Chapter 4
Cold Blooded

I watched from the window as his Denali sped off.

He couldn’t have stayed home longer than an hour. Hard to determine his patterns. Nothing he’s done has been consistent. Didn’t know how much longer I could stay here trying to figure him out.

I was grateful to the Johnson’s for allowing me to camp out in their place so I could monitor his routine, though. Especially since their house just happened to be directly across the street from his.

I still remembered the expressions on the Johnsons’ faces when I arrived. They were so consumed with their affairs that they didn’t even hear me come in, make my way up to their bedroom, stand by the door, and watch through dimmed lights as Mr. Johnson pulled Mrs. Johnson’s hair and cupped her ass while pumping deeper into her womanhood. Their tanned skins glistened with perspiration. The bed squeaked with every thrust of his waist. Mrs. Johnson melted in his embrace, anticipated his strokes, yearned for his kiss.

They were so in love.

You could always tell the difference between lovers fucking and strangers screwing. It was more intimate between lovers. Even when it was kinky and raw, there was still a softness about it. A tenderness.

That’s what was present with the Johnson’s. A tenderness for one another. A soft spot. A weakness.

They couldn’t live without each other.

So, why make them?

I believe it was Mrs. Johnson who heard the click of my heels first. Saw her jump in the bed and look to Mr. Johnson for an explanation, wondering who the bitch standing in their bedroom was.

Poor Mr. Johnson.

He didn’t have a clue, either.

Mrs. Johnson realized he was telling the truth by the fear in his eyes when he heard the tune that I whistled while walking to the window. The tune I continued whistling as I closed the blinds, took out my pre-rolled joint, and placed it between my lips. All the while, Mr. Johnson was probably recalling stories about when the Forgotten Queen appeared, her tune was that last that you’d hear.

While I lit my joint and enjoyed the soothing blend of the haze mixed with berry, I silently chuckled at how quick the Johnsons’ rushed to cover their bodies with the sweat-drenched sheets, wondering why they were trying to cover up what I had already seen.

Didn’t matter anyway.

As I took my second pull from the joint, I slipped my right hand behind my back and pulled out my Glock bringing my arm back around to the sound of my tune.

Then, I offered the Johnson’s my only explanation, “It’s nothing personal. Just business.”

A smile and a wink later, I extinguished the horror in the Johnson’s eyes.

One by one.
First, Mrs. Johnson, so I wouldn’t have to hear her scream a second longer than necessary. Gave her the sweet kiss of death right in the middle of the forehead.

Then, Mr. Johnson, who had gone as limp as limp could be. Gave him a matching body piercing.

His and hers.

I finished my joint while my memory played back the look in the Johnson’s eyes when they saw the 9mm.

That’s always been my favorite part of the kill, seeing that fear in its purest form. It was like an aphrodisiac to me. Made me want to do wicked things. Compelled me to torture my victims like I was auditioning for a role in Hostel.

Not many women could fathom performing such atrocious acts. They’d rather just pull the trigger and end all the fun.

Not me.

I loved it, looked forward to it, craved it. Ever since my first kill.

I remembered it like it was yesterday.

My King talking me through it…