Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
How Cook knows us is beyond me? Maybe because of Big Jim. Either way, this sick fuck is going to die by our hands in a painful motherfucking way. I don’t like games, and lately, it seems I no longer like meat, either.
Ice looks at Hammer, who is now bent over the trash can, puking, and cringes.
Just then, Screech comes running into the room, holding a photograph up. “We got him!”
There, in black and white, on glassy photo paper, is the image of an average-looking Caucasian man leaving the back entrance of Billy Bob’s Barbeque restaurant.
“Lisa identified this one as the man who killed Big Jim.” Holding up a separate piece of paper in his other hand, Screech quickly rattles off, “His name is David Koch. He lives at 629 Beaumont Lane.”
With that, Ice, Hammer, and myself run out the door. It’s time to take down this asshole once and for all.
My adrenaline pumps as we twist our throttles and push the metal machines beneath us. Normally, we have a well-thought-out and executed plan. Normally, we have our asses covered. Normally, we aren’t going after a fucked-up killer who took out one of our own.
David Koch, pronounced “Cook,” lives in a non-descript neighborhood. Nothing special and not a single thing out of place. His house fits the cookie-cutter mold of an everyday suburbanite. It’s the perfect way for a part-time hired hitman and full-time psychopath to blend in.
With the skill of a professional, Hammer picks the lock on the front door, and we enter the space of a killer. It’s not what I imagined. A sparse, clean living room, and a neat little kitchen off to the left. It’s not until we travel deeper into the house that we find his den. That’s where the place became creepy.
The windows have been painted black. There’s a table with various butcher tools lying on it and an apron—shit you would expect to see in a kitchen, not a den. Against the wall to our right are a couple of bookcases filled with over a hundred cookbooks.
Newspaper articles line the wall to our left; various reports on missing or murdered victims. I can’t help wondering if they are all victims of Cook or perhaps if he was just admiring someone else’s handiwork. But that’s not all that is on display.
The far wall of the den is covered in a cork board from ceiling to floor. Attached is what looks to be orders from restaurant order pads.
Approaching the papers, I see there are notes with names in the table number section, dates, and in the order part is a food description.
Regulators MC cut. Patch reads BJ. The words line the top of the paper.
Skewered meat.
Turning my head to the left, I vomit on the floor, unable to control myself.
Hammer rushes over and reads the paper.
“Well, we know damn sure he’s the fucker. Today we give him a one-way ticket to Hell,” Hammer says as emotions overwhelm him, too.
“Looks like Cook is on shift, according to the schedule on the fridge. Hammer, call one of the boys and tell him to bring the van to Billy Bob’s Barbeque. We’ve got a package that needs to be picked up. Then call Dwayne down at the Everglades. We’ll be stopping by to deliver a package to Gator Island,” Ice informs.
Hammer walks off toward the front door while calling one of our brothers on his cell phone. Rather than clean up my mess, we all take off to the restaurant to get David Koch and teach him how the Regulators handle things.
~~~
Tied, unconscious, and laid on his side in the back of the van, we all watch as Cook starts to wake up. First, it’s just a little stir of his leg. Eventually, the man is twitching his whole body, flopping around like a fish out of water, trying to untie himself. None of us are worried, though. He will never get those zip-ties undone.
Walking over to the back of the van, I grab the asshole by his feet and pull him out until his body clears the van and falls to the ground, hitting his head on the way down. I don’t feel an ounce of sympathy when he cries out in pain. How many people cried when he tortured them?
Ice, Hammer, and I all crowd around his body, looking down at him, letting him see the murder in our eyes.
“You took one of ours,” Ice growls in a deadly voice. “Now we’re going to take you.”
Hammer kicks the man in his side with his steel-toed boot. “Don’t think it’s going to be quick, either, fucker. It sure as shit wasn’t quick when you killed BJ, so we’re gonna make sure you stay good and alive for a long time before we feed the last of you to the gators.”