns sufficiently enough to destroy all the evidence. Not that Mexico has top-notch forensics to begin with, but I never do a job half-ass, no matter where I am.
I swing the dangling backpack around to my front and pull open the small zippered pocket. It's imperative that I keep all my blood in my person, as much as humanly fucking possible. My fingers dig around until they close on the small tube I insisted be a part of my accessory kit.
I pull it out and hold it up. "First I need you to seal this wound." I turn and squat a little, giving him my shoulder.
"Shit!" he curses as he lifts the shirt, ripping it from the dried blood and looping the material over my shoulder. I wince slightly, and he uses his gloved fingers to open the little tube of super glue, snapping the tip off with his front teeth. "This is gonna sting, Boss."
I speak between clenched teeth. "Just fucking do it."
It takes another minute before I feel anything, but when I do, my whole goddamn shoulder lights up like it's on fire. "Son-of-a-bitch."
It's like I can feel every single cell of my fucking skin melting back together, and it's more painful than actually being fucking cut. Blowing deep, steady breaths, I work through the worst of it until the raging burn turns into a constant, manageable sting.
I shove my shirt back down over my back and toss him the backpack. "Grab the accelerant and torch. Let's burn this motherfucker to the ground."
We start in the basement, which is easy as hell because of all the fucking cardboard. That shit is flammable as fuck, making this room the easiest part of our job. With flames licking toward the ceiling, we toss any used weapons into the flames and move upstairs. One at a time, we douse a room with a small bit of accelerant and light it the fuck up—the bodies get their own individual sprinkle.
By the time we exit through the front door, smoke is pouring through the heat-busted windows as an orange glow begins to light the area around the house. Caius grabs the cutters and heads for the fence in the opposite direction we came in from, cutting a large opening. He does the same along the back fence before we exit the same as we entered.
It's two in the morning by now, and with a two and a half hour trip left before we get back to Puerto Vallarta, time is of the fucking essence. Yet, there's still another important step to take. Caius heads to the trunk of the car while I scout around, using his super beam, for a nice spot to dig.
When he returns with a short-handed shovel, I point to the spot. "Dig here, and be quick about it. Time's a fucking ticking."
He huffs as he gets to his knees and shoves the shovel into the dry dirt intent on his mission. Ten minutes later, he has a hole big enough for what we need. "I think this'll do," he says as he tosses the shovel into the hole.
I toss the backpack down first, sans the accelerant, and then start disrobing while Caius does the same. Every stitch of our clothes, aside from three items, goes into the hole: our gloves, hats and Calvin Kleins. Standing almost bare, we use the last bit of accelerant before tossing a match to ignite it all into a fucking ball of flames.
It's almost therapeutic, watching it all burn to a pile of ash. The monster himself takes a victory lap, as if he's the sole motherfucker responsible for every life we took tonight. But I digress. Word gets around, and people need to be reminded who they're fucking with from time to time.
After the hole is filled in, Caius and I re-dress, returning to Anthony and Carl—aside from my fucking souvenir—and get back to the bungalow only thirty minutes before sunrise. Since my shoulder's been marred, I'm the one who lazes around in bed as breakfast is delivered while Caius parades around in his Speedo and a swimming cap—hiding his new hairdo.
Our only other meeting this trip consists of dinner at a fancy joint in Puerto Vallarta proper with an old contact, Zafrina, and her partner, Renata. After a terse debate, we're able to come to a reasonable—especially for the Outfit—agreement. Her organization is responsible for getting the shipments across the border to my guy Felix, and he makes sure they make it to Chicago.
By the end of dinner, my shoulder is burning and I'm tired as hell, so any couple-y activities are off the table. I'm going to fucking bed and dreaming of only good things. Well, one good thing if my mind can even make a reproduction—it's been goddamn days since I last saw her.
When I fall into bed, it's like I fall into a goddamn black hole, and when Caius shakes me awake the next morning, my head is still groggy from the fucking dreamless slumber. I dress in a daze, my mind computing that I'm heading home, yet my body remains sluggish and tired.
I don't even have the energy to flirt with José as I return the rental—and, oh yeah, he's eagerly awaiting me. All I can do is offer a wink as I turn to walk away. My fucking shoulder is sore as hell, and I can't wait to kick back on this fucking plane and just finish my goddamn nap—I need to be rested and ready when we hit Chicago.
One minute I'm relaxed back in my luxury airline seat, Bella dancing between my parted knees, and the next, a searing pain radiates from my shoulder, moving down through my fucking chest. I react instantly, bringing my free hand up to grab at whatever's fucking stabbing me, but meet flesh instead—someone else's flesh. Driven by both agony and a building anger, I clamp onto the offending arm and bring it down, twisting so that the wrist is bent to its breaking point.
As my mind struggles to overcome the distress, a voice breaks into my consciousness. "It's gonna snap, Boss. Please, it's me. It's Caius."
