Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich

Callum Park

Five minutes earlier …

The man with the garrote wrapped around my neck is a clever animal.

He got the jump on me; that isn’t easy to do. Kudos to him. I would laugh, if I were able to breathe with the sharp metal sting of piano wire digging into my throat. My attacker turns to the right and twists the wires against my neck, cutting off my air supply and spilling ruby red down the front of me.

This guy, he’s an expert.

But me? I’m a dark god.

If I were anyone else—even Oscar or Victor—I might be dead. What this man doesn’t know is that I’ve been garroted before. The day I lost my dreams forever, a boy from Fuller High—the boyfriend of my dance partner—used a chain to garotte me from behind. I didn’t know then what I know now. Instead, all I can remember is the feel of the cool metal against my neck, and then the horrid sensation of a baseball bat connecting with my left knee.

The feel of someone touching my throat now triggers all of the darkness I keep so carefully coiled inside of me. Why I have so much of it, I’m not sure. Oscar has a past steeped in pain and desperation, memories of a dead mother’s arms and a shallow grave. What do I have to compete? A grandmother who raised me well, despite the fact that she’s a killer herself? A beautiful dream stolen by jealous and violent hands?

But, regardless, my hoodie might as well be death’s cloak. On the inside, I’m nothing more than a broken doll with an obsession. You’re keeping me from finding my Bernadette, the monster hisses as the man behind me—likely some sort of enforcer for the Grand Murder Party—attempts to throw me over his back. If that happens, I won’t be getting out of this. Bernadette will find out that I’ve died at the school, bleeding from a second smile on my throat.

If my being alive is what makes her happy, being alive is how I’ll remain.

Luckily, I’ve been blessed from birth with lightning quick reflexes and easy strength. I’m not sure how or why, but there’s just something about the shape of me that once helped create a brilliant dancer. In the same vein, it makes me a beautiful killer.

Anticipating my opponent’s movements, I twist my body in unison with his, as if we’re performing some sort of dark tango on the hood of a Prescott employee’s car. My left fist connects with my attacker’s groin; he grunts but the pressure on my neck does not lessen. I count to eight inside my head, like I’m in the middle of an encore performance. Hot lights, an eager but faceless audience, a final curtain.

The wire is still around my neck, biting in, making me bleed. Without having to think about it, my body acts on its own, anticipating the dance-like movements of a proper fight.

It really can be beautiful, can’t it? Watching two people move together like they’re one? In some cases, they’re dancing. In some cases, they’re fighting for their lives. Either way, it’s art in the human form, an art of movement and, occasionally, blood.

My right palm slams into the man’s ear, and then I kick out as hard as I can, making contact with his groin yet again. He falls off the side of the car, and the garrote comes loose. I scramble to pull it off, crimson drenching my hands. I’m bleeding heavily, but my carotid is intact. For now. I’d hate to end my life like Danny Ensbrook, drowned in a pool of violent red.

The man on the ground is dressed all in black, but inconspicuously so. Just a pair of black jeans, a plain black t-shirt. Unremarkable. His hair is brown, his eyes the same color. I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a crowd.

Russ Bauer, one of the enforcers for the GMP.

That’s who this is.

I’m an erudite killer, after all. I’ve memorized every bit of intel our crew’s managed to dredge up. This man’s skills with the garrote are what give him away. That, and his almost exceptionally banal expression.

A smile crests my lips as I lift my pistol up in both hands to take a shot. I’ll admit: I’m flattered. If Maxwell Barrasso is sending this man after me, he must think I’m dangerous.

Good for him.

Because I very much am.

Russ slides beneath the car, moving so quickly that I don’t bother pulling the trigger. I’m only taking