The Killing League

110.

The Commissioner

Pain erupted from his leg and he screamed before he had a moment to think about it.

He looked down and Nicole Candela was dragging a tiny knife along the inside of his thigh, looking for the femoral artery.

Bitch!

The Commissioner shot Mack. It was a quick snap, but he saw Mack stagger backward. He lowered his gun to shoot Nicole.

He felt a hammer blow to his chest. He staggered back, felt something deep in his body shatter.

He looked back up at Mack, who was now on one knee, lining up another shot.

The Commissioner fired again. The bullet spun Mack just as flame blossomed from the gun in Mack’s hands.

The Commissioner felt something wallop him in the chest again.

He staggered back and sank to his knees. He tried to point the gun at Nicole Candela.

But he couldn’t see her anymore. He couldn’t see anything. Darkness had fallen. Complete, black nighttime.

And that’s when the Commissioner made a stunning realization.

Game Over.





111.

Nicole

She hadn’t been harmed. Mack’s last bullet had nailed the a*shole in the heart. Nicole was ready to try to stab him in the throat, but he just keeled over, his eyes wide.

Nicole raced to the clearing. Mack was covered in blood. One shot had hit him in the thigh and must have damaged a major artery because blood was soaking his pants.

“Nice shooting, Mack,” she said. “Thank you.”

She saw him try to smile, but his eyes were blank, his pupils enormous. Like giant black saucers, devoid of any form of comprehension.

“That last one was for Janice,” he said. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.

“Shhh,” Nicole said. She tore a strip from Mack’s shirt, and fashioned a tourniquet.

She got his vest off him and studied his shoulder. There wasn’t as much blood as the leg, but the wound in back was huge, and the forest floor was dark with Mack’s blood.

She dug a phone from Mack’s pocket and dialed 911. She told the operator she had an FBI agent who’d just been shot and needed a Flight for Life helicopter immediately. Mack still had the GPS coordinates on his display and she read them off to the operator.

Nicole dropped the phone and cradled Mack’s head in her hands. She felt his pulse. It was there, but it seemed faint.

“You saved my life once, Wallace Mack,” she said. “And you let me return the favor or I’ll kick your ass all the way back to Florida,” she said.

Instead of an answer, she heard the sound of a chopper.





Post-Game





112.

Lady of the Evening

She dug her toes into the sand, looked out at the beach. It was the magic hour, when the light was perfect and golden and everything looked like a sepia toned photograph, capturing some perfect moment in history.

Which seemed absolutely fitting and appropriate to her because she herself had made history.

Amanda Dekins was the first ever champion of the Killing League.

It made her smile.

She’d never won anything in her life. Not a single, goddamned thing. Not a spelling bee. Or a free throw contest. Or even a little shitty stuffed animal at a small town carnival.

But f*ck if she hadn’t won the contest of all contests. And the last one she’d done? That big black FBI agent she’d cut to holy hell in that fancy hotel in L.A.? That was one helluva piece of work.

She’d been down in Santa Monica when she saw the newspaper reports. A big one about this FBI Director Whidby, all cut up in his hotel room.

And then that long-haired freak killed in the mountains. Finally, the guy the news story said was the mastermind behind the whole thing. He was dead, too.

About the only people who survived were some woman and an FBI agent who had gotten shot up pretty good.

Of course, there was one other survivor most people didn’t know about.

Dekins was a realist, though. She figured the brains behind the contest probably had her name somewhere, some information on her. They would probably come for her.

But that was the great thing about being who she was. She had no fixed address. She changed her look all the time. And her name? Hell, she had so many names she lost track of them all.

So what if she’d been screwed again by this guy who had called himself the Commissioner? After all, what was the prize of winning the contest? Nothing. Not one red cent. She’d won the whole shooting match and her prize was…nothing.

She guessed all she had left was the satisfaction that she’d won.

Dekins glanced up from the beach and looked back toward the streets. Traffic was picking up. Customers were rolling in.

The girls were lining up.

She stood, shook the sand from her hands.

Time to go to work.

If she wasted too much time, these hookers would have sucked and f*cked every john from here to Miami.

No, she’d get in and make her money.

Like always. She smiled at the thought and the knowledge that came with it.

She didn’t mind a little competition now and then.

It brought out the best in her.

THE END





About the Author

Dani Amore is a crime novelist living in Los Angeles, California. You can learn more about her at daniamore.com

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