Though my eyes are open, everything is fuzzy, and my singular focus is on the offending appendage I'm about to break. But his voice slowly breaks through as the urgency level rises, and I'm finally able to loosen my grip.
My eyes dart to his face. "What the fuck did you do!" I yell, shoving him away from me and standing. My knees almost buckle from the stab of pain that moves down my chest. I grip the back of the seat in front of me to stay upright. "Ahhh, it fucking hurts." I grab my chest and crumble back into my seat.
Caius disappears, to where I can't even be bothered to fucking care—my shoulder is throbbing, and my head is light. I'm not sure how long I sit there, but at some point, Demetri's voice breaks through the haze.
"Edward," he calls, touching my leg, forcing my eyes to pop open. "We've got to get you up, son. Okay?"
I blink a couple times and focus on his face before offering a nod. "Sure," I respond, my voice gruff due to my fucking dry ass throat.
When he reaches to help me, I physically withdraw, the memory of the pain from earlier cemented in my mind. "I got it."
He looks at me skeptically before taking a step back, where I can now see Caius lingering behind him with concern lacing his fucking eyes. "Gesù Cristo," I say as I stand on shaky legs. "You two need to get a fucking life."
Though I'm standing, even I can admit that something is fucking wrong. Judging from the pain that's radiating from my upper back, I'd even fucking venture to say that bitch Maria left her goddamn mark. A low growl escapes, but neither of these motherfuckers are deterred. They both follow me—like I might fall out at any fucking second—off the plane and onto the tarmac, where Demetri has the Mercedes waiting.
He scurries ahead and pulls the back door open, and because I feel like shit, I don't complain. I pretty much dive inside, making sure to keep my left shoulder from bumping anything. With a face full of black leather, I allow the soothing hum of the engine to lull my mind as the car races away.
"Edward." Demetri's voice rouses me from the light nap I lapsed into for the drive. I lift my head a little and recognize the scene outside the car. "Doc's inside waiting on ya."
Though I'm not very happy to be here, specifically, I can't deny the need to see Doc. Lifting up as much as the car will allow, I slide my body over until both my feet are on the asphalt driveway. I take a fucking minute to get my shit together before standing. The walk in is okay—I can do it without help—but the fucking pain that radiates from my shoulder is blistering.
When Caius falls into step beside me, I roll my fucking eyes. "What the hell?"
He throws his hands up in front of him. "Don't mind me, Boss. Just making sure ya don't die on my watch."
If I could chuckle without shaking my sore shoulder, I would, but as it is, I offer what I hope is a smirk. "Consider yourself off the hook."
"Yeah, I don—"
"We had a good trip. Don't fucking ruin it," I interrupt, all traces of humor gone.
"Got it, Boss. Later." He turns and heads back in the same direction we came from.
I follow Demetri down the familiar hallways of my childhood home, hoping like hell that Mother doesn't know I'm here—or even better, she's not home. When he stops outside my father's office, my brows hike up my forehead.
"Pop is here?" I ask, a little stunned. Not that he never comes here, because he does. It's just usually during the day when Mother is out doing all her high society bullshit. Maybe I did get lucky, and she's not home.
Demetri doesn't reply, he just turns the knob and pushes open the door. Inside sits Doc, the Boss … and my fucking mother.
Shit!
"Darling," she drawls, in her "acquired" snobby accent. "What have you done to yourself. You look dreadful."
"Thanks, Mother," I reply as I move to sit in the empty wingback chair Doc's positioned in front of him.
"Elizabeth," Pop says in his most patronizing tone. "As you can see, he'll live. So if you'll excuse us … " He leaves the sentence hanging, but she knows it's best to comply.
With an exaggerated sigh, she stands and strolls over, kissing my cheek. "Be more careful." Her fingers go for my chin, grasping it between them. "You could always take over as charity head and leave this viciousness behind."
I shake my head, effectively snatching my chin away. "Mother, you know this argument is just that—a fucking argument. And frankly, I'm not up to it at the moment. I feel like shit."
She bristles visibly, but holds her tongue. With a shrewd head to toe glance over me, she huffs and turns, leaving me in some fucking peace. I drop my head back against the chair with a sigh.
"What the fuck, Pop?"
His voice is exasperated when he speaks. "She was here, and this was a little impromptu."
Doc waves his hands over me. "What we talking?"
"Knife cut to my left shoulder blade," I reply, already sitting forward, trying to peel my shirt up some, but the goddamn pain intensifies tenfold. "Cazzo di Budda!"
As I'm writhing in pain, Pop stands and takes one big swipe across his desk, clearing everything that's on top of it. My eyes jump to his at the sudden noise of all his shit crashing to the floor.
"Again, what the fuck?"
He motions to the flat, wooden surface. "With the way you're acting, I think we need a makeshift work table. Get over here."
