"Delights in torture. Loves to kill. Murders are orgasms. Eighty-three gruesome killings have been tied to her. She's paid well. Governments are about the only ones who can afford her."
Macklin rolled up the printout and tossed it at Shaw. "She's a real Girl Scout."
"She's out of your league, Mack. You'll die and take innocent people with you," Shaw said. "I can't let you do that."
"Too bad," Macklin pistol-whipped Shaw across the face, knocking him to the ground, where he lay groaning in semiconsciousness. "You and Cory are all I have left. I'm doing this for you."
Macklin put the .357 under his waistband and walked away.
# # # # # #
Macklin flew the chopper down the California coast to La Jolla and the heavily fortified cliffside compound belonging to the man who'd hired the Bitch.
There was only one man who had the money and the motive to curse him with Demetria Davila. After leaving Shaw, Macklin's subconscious had whispered the name to him with sickening clarity . . . Justin Threllkiss.
It was Threllkiss who'd covertly financed White Wash, a racist, white supremacist organization. It was White Wash that had convinced Threllkiss' coked-out, sadistic grandson to masquerade as Macklin and massacre blacks as a way to spark a race war. Macklin had destroyed White Wash—and the grandson with it.
But he'd left Threllkiss alive.
Threllkiss had to be the one.
But if Macklin was wrong, it was no loss. Threllkiss was racist scum who deserved to die, a loose end Macklin should have tied up long ago.
The security system at the Threllkiss compound had been built on the concept that if any threat ever came, it would be on foot or on wheels. Nobody expected an air assault.
Who would?
So the high walls, the razor wire, the security cameras, and everything else were rendered laughably pointless if the threat arrived in a helicopter.
And Macklin had arrived.
He buzzed the property, shooting two guards on the rooftop and three more that were walking the grounds, before he landed the chopper on the lawn. Macklin jumped out brandishing two Uzis, one in his right hand, the other slung by a strap over his left shoulder.
Three slavering guard dogs immediately charged towards him. He calmly took a remote control out of his pocket with his left hand and pressed its single button.
The dogs jerked spasmodically in midstride as their collars zapped them into submission.
Macklin knew about Craven's kinky love of electricity as a way to tame man and beast.
It wasn't hard for Macklin, before embarking on his assault, to discover the frequency of the dog collars and adjust his own garage door opener to match it. He didn't want to have to kill a dog . . . but he had no qualms about shooting the men on his list.
He released the button and the dogs whimpered away, perhaps assuming that Macklin was one of their masters by virtue of having the God-like power to zap the shit out of them.
A bullet tore into the grass at Macklin's feet. Another grazed his cheek. Macklin kept walking. He felt no fear. He felt no pain. Only hate. He pocketed the remote and gripped an Uzi in each hand.
He fired to his left at a guard crouched behind a bush. The guard's head burst like a piñata. He fired to his right. A guard screamed and tumbled out a second-floor window, splattering like a raindrop on the pavement below and splashing Macklin with warm blood.
He walked on. He was a man with nothing left to lose.
Craven ran out of the house with a shotgun. Macklin shot him in the leg, took the shotgun from him, and batted him across the face with it before tossing it into the bushes. Craven lay whimpering on the ground.
Macklin kicked open the back door and cleared his trail with blazing bullets. The scorching slugs propelled four guards along the shag carpet in a bloody living room ballet. Macklin squinted into the settling debris for any movement. Bullet holes had turned classic oil paintings into confetti. Priceless sculptures were reduced to piles of
Macklin rolled up the printout and tossed it at Shaw. "She's a real Girl Scout."
"She's out of your league, Mack. You'll die and take innocent people with you," Shaw said. "I can't let you do that."
"Too bad," Macklin pistol-whipped Shaw across the face, knocking him to the ground, where he lay groaning in semiconsciousness. "You and Cory are all I have left. I'm doing this for you."
Macklin put the .357 under his waistband and walked away.
# # # # # #
Macklin flew the chopper down the California coast to La Jolla and the heavily fortified cliffside compound belonging to the man who'd hired the Bitch.
There was only one man who had the money and the motive to curse him with Demetria Davila. After leaving Shaw, Macklin's subconscious had whispered the name to him with sickening clarity . . . Justin Threllkiss.
It was Threllkiss who'd covertly financed White Wash, a racist, white supremacist organization. It was White Wash that had convinced Threllkiss' coked-out, sadistic grandson to masquerade as Macklin and massacre blacks as a way to spark a race war. Macklin had destroyed White Wash—and the grandson with it.
But he'd left Threllkiss alive.
Threllkiss had to be the one.
But if Macklin was wrong, it was no loss. Threllkiss was racist scum who deserved to die, a loose end Macklin should have tied up long ago.
The security system at the Threllkiss compound had been built on the concept that if any threat ever came, it would be on foot or on wheels. Nobody expected an air assault.
Who would?
So the high walls, the razor wire, the security cameras, and everything else were rendered laughably pointless if the threat arrived in a helicopter.
And Macklin had arrived.
He buzzed the property, shooting two guards on the rooftop and three more that were walking the grounds, before he landed the chopper on the lawn. Macklin jumped out brandishing two Uzis, one in his right hand, the other slung by a strap over his left shoulder.
Three slavering guard dogs immediately charged towards him. He calmly took a remote control out of his pocket with his left hand and pressed its single button.
The dogs jerked spasmodically in midstride as their collars zapped them into submission.
Macklin knew about Craven's kinky love of electricity as a way to tame man and beast.
It wasn't hard for Macklin, before embarking on his assault, to discover the frequency of the dog collars and adjust his own garage door opener to match it. He didn't want to have to kill a dog . . . but he had no qualms about shooting the men on his list.
He released the button and the dogs whimpered away, perhaps assuming that Macklin was one of their masters by virtue of having the God-like power to zap the shit out of them.
A bullet tore into the grass at Macklin's feet. Another grazed his cheek. Macklin kept walking. He felt no fear. He felt no pain. Only hate. He pocketed the remote and gripped an Uzi in each hand.
He fired to his left at a guard crouched behind a bush. The guard's head burst like a piñata. He fired to his right. A guard screamed and tumbled out a second-floor window, splattering like a raindrop on the pavement below and splashing Macklin with warm blood.
He walked on. He was a man with nothing left to lose.
Craven ran out of the house with a shotgun. Macklin shot him in the leg, took the shotgun from him, and batted him across the face with it before tossing it into the bushes. Craven lay whimpering on the ground.
Macklin kicked open the back door and cleared his trail with blazing bullets. The scorching slugs propelled four guards along the shag carpet in a bloody living room ballet. Macklin squinted into the settling debris for any movement. Bullet holes had turned classic oil paintings into confetti. Priceless sculptures were reduced to piles of
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