“I believe you know I’m not a sexist asshole. I truly don’t want you messing up your pretty nails on the piece of shit at your feet. I would rather have you breaking them off in my back.”
The comment brought out that grin I liked seeing. She took a step closer, matching the one I took and handed me the bloody wood. A whimpering groan drew my gaze down to the rapist.
The man was choking on the dirty rag she had stuffed into his mouth. She was doing a good job of making him pay for his sins. His big eyes, desperate moans, and struggling body, begged to be released from the real hell he had yet to suffer. His hands and feet were bound to each other, the rope biting into his wrist.
“Nice. Where did you learn to tie a man up like this?”
“You remember those boot camps I told you I enlisted myself into when I was younger? While others were being forced to be there for not listening to their parents, I saw it as free training. Plus, Angel and Devil, the ones who help me out sometimes, they taught me a lot more about weapons and killing.”
“Smart,” I complimented. This was the side of my wife she had only given me peeks into last night. This was the side of Mecca that made her strong enough to run the Black Saints, and deadly enough to survive in a world that took out lives with the snap of a finger. This was why her men were afraid of her, so afraid, in fact, they would risk their lives against impossible odds and swallow their fears in front of her.
The man continued wiggling about like a worm that had freed itself from its burrowing hole.
“The girl you risked your life to get back. He raped her?”
“Yes, and Raymond’s name has come up several times. The asshole wouldn’t give me anymore, so I was helping him find his way to hell.”
It took several attempts, but I managed to yank the gag from the man’s mouth. The gag meant that she had been done questioning him, and I had barged in on her in the process of finishing him off.
I placed the wood against the man’s forehead, applied pressure using my weight, and waited until his movement grew frantic.
“Tell us who was responsible for the seizure of the Black Saints last shipment of merchandise?” Mecca asked, knowing what I was doing.
More pressure was applied to the thick wood, likely putting a dent in his forehead as he struggled to think and fight the pain at the same time. Blood oozed from the area, painting a picture of how much pressure his head was under.
“No one,” he squeezed out between his frantic hissing that had spit flying from his busted up mouth. I applied more pressure, making his body go deadly still, as one of his eyes bulged from the socket. The wood pressed so hard, at this point, any movement would shatter his skull.
He hissed in and out several times but was unable to spit his words out. I lightened up the pressure a hair.
“Give us a fucking name, or my wife is going to get the chance to see what your brains look like.”
She stood, ogling the scene like an eager spectator. Her eyes roamed over the man, waiting to see me spill blood and expel the life from the rapist asshole’s body.
“This is my last time asking,” she stated. “If I can’t get the answer from you, I’ll get it from someone else.”
“No one sabotaged the shipments. Mr. Evans, he he he s-sabotaged both shipments himself.”
At those words, Mecca’s eyes widened.
“That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”
The man didn’t have any reason to lie. Now, we were left with figuring out why Raymond Evans would sabotage his own shipments, but the man under the wood started convulsing. He was in the throes of a seizure. I didn’t care what his body was battling against, he had given us a big piece of one ugly puzzle.
It all happened in an instant, Mecca stepped closer, her gun clutched in a way that it displayed those lovely nails I had mention earlier. The muffled blast from her silenced pistol released a rapid hiss before blood splattered the floor. The man’s body fell deadly still, the only mercy he had received from her.
There wasn’t a hint of remorse present as she stared at him. The earlier idea I’d had resurfaced. My wife’s a stone cold killer.
She was an anomaly, something that wasn’t supposed to exist. She was a shooter when she had to be, a killer when she needed to be, and a savage animal if she were pushed too far. She was a Vallin, before we had ever met.
As mean and vicious as she was, she also had exceptional mental focus, the passion to be loving, and the drive to fight for the underdog. She was respected on both sides of her personality, by me and the people she led.
Except for the day she had displayed her remarkable ability to drag a woman her own size through our house in four-inch-heels, she was mellower with me in a way that didn’t reflect those other sides.
She was starting to settle into allowing me to be her husband, her lover, and her shoulder when she needed one. I enjoyed every aspect of my wife, and I would soak hell in gas and burn that motherfucker to ashes to protect her.
She caught me staring. I was married to her, and until recently, had no idea the depth of her capabilities. She really was like the Quiet Chaos before the storm. I was beginning to think running the Black Saints was the easy part of her job, but this, being the killer, was where she struggled to find balance.
“Are you La Asesina?” I asked.