I stand and lean over the desk until my entire upper body lies across it with my back on display. The next thing I know, two motherfuckers are working on me. Pop is sliding a pair of scissors up the back of the pansy-ass yellow Polo, and Doc is already looking for a vein.
"I'm gonna hook you up with some antibiotics, and do you want a painkiller, too?" Doc asks as he gets a pouch of solution out of his bag.
"Tylenol?"
He makes a whistling sound as he looks over my wound. "It's actually sealed up nice. But it looks as if some fibers from your shirt are caught in there, which is most likely causing the infection. Super Glue?"
"Had to improvise," I say, the pain reminding me that shrugging is out of the fucking question.
"I'm gonna have to reopen it, clean it and reseal it—with surgical glue this time." He lifts a smartass brow in my direction. "Think you can handle the pain? The antibiotics will start helping with the infection almost instantly, but the soreness will be much better by tomorrow night."
"Can't you fucking numb the skin or some shit?" I ask, not liking the idea of toughing it out with nothing at all.
He shrugs. "Sure."
"Well let's do that and the antibiotics."
Doc gets to work as Pop settles in his chair behind the desk. "I was surprised to hear Maria was anywhere around Nahuel." He reaches down and grabs a cigar and his Zippo from the floor. "I thought she'd be retired to a cushy villa somewhere."
I snort. "Well, you thought wrong. That crazy old bat was out for blood; Cullen blood."
The Boss lights his cigar, his face pensive as he takes a couple puffs, releasing the smoke off to the side—thank fuck. "Interesting," he finally utters, and that's it—that's the only fucking thing he says.
I file that away to ponder when I'm not in so much pain, and from the corner of my eye, I notice Doc jab a needle into the port of my IV. "What's that?" I ask, because the antibiotic is already being administered.
"Relax, Edward. It's just Ibuprofen. I know ya didn't want anything heavy, but this'll help while not fucking with ya head. Like Tylenol." He shrugs and digs into his bag, setting out a few supplies.
When his gloved hands move toward my back, I brace myself for the blinding pain I'm sure is to follow—and it comes. It's not quite as forceful as earlier, but still enough to make me clench my fucking jaw and let out a low groan. The whole process carries on in just that manner. Low groans and grunts along with tense muscles and the occasional "fuck" here and there—well, more than occasional, but that's just me.
What's interesting, though, is by the time he's done, I actually feel a little better. Sure, my shoulder is throbbing like my goddamn cock does when I watch Bella dance—only it hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. But my head is actually less foggy than it was when I first arrived.
Pop never does expand any on the Maria incident, and frankly, I'm just too ready to get home to even give a fuck enough to ask. I will ask, though. It'll just have to be another day. I leave his office, only to smile when Demetri's waiting on the other side of the door, holding up an old Polo he must've grabbed from my room.
"Thought you might need this," he says, passing it over.
I take it with a nod and slip it over my head, spewing only a few grunts and curses. "One more ride as Anthony, thank fucking God." I roll my fucking eyes, ready to be in my own home, dressed in my own clothes right the fuck now.
"When we get back to Cullen Place, you just head on up to the penthouse. I'll make sure Anthony's stuff is taken care of and then check on you in a bit," he says as we make our way back toward the Mercedes.
After settling in the passenger seat, I shake my head. "You know that's not how it works. I need to finish the trip as Anthony."
His voice is stern when he responds. "Not this time. I said I'll take care of it, and I will." He's quiet for a second seeing if I'll argue, but I don't. I want to be back in my own skin so fucking bad that I'm willing to risk it this once. "Besides, there's nothing like walking into your home after a trip like the one you've just had. You can thank me later." He gives me a weird little side-eye, but what-the-fuck-ever.
He's right. Just this once.
"My gloves and hat are in my luggage. Make sure they're incinerated."
The rest of the ride is spent in silence, and I've never been so fucking relieved to pull into my parking garage as I am when we finally fucking do. These fucking contacts are starting to dry my eyes, and this mass of gunk on my hair makes my head feel ten fucking times heavier than it is.
"Thanks, Demetri. You're a life saver," I offer as I pull open the door and step my achy-ass body from the car.
He chuckles and mumbles something under his breath I don't quite catch, but that's o-fucking-kay. I can verbally spar with him another day.
The ride up the elevator is more soothing than it has ever been, mostly because I'm so goddamn desperate to be Edward Cullen again.
The elevator ding is like music to my fucking ears.
And the sight that greets me when the doors open is heart-stoppingly beautiful—and pissed, too, if I have to guess.
I smile because I can't fucking hold it back.
"Bella."
I've been super busy, but I've also found the time to work on Operation. Next chapter will post, not next week, but early the following one. So 10ish days. Lots of juicy BxE to come ;)
Since this is a Friday post, replies will only be to those I can make it to today. I figured you'd rather have the chapter more than the replies—I hope!
See you soonish :)