CRIMINAL INTENTIONS: Season One, Episode Thirteen: THE HATTER'S GAME, PART II by Cole McCade

Author:Cole McCade [McCade, Cole]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 2019-05-18T16:00:00+00:00

[7: IN DUST]

NICO MADSEN CROUCHED BEHIND A parked car and peered over the trunk at the police officers lining the opposite street. He knew both the ones in uniforms and the ones who hid and tried to pretend to be people instead of monsters, demons in human skin. He knew because the cat-eyed angel had told him, shown him, imprinted the information in his brain. He clutched at the package in his hand. The last of five. The others—the others had gone to the men who lied with serpents’ tongues protruding from their throats, but this one…

This one was for him.

And he would do as he had been told, because the cat-eyed angel had asked him.

It was necessary, he told himself. It had to be done. So many things had to be done, and so few had the courage to do them. He hadn’t tasted blood in so long, so long.

But there would be blood and fire, tonight.

He knew what to do. He knew what to do because he had done it right with the boat, the big boat, the old boat, the boat that was destined to die. The square of putty in his palm didn’t look like it should be able to hurt someone, but when the wires went in and the buttons were pushed, then, oh then…

Then would come boom.

He ducked down until he was completely invisible behind the car—whose car, he didn’t know, didn’t matter, didn’t matter, it would be pieces flying in the air far too soon—and stuck the square of putty behind the back tire, wedging it into place. He felt the wires, the little cylinder, to make sure they were holding fast, then skittered back and away. Away, away, darting out of the street and out of the glitter-shot spangles of pretty, pretty snow. That, too, the cat-eyed angel had told him.

That he had to run away, run away, run away.

Because it wasn’t his turn to bleed tonight.

Not him, not him.

But the demons…

Yes.

Yes.

They had taken everything from him, shut him away in a cage, locked him away from the loving touch of his owners, his masters, taken away his teeth and claws until he had not tasted the soft meaty underbelly of prey in far too long.

But he would bathe in entrails, tonight.

And he sequestered himself away between two buildings, tucked far back and safe, the detonator in his palm. His fingers trembled as he caressed the button, stroked its circular depression, let its plastic coolness seep into his skin.

Before he pressed his thumb in, and pushed.

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