I saw them getting out of their car right in front of the window, and I calculated the risk of exposure and the possibility that they aren’t here for me.

  They shouldn’t be since my contacts all have been quiet about my identity. It’s a tightknit group of few people who are also wanted by Interpol for their crimes. If one snitches on another, death is the only solution before they can talk.

  We always have a way of knowing, it did happen once, and the woman was silenced with her body not found even till this day.

  I decided that I should stay to avoid Holly’s confusion; she might let something slip if she’s questioned by the detectives. I have known the police to use underhand methods to get information; it’s not illegal but definitely not their finest work.

  “I’m Detective Hans, and this is Detective Wallis,” the heavier man greets with a disarming smile.

  Holly being the naïve, little girl stops eating the spoonful of frozen yogurt; her confusion flashes strongly over her face. She swallows the dessert and licks her lips to clean off the white cream.

  She meets my eyes from across the table before looking over to Isaac.

  “Hi?” she says, dropping her spoon in the yogurt cup that’s next to the glass of iced coffee.

  Her lunch had been devoured by her little mouth, and she still has room for a dessert. She says that a meal without dessert isn’t a meal; it’s not the most peculiar thing I have heard, but it is not a viable truth.

  “We would like to ask you some questions,” Hans says as he flashes his badge to establish which side he is on.

  He’s not on mine so he isn’t on Holly’s either. Isaac makes sure that they don’t stand too close to him to get to Holly; his arm slings across her shoulders and brings her closer to him.

  “Regarding what?” he asks back.

  Hans furrows his brows, inspecting Isaac with keen eyes as he looks like he wants to remember where he had seen Isaac. He should be easily recognized; his face is plastered on articles and case files for being able to win cases that have a chance of success lower than ten percent.

  That man is a shark in blood-infested waters, savage and intelligent.

  “I’m sorry, but who are you?” Hans frowns.

  “I’m Holly’s lawyer, Isaac Verille,” Isaac fishes out a business card from his suit pocket as his arm slides down to Holly’s waist.

  Recognition flashes in the detective’s eyes; he takes the card with a nod and shoves it into his pocket.

  The other man, Wallis, examines me with a hint of bafflement in his face, but he’s more focused on the tattoos on my arms. People who don’t know the name Kian don’t know where to look for confirmation, but those who know would see one look at an inconspicuous scorpion tattoo, and they would know.

  “And you, sir?” Wallis asks.

  “John Wilson,” I lie easily with my driver’s license out for the man to check.

  He might as well be looking at the name to be John Smith because it’s so common. My eyes flicker towards Holly as her lips curl in curiosity, but that subtle tightening of Isaac’s arm stops her from voicing that confusion to the name.

  “Thank you, sir,” Wallis says with a nod.

  They turn their attention to Holly, who shrinks into Isaac’s side. The attention on her is not welcomed by her as she’s anxious around the two men. Isaac takes the lead on this. His knowledge in criminal law can help Holly if she is in any legal trouble, and I don’t want them to run my identification across their databases.

  My face might not be flagged by Interpol because they don’t know what I look like, but when they dig deeper into the past of John Wilson, they will find that I don’t exist physically in any schools or towns that the identity comes with.

  “This would be better discussed down at the station,” Hans says with a smile.

  It’s faker than Isaac’s common courtesy smile; at least he makes it believable. This man isn’t even trying to hide his disdain towards Isaac; the loathing of lawyers is a given for police officers.

  Criminals aren’t their only enemy. Lawyers are one of their biggest pain in the ass with the loopholes and technical speeches of the constitution.

  “No, she is not going anywhere,” Isaac growls, glaring at the senior officer.

  I watch as the detective take a white piece of paper out, “I came prepared. This is a Personal Protection Order signed by a federal judge.”

  He hands it to Isaac, who opens it and read every word on it. The content must be important for the dark lines to appear on his face and a vein pulsing on his temple.

  “The Butcher case?” it’s not a question for the detectives, but it’s for me to know what the content of the letter is.

  “Yes, we have reason to believe she might be in danger,” Hans clarifies, “Please come with us, Ms. Price.”

  Isaac and I exchange looks before he stands to let Holly scoot out. I follow suit to stand as Isaac and I both tower over the two detectives who are clearly not going to do anything stupid.

  I’ll snap their necks before they can reach for their guns.

  “Do not speak one word,” Isaac runs a hand through Holly’s hair.

  “I will be riding with her, detectives,” Isaac said; there is no room for them to say otherwise.

  He tosses me his keys. The sharp edges cut into my palm as I send a glare towards the detectives. My concern is Holly’s frightened eyes, but I know Isaac would take good care of her.

  I’m not needed at the station, he has that legal nonsense on his side, and that animalistic glimmer in Isaac’s blue eyes says enough. He’s not going to let the detectives breathe a word to Holly, and I know the law good enough to know that she doesn’t have to say anything.

  Legally, the detectives have to let her go if they have no probable cause to detain her for questioning since she isn’t under arrest.

  “We will see you later, John,” Isaac nods his head, shooting me a stoic gaze.

