The Killing League - By Dani Amore Page 0,64

an innocent man,” the Commissioner said. “You like them innocent, but he wasn’t your type, was he?”

Hampton walked into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.

“No, fat white guys aren’t my type. But you know that.”

The Commissioner nodded. “Yes, I do know that. I also know that you broke the rules of the tournament. You tried to find me instead of working on your next assignment.”

“And you’re surprised by that?”

“Not at all,” the Commissioner said. “When I organized this, I figured serial killers such as yourself wouldn’t necessarily behave in expected ways. That’s why I’ve been monitoring all of you. As soon as you drove to Long Beach, I knew what you were doing.”

“Then what? You traced my credit card or something?” Hampton looked around the room. “Is that how you knew I had made a reservation here?”

The Commissioner smiled. “Something like that.”

“You want money?” Hampton said. “I’ve got a lot of money, you probably know that. Fuck this stupid game. Take a few million and go buy a villa in the Caribbean or something.”

“Nice sales pitch,” the Commissioner said. “But what I want has no monetary value. Although I’m always intrigued by financial matters.”

“So how much do you want?”

The Commissioner shrugged.

“How much is that watch worth?” he said.

When Hampton looked down, the Commissioner lashed out with a small lead sap. It struck Hampton on the left temple, and the Kennedy head snapped back. Hampton slid to the floor.

The Commissioner went to the corner of the room, retrieved a small black bag and took out a long-handled carving knife.

He started whistling as he slid the knife into Douglas Hampton’s chest.

91.

Las Vegas

The screen began to blink rapidly, as letters were crossed out, numbers spun into new formations and strikethrough lines appeared.

THE KILLING LEAGUE

Florence Nightmare. 7-1.

Truck Drivin’ Man. X

The Butcher. X

Lady of the Evening. 5-1.

Blue Blood. X

Family Man. X

The Messiah. X

The Commissioner. 3-1.

Immediately, new bets were placed. Phone calls made. Online gambling sites saw spikes in traffic.

The game was definitely heating up.

ELIMINATION ROUND THREE

92.

Florence Nightmare

This one would be different. That’s what the Commissioner had told her. And the fact that he had told her anything proved it.

Round Three. The targets would be tougher. And this one would be very difficult, the Commissioner said. He said she would have to bring her A-game, whatever that was supposed to mean.

She took a deep breath, and stilled her mind. It was the same thing she did just before she started a new painting. She cleared her thoughts, let her eyes go dead.

Oh, she believed her new assignment would be a challenge. But she would get it done. She had no doubts about that.

She was only biding her time. It was like doing her rounds at the hospital. She got her schedule, knew her jobs, and did them. She gave no extra effort. She never complained. She simply did what she had to do until she could do what she wanted to do. What she needed to do.

Now, she sat outside the small coffee shop in McLean, Virginia. It was in a small enclave of residential streets that seemed to exude a bohemian sensitivity. The kind of place where children played in the streets and parents argued about politics.

Ruth Dykstra hated places like this. The casual regard for life. Every day taken for granted. She’d never had that luxury. Growing up, every day was a fight for survival. She had to battle everyone just to survive. The things people did to her, the awfulness of her family. Ruth ground her teeth. She shoved the memories into that black hole she had so carefully dug into her subconscious. She shoved the bad things into the hole and then scraped thick dirt on top and stamped it down with her mind.

This woman she was going after would understand. This woman who came to this coffee shop every day and smiled at the young man behind the counter, sometimes talked on her cell phone, and breezed back into her car for the drive to FBI headquarters.

This woman, Ellen Reznor, obviously took life for granted.

Well, that was all about to change.

Ruth got out of her rental car and moved to the bench near the front of the coffee shop’s window. There was a sign for the bus stop a few feet away, so anyone glancing her way would assume she was waiting for the bus.

Across the street, she watched a man go into a hardware store. Probably a young father, fixing up some old house for his