Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

He ripped open the baggie. His nose twitched from the sweet scent of ether. Turning his head, he blinked the sting from his eyes. Once his vision cleared, he stormed the short distance to the master bedroom, cranked the knob and shoved open the door. It banged against the drywall.

Sprawled on the king-sized bed, the bitch snorted but didn’t stir. A soft snore accompanied the drool coming out of her mouth. A glass lay on the plush carpet next to an upturned carafe and prescription bottle. Not a drop of wine or a single tablet stained the white carpet.

“Figures.” Losers couldn’t face their failures. Liquid oozed between his fingers and the stench of ether burned his eyes and nose. He held his breath. His chest burned and pressure built up behind his eyes as he sealed the baggie.

Finished, Trent gasped for breath. What a waste. The bitch had done the ether’s job for him. Anger simmered in his belly, radiating heat to his fingers and toes. She probably wouldn’t have the decency to wake up when he killed her. Dropping the baggie, he uncoiled the noose and stalked closer.

The bitch always ruined everything for him.

He set one knee onto the bed and the mattress dipped. Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he lifted her head and eased the loop around her neck.

Not even a flicker of an eyelid. His fingers curled into fists and his arms trembled. He wanted to slap her, wake her. But no, according to those forensics shows, that would leave marks. Gently, he pinched her nostrils shut.

She opened her mouth.

Swearing, Trent slipped his arms under her back and legs, lifting her from the bed. Shadows flickered over them as he straightened. Kicking aside the rope, he glanced at the TV. His son smiled from the screen. Five candles jutted from the group of dinosaurs on the cake.

Trent frowned at the picture. He didn’t remember that birthday. The camera panned the crowd of eager young faces and bored adults. Neither did he see himself. Not that unusual given his hours. But still, the Thomases were there. He’d never touched base with them about a policy. They’d have been worth at least half a million before the Redaction hit. That would have been a nice commission.

His ex mumbled in her sleep.

He juggled his hold until his lips pressed against her ear. “Wake up, babe. It’s almost time to die.”

Nothing.

“You’ve gained weight, you fat bitch.” His growl rumbled through him as he staggered out the door.

“Trent.” She whispered but didn’t open her eyes to look at him. Her foul breath washed over him, penetrated the mask.

He coughed and his mask slipped. Bending, he dropped her to the ground, pulled in the rope, and quickly tied a knot around the banister. He wiped his hands on the bunny suit’s pants before lifting her to her feet. Her head lolled back.

“This is the last time you’ll deprive me of my due.”

He pushed her over the edge. For a moment he thought she opened her eyes. Then she disappeared from view. Leaning over the railing, he watched the rope stretch taut and heard a crack. A moment later, all that remained was the creak of rope as her body swung to and fro.

The bitch didn’t even jerk or claw at the rope around her neck. Trent waited a heartbeat before retrieving the baggie from the bedroom.

He trudged down the stairs, grabbed his duffle and slipped into the night. As if to aid him, the moon slipped behind the cloud. After locking the door, he crossed the yard and crept into the riparian area.

Perfect.

Just as he planned.

Well, not exactly. She hadn’t suffered like she deserved. Still there was Belinda. He could hurt her all he wanted, and she’d still beg for more. Clutching the bag to his chest, he ran through the shadows to her house.

Easing inside the arcadia door, he paused. No sound disturbed the night. She’d never known he was gone. His alibi was intact. Stripping, he stuffed everything into his murder kit then returned it to his Jag. He poured himself a glass of wine then jogged up the stairs.

The smell of evacuated bowels hit him as he walked into the bedroom. What the… In the soft candlelight, he spied the fecal matter between her spread thighs. Wooden legs carried him to her side and he stabbed her neck with two fingers. The skin felt cool to his touch. And worse…

No pulse.

Her chest didn’t rise and fall either.

Rage welled up inside him like an erupting volcano. His ex hadn’t suffered. His fist struck Belinda’s face. His alibi was gone. Her nose crunched under the impact. His arms pumped like pistons—over and over until his lead-filled limbs dragged him down to the side of the bed. Warm blood trickled down his arms and soaked into the bedspread. Covering his face, he choked back a sob.

Why did women have to ruin everything?

David tucked in his tee shirt as he dodged the puddles on the glistening asphalt. The Colonel wanted to see him; that couldn’t be good. His breath hitched in his lungs. Could Colonel Asshole have figured out that David had told his men about the Redaction’s return?

He wouldn’t put it passed the CO to bug the men’s barracks.

David paused in a circle of light, crouched down and tied his boots. The wet laces slipped through his fingers as he knotted the lengths then tucked them into the side of his boots. Straightening, he fumbled with the zipper of his ACU jacket. His breath fogged the night in bursts of white as he hustled through the camp.

So how was he going to play this?

Rounding the canvas mess hall, he slowed to a jog. He damn sure he wouldn’t let his men take the fall for his actions. In front of him, the administration portable hunkered on its concrete slab. Dead bushes and grass surrounded the raised building.

Wood creaked as he mounted the six steps leading up to the building’s door. His hand closed around the clammy knob before he pulled the reinforced steel door open. Warm air washed over him when he entered, and David fought off the wave of claustrophobia. He was a soldier, meant for the rough conditions of the front line, not a cushy job pushing papers.

The heat pump hummed along as memories pummeled him. For the last six months, the only time he’d been called into this building was to collect the dead. In the recessed ceiling, the fluorescent emergency lights buzzed. Removing his hat, he strode down the long corridor. His footsteps thudded hollowly. Raising his arms, he fingered the empty brass plates next to the closed office doors.

Major Donaldson with her ready smile.

Lieutenant Glen a straitlaced officer, but a hell-raising drinking buddy.

Sergeant Habib—first generation American and damn proud of it.

David rolled his head, releasing the tightness bunching his shoulders. He hated this building. Hopefully, they’d tear it down when this mess was over.

If it ever ended.

If anyone was left.

David entered the wide, open space of the secretarial pool. Dust gathered on the papers and files on three of the desks. The fourth was clean and a screen saver danced across the computer monitor.

A map of the city hung on the wall behind it. Red marker outlined their corpse collection territory. As the Redaction progressed, the lines had been redrawn again and again until their collection zone covered nearly a third of Phoenix. Someone posted a sticky note in the center of the map—”See body. Pick up body. Refer men Rule!”

Shaking his head, David wound his way through the desks to the closed door in the opposite wall. A shadow sliced through the light seeping under the door. David squared his shoulders.

No worries.

No indication that he’d done anything wrong.

The CO would sense any weakness like a shark did blood in the water. Tucking his hat in his belt, David rapped on the door three times. The sound echoed through the building like a fading heartbeat.