J. Redmerski - Behind The Hands That Kill

1 stEdition

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, historical events, businesses, companies, products, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, persons living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 Jessica Ann Redmerski

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole, or in part, and in any form.

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without prior written permission is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.

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Cover Art By Michelle Monique Photography | www.michellemoniquephoto.com

Cover Image | Dundanim

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Even professional killers need vacations, but for Victor Faust, his vacation in Venezuela is about more than relaxation and time alone with Izabel Seyfried. It is a chance for him to come clean to Izabel: to tell her the truth about why he sent her to Italy with his brother, the truth behind his interest in Nora Kessler, and about his knowledge of Izabel’s child with her former captor. But before Victor can spill his soul, reality proves that for some killers, vacations are just pipedreams.

Attacked and kidnapped, Izabel finds herself stuffed in a suitcase, while Victor later wakes up imprisoned in a cage. In any other situation, Victor would find a way out and save himself and the woman he loves—but not this time. When the identities of their kidnappers are revealed, Victor loses all hope, and begins the mental process of accepting his and Izabel’s last moments together. And Izabel’s final moments of life.

As if his circumstances are not complicated enough, members of Vonnegut’s Order are finally closing in on Victor. And when they do, he comes face-to-face with someone else he once knew and loved, who could either help him, or make a grave situation much worse. Victor’s past has finally caught up with him: the women he has cared for, loved, and killed; the families he has destroyed; the unforgivable crimes he has committed. And now he must face the consequences, and pay the ultimate price for absolution.

But when it is all over, Victor may not have the strength to pick up what is left and move on. Because the event changes him. Because love changed him. And because, unlike before when he thought it is was for the best, he cannot imagine a life without Izabel.

There I sat, my face swollen, blood dripping from my mouth, and a beautiful young woman named Artemis Stone unconscious at my feet.

I was barely in my mid-twenties; Artemis three years younger than me. She had been my assignment for one year before this day: play the role of her lover, gain her trust, kill her father, and her mother, and her three brothers. The Order was testing me, I knew, as I sat slumped, bound by both ankles and one arm to that metal chair. But in what way was I being tested? I was already a full operative; I had surpassed everyone in my group; I was beyond assignments like the one with Artemis—it was more my brother’s job, to play a role and work from the inside. I missed the rooftops, the feel of the sniper rifle in my hand, the scope pressed to my eye, the moment I stopped breathing before I took the shot and played the role of God. The utter silence that followed.

Why was I here? And why was this man’s face so familiar? I suppose the most pressing question I should have been asking myself was: How did I allow myself to get in this situation?

“You’re probably asking yourself,” the man who introduced himself as Osiris said, “how the fuck someone like you could get himself in a situation like this.” He laughed; his teeth were stark white against the backdrop of his mixed Haitian skin. I knew he was probably related to Artemis, and that was probably why he looked familiar. They shared many physical similarities: dark caramel-colored skin, black hair, dark brown eyes with a distinct slant in the corners, and high cheekbones that were severe and exquisite. Artemis was half Haitian half Venezuelan, one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Osiris resembled her. Another brother, perhaps? It was my second guess, next to a scorned lover, which I aborted early on because he did not fit the profile. But there was something off about the brother theory too: brothers don’t usually want someone to kill their sisters. This ‘Osiris’—the name also similar to Artemis’s in its mythological origin—put the knife in my unbound hand; he had been beating me for ten minutes because I refused to slit Artemis’s throat. If he wanted her dead so badly—related or not—why would he not just do it himself?

I could have killed Osiris—two opportunities passed me by—but I was not ready to kill him yet. I needed answers first.

“The only way you’re getting out of here alive, Victor Faust,” Osiris said, grinning at me just five feet away, “is by killing her. Why are you stalling?”

“Haven’t we already been over this?” I said, taunting him. “You are not very good at this, are you?”

Nothing I ever said fazed him much; always grinning, his dark eyes backlit with the upper hand. I admitted it to myself as I sat there: he did have the upper hand—it was the only thing keeping him alive. As far as why I would not kill Artemis: I was not commissioned to kill her; no orders had been passed along to me from Vonnegut to take Artemis out.

And…there was another reason, too.

“If you want her dead,” I offered, my head dizzying from the blows I’d taken, “then do it yourself.” Artemis made a slight movement at my feet, but then she went still again; her long, silky black hair covered her face. Osiris had knocked her out cold when he stormed into the room and pulled her naked body off mine.

“And we’ve already been over that too,” Osiris said. “It’s not my job to kill her.” He leaned back in his chair, lifting the front legs from the ceramic tile floor. He smiled and cocked his head to one side, tapped the barrel of his gun against his leg. Osiris was young, but older than Artemis; still wet behind the ears, and cocky, which I had not decided yet worked to his disadvantage or not. Cocky was never a good trait to have in the professional killing business, but so far Osiris seemed to manage it well. And that bothered me. Whether he was a professional still had yet to be seen.