  Holly is worried as she holds onto Isaac’s hand. I walk up to her and fist my hand into her hair. She hiccups with her head tipped up as I whisper into her ears, too low for Isaac and the detectives to hear.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  She whimpers, “I’m scared.”

  “You have me,” I say as she nods silently.

  I press a kiss to her ear, staring into the window where busy cars zoom past and pedestrians going about their day. By the time I move away, people are already looking at us with murmurs of rubbish flying from their mouths.

  They are at a restaurant; the only thing that should be in their mouths is food and not gossip.

  This is why I prefer solitude; people are annoying and a waste of space.

  “W-where are you going?” Holly hurriedly asks, grasping my hand with panic in her eyes.

  “I will see you at home,” I tell her and walk away.

  I have to get away now, or I won’t be able to at all; her big eyes haunt me when she lets her fingers slip from mine. For the sake of her, I have to do something to ensure her safety while she’s being occupied right now.

  Stepping out of the restaurant and into an alley that leads to another big intersection, I avoid the cameras on the streets from their given angle and cut through other smaller streets to see if I’m being followed.

  I’m not, and it’s good. I make it to a street with less traffic and a population filled with junkies and homeless people. They have to think twice about approaching me when I have a physique of a boxer.

  I can, and I will break their bones. Drugs and malnutrition make bones weak with less protection for their internal organs.

  One punch and I can shatter their ribcages, but I don’t want to draw attention to where I have been.

  I locate a payphone with no cameras around the streets. Then I find the most likely escape route that can have me blending into the crowd when I make it into the busy streets again. This place is more of abandoned industrial factories than any other place in a twenty-miles radius. It’s perfect for me to make a call.

  Tugging my cap down, I slide into the payphone booth while keeping an eye out for the unwanted company.

  My knuckles punch in a series of numbers. I have no need for quarters when this is a secure way to beat the system and tap into the darknet which is an established line of communication for many criminals.

  The cops don’t know this form of communication, and it’s impossible to trace the calls, and I did make sure that the phone isn’t physically or digitally wiretapped when the mechanical voice confirms that it is safe to proceed to the next step.

  Without leaving any fingerprints, I punch in the next series of codes against the metal buttons as the receiver doesn’t echo the usual number dialing tones. This is to prevent anyone from figuring out the code through the different tones of the beeps.

  Many criminals have been caught doing that.

  I wait until the mechanical voice patches me through with the list of services that it provides. I maneuver all the options and choose the best one that makes sense of what I need. After more pushing on the buttons, I finally get connected through a server that scrambles more of the location of this payphone for security functions.

  A man with a thick Russian accent answers in his native tongue.

  I fluently speak back to him. His tone changes when he recognizes my voice and he exclaims in his boisterous volume. He’s a Russian KGB with a secret. His other life is of assassination nature like me.

  We met under undesirable circumstances; we were both hired to kill a political figure having a conference to talk about her book on the corruptions of the countries that she had been to. I disguised myself as a stadium security guard while he was a guest to her talk-show, and my plan was to lay and wait in her guestroom until she returns.

  That hadn’t worked because that Russian bastard had gotten to her before I could, and I caught them having sex on her bed. She had invited me to join, but I was already reaching for my gun, and we both shot her at the same time.

  I did it through her head, and he aimed for her heart due to the close proximity.

  He, without any shame, stood and got dressed as if I was not there.

  That wasn’t the only time he and I crossed paths; we had two more jobs that took us into each other’s lives, and it was getting obnoxious.

  I’m not on the payphone in the middle of nowhere to make small talks or to catch up, and there was nothing to catch up on since he and I have nothing in common. He is a lady’s man, always philandering through the beds of his conquests. I stay away from connections that could lead back to me no matter how casual the one-night stand was. It’s not worth the risk that comes with my name.

  A Russian curse flings out of my lips as I hear him laugh over the phone. He is a notorious assassin, but his personality is despicable, and I do tend to avoid him if possible.

  “You will receive payment once you deliver what I requested,” I hiss lowly, glaring at the plastic divider of the phone booth to see a homeless man pushing a shopping cart filled with junk down the alley.

  He snorts through the statics. Another laugh chokes through his throat.

  I hope he fucking dies.

  “Who’s the lucky woman?” his accent runs thicker.

  “Get me what I need,” I snap over the receiver and slam the black phone down.

  Now that is done, I need to get out of here before I draw eyes on me. I can count at least five pairs of eyes on me. They all range from prostitutes to sketchy junkies who want their next fix.

  I turn away from the phone booth, quickening my pace on the dirty streets as I weave through the alleys that lead from one to another equally shady area. My ears strain to hear any footsteps behind me. My instincts tell me that I’m not being followed as I cut through a crowd of tourists just as they walk across the alley.

  The main streets have a lot more people and I could blend in easier with the crowded group of foreigners. My body knows this area, and it’s easy for me to navigate through the streets with cars and bikes going in the same direction as I’m going.

  Ten minutes of taking big steps lead me to the same coffee shop that Holly likes to frequent. I have no reason to be going in there, but a scent catches my nose.

