The Naturals, Book 2: Killer Instinct

YOU

Guns and neat little bullet holes and the glory of being the one to pull the trigger.

They’re yours. This time, you’re doing it your way.

The little red-haired one who practically begged you to take her isn’t looking so good. She’ll be the first to fall. Her face is already a mottle of bruises. You did that. You. The FBI agent’s face is marred with obvious tear tracks. You rest the rifle to one side and reach out and drag your thumb over her face.

She jerks back, but she can’t fight you. Neither of them can.

“I’m going to untie you,” you say, just to watch the surprise flicker through their eyes. “You’re going to run. I’ll even give you a two-minute head start.”

Take them. Free them. Track them. Kill them.

“Now…” You draw the word out and tap the butt of the rifle thoughtfully against the ground. “Who’s first?”

Adrenaline is already starting to pump through your body. You are powerful. You are the hunter. They are the prey.

“Me.” The FBI agent is the one who speaks. Doesn’t she realize she’s nothing but a deer in your target?

You’re the hunter.

She’s the prey.

You grab the younger one by the elbow. “You.” You breathe the word directly into her face. Let her shrink back from it, from you. “You’re first.” The smell of fear is tantalizing. You smile. “I hope you can run.”

YOU

Guns and neat little bullet holes and the glory of being the one to pull the trigger.

They’re yours. This time, you’re doing it your way.

The little red-haired one who practically begged you to take her isn’t looking so good. She’ll be the first to fall. Her face is already a mottle of bruises. You did that. You. The FBI agent’s face is marred with obvious tear tracks. You rest the rifle to one side and reach out and drag your thumb over her face.

She jerks back, but she can’t fight you. Neither of them can.

“I’m going to untie you,” you say, just to watch the surprise flicker through their eyes. “You’re going to run. I’ll even give you a two-minute head start.”

Take them. Free them. Track them. Kill them.

“Now…” You draw the word out and tap the butt of the rifle thoughtfully against the ground. “Who’s first?”

Adrenaline is already starting to pump through your body. You are powerful. You are the hunter. They are the prey.

“Me.” The FBI agent is the one who speaks. Doesn’t she realize she’s nothing but a deer in your target?

You’re the hunter.

She’s the prey.

You grab the younger one by the elbow. “You.” You breathe the word directly into her face. Let her shrink back from it, from you. “You’re first.” The smell of fear is tantalizing. You smile. “I hope you can run.”

YOU

Guns and neat little bullet holes and the glory of being the one to pull the trigger.

They’re yours. This time, you’re doing it your way.

The little red-haired one who practically begged you to take her isn’t looking so good. She’ll be the first to fall. Her face is already a mottle of bruises. You did that. You. The FBI agent’s face is marred with obvious tear tracks. You rest the rifle to one side and reach out and drag your thumb over her face.

She jerks back, but she can’t fight you. Neither of them can.

“I’m going to untie you,” you say, just to watch the surprise flicker through their eyes. “You’re going to run. I’ll even give you a two-minute head start.”

Take them. Free them. Track them. Kill them.

“Now…” You draw the word out and tap the butt of the rifle thoughtfully against the ground. “Who’s first?”

Adrenaline is already starting to pump through your body. You are powerful. You are the hunter. They are the prey.

“Me.” The FBI agent is the one who speaks. Doesn’t she realize she’s nothing but a deer in your target?

You’re the hunter.

She’s the prey.

You grab the younger one by the elbow. “You.” You breathe the word directly into her face. Let her shrink back from it, from you. “You’re first.” The smell of fear is tantalizing. You smile. “I hope you can run.”

YOU

The gun cracks against her skull with a sickening thwack.

It doesn’t sicken you.

The girl’s body crumples to the ground. You aim your gun at the pretty FBI agent. She looked down her nose at you when she visited Redding. She dared to tell you what to do.

She probably laughs at boys rejected from the FBI Academy, let alone the local police force.

“Pick her up,” you say.

She hesitates. You aim the gun at the girl. “Either you pick her up, or I shoot her. Your choice.”

Your heart is thudding in your ears. Your breaths are coming faster. There’s a taste to the night air—almost metallic. You could run a marathon right now. You could dive off Niagara Falls.

The FBI agent picks up the girl. You pocket her gun. They’re yours. You’re taking them both. And that’s when you know.

You’re not going to hang them. You’re not going to brand them. You’re not going to cut them.

You have the One Who Got Away. You have his useless little son’s girl. This time, you think, we’re doing it my way.

You make the FBI agent put the girl in your trunk, climb in herself. You knock her out—and oh, it feels good. It feels right.

You slam the trunk. You climb into the car. You drive away.

The student has become the master

YOU

You can still see the look in that pudgy, pathetic little hanger-on’s eyes when you dug the point of the knife into his chest.

“This is how you’re supposed to do it,” you’d told him, zigging and zagging your way down his abundant flesh. “Every moment, perfect control. No evidence. No chances.”

After you’d received word that Trina Simms was dead, you’d imagined how it should have gone down. You’d pictured every detail—how you would have done it. The pleasure you would have gotten from hearing her scream.

But this imitation, this pretender—he’d done it wrong.

He’d had to pay.

Sweat and tears had mingled on his face. He’d struggled, but you took your time. You were patient. You explained to him that you were acquainted with Trina Simms and that she deserved better.

Or worse, depending on your perspective.

You’d showed that pale imitation, that copy of a copy, what patience really was. The only shame was that you had to gag him—couldn’t risk Joe College next door coming over to see what the little pig was squealing about.

You smile in memory as you clean the tools of your trade. Redding didn’t tell you to kill the pretender. He didn’t have to. You’re a species apart, you and the boy you just dispatched to hell.

He was weak.

You’re strong.

He was painting by numbers and still couldn’t manage to stay in the lines.

You’re a developing artist. Improvisation. Innovation. A rush of power works its way through your body just thinking about it. You thought you wanted to be like Redding. To be Redding.

But now you’re starting to see—you could be so much more.

“Not yet,” you whisper. There’s one more person who has to go first. You hum a song and close your eyes.

What will be will be—even if you have to help it along

YOU

The president’s lawn was a nice touch. You could have dumped her anywhere. You didn’t have to risk being seen.

“No one saw me.” You murmur the words with a self-satisfied hum. “But they saw her.”

They saw the lines you carved into her body. They saw the noose you slipped around her neck. Just thinking about it, about the way her eyes bulged as the life drained out of her, fragile little arms tensing against the restraints, pale skin dyed with dainty rivulets of red…

Your lips curve into a smile. The moment has passed, but the game—the game is long. Next time, you won’t be so eager. Next time, you’ll have nothing to prove. Next time, you’ll take it slow.

sat this one out

That was one of the key differences between Michael’s ability and mine. Michael read people. I read personalities and behaviors—and I didn’t always need a person present to do it.

Michael crossed to stand in front of me. “I could tell you,” he intoned, “but then I’d have to kill you.”

“Basic human decency?” Briggs suggested dryly.