Freaks - Callie Hart.pdf

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Contents
COPYRIGHT
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
WANT MORE?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ENJOYED THE STORY?
FREAKS
Copyright © 2018 Callie Hart
FREAKS
Copyright © 2018 Callie Hart
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other
electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the author, except
in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other
noncommercial uses permitted bye copyright law. For permission requests, write to the
author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at callie@calliehart.com.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely
coincidental. Names, places and characters are figments of the author’s imagination, or, if
real, used fictitiously. The author recognizes the trademarks and copyrights of all
registered products and works mentioned within this work.
PROLOGUE
CARVER
I had never killed anyone before.
There had been times when the desire had been there, of course. Plenty of times when
the rage and the pain inside had demanded justice. This was the first time I’d taken action,
though. And once the task was done, once the girl was dead, I was sure the knot of anger
that roiled inside me would finally subside. That finally there would be peace, if only a
tarnished, impure kind of peace that maybe wouldn’t eradicate all of the suffering and the
trauma but might bring with it a shadow of rest.
That would be enough. Maybe then, there would be some way forward out of the
darkness that had obscured the world for so long.
As I stood in front of the laptop on the otherwise empty desk, the words appeared
almost by themselves on the screen. Another email, this time severing the contract that
had been put in place. Marcosa had seemed like a solid bet. A man who would carry out
the job he’d been hired to do without pause. There’d been no way to know he would fall
for the girl. So fucking stupid. Lafferty was beautiful, there was no denying that, but the
assassin had come with the highest of recommendations. Had never once quailed at the
hardest of jobs. So why, now, had the man allowed his morals and his dick to get in the
way? It should have been easy. Should have been a quick, clean kill that took up no more
than thirty minutes of his day.
My fingers hammered at the keyboard.
M,
Disappointment doesn’t cover it. I trusted your colleague to be a professional. Now,
I’ve discovered your services to be unreliable. I’ve entered into an alternative
contract to take care of the matter. This new individual’s methods are questionable at
best, but he will not waiver until the work is complete. Please convey my
dissatisfaction to Mr. Marcosa. Tell him, whereas before he could have saved SL
considerable pain and misery, he has now guaranteed that she will suffer.
Carver
Closing the laptop and stowing it away, I considered the stack of drawings sitting in the
bag beneath the desk. The images depicted on those countless sheets of paper were as
graphic and sexual as could be. They’d been in that bag, carried from pillar to post, from
one side of the country to the other, for years now. They’d become a focus of intrigue and
hate, a fascination and an obsession, but now they were no longer needed.
Sera Lafferty would soon be dead, and this whole, messy saga would be done with. No
more need for sneaking around. No more lies and deception. Tendrils of spite and fury
would no longer choke the very air I breathed.
Those drawings wouldn’t be carried back home this time. The bag would stay down
here to rot, just like the disgusting piece of shit lying on the cot on the other side of the
bunker—the same piece of shit who hadn’t stopped sniveling and whining since the needle
had pierced the crook of his arm fifteen minutes ago and the poison had slowly entered his
sluggish bloodstream.
“Don’t. Don’t just fucking leave me down here. I can help you. I know what to do. I
won’t mess it up, I swear!”
I sneered. “There is one way you can help me.”
“How?” Anderson’s eyes were already bloodshot and bulging, the toxins getting to
work inside him.
“I could really use your sneakers.” Kicking the polished leather shoes off was easy; the
damn things were three sizes too big. I began unlacing Anderson’s dusty, filthy New
Balance running shoes, tugging them from his feet, first the left and then the right.
“Why are you doing this?” he moaned. “I ain’t done nothing to deserve this.”
I almost laughed at that. “You know all too well what you did.”
The sneakers stank to high heaven and were trodden down at the back where he’d
jammed his feet into them without undoing the laces, as I had just done. I set my jaw and
slipped my own feet inside, fastening them up tight. Anderson’s car was parked a mile
away and it was dark outside—there was little chance of being seen—but still. I’d run
back to the car just to be safe, and I didn’t want to end up tripping over my own feet. The
sneakers were still too big, but better than the dress shoes had been.
I turned, ready to leave this godawful place behind forever, but Anderson grabbed the
hem of the shirt I was wearing, fisting the material tightly. “What happened to you?” he
whispered.
The man lying on the cot had gone by another name once upon a time. Just as I had,
he’d changed his given name in order to build a new life for himself. He’d wasted the
opportunity, though. He was old now. Fat. Useless. Another ugly sneer contorted my face;
I felt it molding my features, setting there permanently. “I am merely a product of my
surroundings.” I tilted my head, studying him with utter contempt. “But you, Anderson?
What happened to you?”
His mouth flapped open and closed a couple of times. It must have been getting pretty
hard for him to breathe. Hard enough that he couldn’t reply.

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