But he didn’t know that Kit had never cared much for doing things the legal way—or he’d be out of a job.
Mrs. Clarkson was the first to speak. “How did you … No one has been able to find him.”
“A friend of an enemy, I should say,” Kit answered, while not giving an answer. “Old habits die hard—isn’t that right, Reginald?”
Kit didn’t usually involve himself too deeply in the contracts he decided to take, rather enjoying the hands-off approach that had proven lucrative to him over the last couple of years.
But there were some men that just needed to die, and he was willing to offer a helping hand.
Reginald Branson was a case he had taken on two months prior, nearly to the second that it had taken the man to flee the country. The Clarksons were upstanding citizens—at least they had been—that had fully expected for justice to be served against the shaking man on the floor.
He was arrested, and meant to be tried in a court of law for his crimes. But the criminal justice system didn’t always ensure justice for the victims—and it was for that reason that men like Reginald got off on technicalities and fled before minds could be changed. By the time anyone had realized he was gone, he was already far enough away that he couldn’t be found.
He had been a ghost in a matter of twenty-four hours.
But Kit was in the habit of finding ghosts—it was his specialty.
Kit snapped his fingers, setting his enforcers into movement, dragging the man further onto the tarp covered floor. It was only then that the Clarksons seemed to realize just who they were in the room with.
His enforcers wore masks that ensured their identities weren’t compromised, especially considering when they weren’t working for him, they robbed banks in their past time.
Had they not been as good as they were—and they only made it a habit to steal from those they knew wouldn’t report it—Kit might have been worried that they would compromise his operation.
Two held Reginald in place while the other duo guided the Clarksons forward, taking one of the guns from each of their belts to slap into their hands.
Mr. Clarkson stared down at the weapon as though he had never seen one before, his tremors visible. “Perhaps we should turn him into the police?”
Kit didn’t get upset by the man’s hesitation, he understood that the decision he’d made was not one that was easy.
Everyone had last minute doubts.
“We could, but he was acquitted once, no? I would hate for it to happen a second time.”
Their case was recent, within the last year, but Reginald hadn’t become a predator overnight. No, his predilections went years in the making.
Five years ago, he had been charged with the rape of an underage boy, but he had been found not guilty because the boy had been drunk and disoriented. Unfortunately for the rest of society, he was released and free to do as he pleased.
And years later, he had struck once more.
Except, this time, he hadn’t stopped at rape when it came to the Clarksons’ son.
No, in a bid to keep his victim silent, he killed him.
That was his mistake.
Because had he not taken the only thing that mattered to the Clarksons, they might not have set Kit onto him.
Reginald jerked his head back and forth, screaming behind the tape, turning pleading eyes to desperate parents.
But he would find no sympathy in the eyes of Mrs. Clarkson.
The second they made eye contact, his muffled pleas fell on deaf ears. She was thinking about her son, Kit knew—the boy who would never grow up and experience everything life had to offer.
She raised the gun, a single tear falling before she pulled the trigger, then again, and one final time until Reginald was slumped on the ground, no longer fighting, no longer pleading.
Kit barely blinked, though he did pull his vibrating phone from his pocket, checking the caller ID.
Unknown.
Which meant it could only be one person.
“My men will clean this up,” he said gesturing to the body, “and Aidra will walk you through what happens next.”
With a nod, Kit walked back out the way he came, accepting the call before he’d even made it out the door. “Uilleam.”
There was a smile in his brother’s voice as he said, “Must you always sound cross with me, brother?”
Though they shared the same DNA, Kit didn’t think they had much else in common besides their predilection for certain work. When Uilleam said, ‘brother,’ there was no affection in his tone, but rather a hint of wryness that always made Kit frown.
“Only when you call me while I’m working. What is it that you want?”
“I need a favor.”
Absolutely not.
The last time Uilleam had asked for a favor, an army of men had been taken off the grid and slaughtered—he was in no mood for whatever his brother was intending to do.
“You’re all out of those,” he settled on saying, watching the bird overhead swoop down before perching on a branch.