CHAPTER 149
THE WORLD DIDN'T LOSE A HERO
DEX
The cabin smells of damp wood and something metallic.
I push the door open cautiously, my gloves already on, my bag of tools slung over my shoulder. The plan is meticulous. Today is the day Timmy meets his end, piece by piece, and I’ll make sure it’s as slow and painful as he deserves.
But as I step inside, my stomach drops. A faint tang of gunpowder lingers in the air, sharp and unmistakable.
The sight before me drains all the adrenaline from my veins.
Timmy is slumped in a chair, his head lolled to one side, a clean gunshot wound marking the center of his forehead. Blood and brain matter spatter the wall behind him in a grotesque pattern. His lifeless eyes stare straight ahead, wide with the shock of his final moment. His body looks limp, like a marionette with its strings cut.
Phil lies crumpled on the floor nearby, a revolver still clutched in his hand. A matching wound gapes in his temple, surrounded by dried blood. The gun lies just beneath his chin, a clear indicator of how he ended things.
I freeze, my pulse pounding in my ears.
What the fuck?
I take a step closer, my boots crunching on broken glass scattered across the floor. The scene is gruesome, but it’s not what hits me hardest. It’s the simplicity of it all.
Phil got to him first.
I stare at the tableau, a mix of disbelief and rage bubbling inside me. After all my planning, my careful setup, my months of tracking Timmy’s every move, Phil beats me to the punch—and this is what he does? A single bullet?
How fucking uninspired.
I crouch down beside Timmy, studying his lifeless form. The bullet wound is clean—too clean. It’s possible he didn’t even see it coming. There’s no fear, no suffering, no chance for him to face what he’s done. Just a quick end, served by the man who raised him into a monster.
I glance over at Phil’s body. His face is slack, almost peaceful, as if he found some kind of solace in ending both their lives. The sight of him makes my blood boil.
“You fucking coward,” I mutter under my breath.
This wasn’t justice. It was an escape.
I drop my bag to the floor with a heavy thud, my jaw clenching. I had plans for Timmy.Big plans.Plans that would have made him suffer for every ounce of pain he inflicted on Margaux.
But now? It’s gone. All of it.
The sharp wail of sirens in the distance pulls me from my thoughts. My head snaps up, and my heart sinks as realization sets in.
Shit. I look guilty as hell.
I glance down at the bag of tools at my feet—chains, duct tape, gloves, a hammer—and then back at the two bodies. The cops won’t believe I just happened upon this scene.
The sirens grow louder. Red and blue lights flicker through the dirty windows, illuminating the blood-streaked walls.
Oh, fuck.
“Hands up!” a voice booms. “Get on your knees! Drop your weapon!”
LATER
The holding cell reeks of piss and regret. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow over everything.
I sit on the cold bench, arms crossed, my thoughts racing.