  The muscles on my shoulders pinch tight, straining to adhere to the alarm bells in my head that’s going off.

  It’s acidic and bitter; a woman walks out of the coffee shop with a drink in her hand, and the smell gets stronger.

  I stop her, and her blushing face grinds my nerves, “What is this?”

  I point to the clear cup with a hibiscus flower in it. She regains her composure and clears her throat with a sly smile when she asks for my name, and she would only tell me if I take her on a date.

  “Where the fuck did you get the flower?” my voice cracks her expression and fear takes over.

  I have studied every drink at the coffee shop and never even came across a smell this pungent. I would have known about any secret menus because those social media influencers are always trying to do extra things.

  Unless it is a new drink, I doubt the coffee shop would push out new flavors that could risk an allergic reaction since the workers are all working in close contact.

  “I-it’s from there!” the woman points with a shaky hand towards the medicinal store two shops down from the coffee place.

  I turn to look, and the woman is sprinting off, I don’t turn my head when I hear her yell from a distance about men being rude for turning down offers thrown at them.

  The smell of herbal medicine gets stronger. It’s easy for my clothes to absorb the scent if I work there. The owner could be The Butcher; the information I have gathered about the killer makes sense. Hibiscus flowers gave a distinctive smell when they get turned into oils, and the easiest access is an herbal shop that sells dried flowers.

  I carefully open the door. The bell on top still makes a sound when I'm gentle as to not rattle it too much.

  An older woman behind the counter greets me with a face full of wrinkles. Her age doesn’t come with the physicality to haul a woman with no help.

  A relative can be involved, but this kind of fetish usually means the killer working by himself. Years of profiling my targets allow me to know them without interacting, and I can plan how I can take out my targets in the most effective ways.

  My mind isn’t convinced that this woman is The Butcher, and the killer is most likely a man with some age to him for this type of meticulous planning and evading evidence that can get him caught.

  “Well hello, I haven’t seen you around,” the old woman smiles, “What can I get you, young man?”

  “I need cinnamon and lemongrass for one serving,” I say, keeping my eyes on her like a hawk.

  She nods and gets to work when she notices that I’m not big on small talk. I need to gauge her movements to see if she’s faking her senile age or if she is really just an old woman who happens to work at an herbal shop.

  I come to the conclusion that she’s just an old woman; there is no faking that joint inflammation pain that she feels when she runs a hand over her shoulder.

  She steps up to the counter as she weighs the two ingredients, “Do you sell hibiscus?”

  “Yes, I do,” she pours the lemongrass into one small bag while doing the same for the cinnamon sticks.

  “I sell them dry or in oil form; which one are you looking for?” she looks up at me.

  “Frequent buyers?” I ask back, “Which lasts the longest in smell?”

  She studies my face for a moment, eyes narrowing with her wrinkles deepening. “Dry hibiscus flowers can be infused with tea, and it brings out the smell with other ingredients, but oil lasts the longest when used on the skin.”

  I give her a twenty-dollar bill, “What’s the most common benefit?”

  She doesn’t have a cash register, so she pulls up a metal box with money inside to find my change.

  “Keep the change,” I tell her, “What does it do?”

  She gives me a small, grateful smile. She packs a small gift into the plastic bag with the two ingredients.

  “Traditionally, hibiscus tea is used to treat colds or used as a form of laxative. Nowadays, oil is more popular among young girls. It stimulates hair growth and helps regenerate skin for a younger and smoother look.”

  I nod with a quiet appreciation for the information before I head out the door with herbs that I don’t need in a plastic bag.

  I don’t know how this connects with The Butcher, but my gut tells me that I have to keep an eye on what Holly eats and drinks.

  Since the woman had said that it became popularized, I wouldn’t be stupefied that hibiscus is going to be on menus from the mainstream influence.

  Security measures in Holly’s apartment needs to be amped up; a simple lock on her door won’t do anymore. Especially not after The Butcher has had the balls to step into my territory to scare my Holly for his sick games.

  Not a soul can escape my wrath when my obsession with Holly is threatened.

  Chapter Seven

  Holly

  “I just want to let you know that you are not under arrest, Ms. Price. We just want to ask you some questions,” Detective Hans says as he puts down a folder with paperclips in it.

  Isaac had instructed me to not say anything because apparently even though they said that it’s not going to be held against me, it’s still going to be held against me when and if I’m put under arrest.

  “I’m sure you have heard by now that The Butcher has been going after younger girls, mainly those who are brunettes in the same twenty-five-mile radius.” Hans folds his hands over the folder, tweaking the clean edges before he opens the files.

  “You might be thinking why you and not many other brunettes,” he says without looking at me.

  I glance at Isaac; his poker face renders the words in my mouth into a jumbled mess, and my fingers twitch in his hand when I can’t tell what he’s thinking about.

  “We couldn’t find a pattern when The Butcher began; all we knew was that he took legs off of young girls. He didn’t find his preference yet, but as time went by, he became bolder and more confident.” Hans scans the piece of documents in his folder, but the words are too small for me to see.

 

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