Locke 2 (Blackwater Boys #4)

One

Locke

H e waded through the darkness, moving slowly between tall trees, his steps impossibly quiet over the fallen leaves. The air had a cold bite to it. The wind blew steadily, and the branches around him groaned.

It nearly drowned out the distant groans that occasionally cut through the eerie silence.

His head snapped to attention, his adrenaline coursing through his veins as he followed the sound.

It was a fitting setting for a hunt.

It was overdue. The itch had become impossible to ignore, and Locke…He needed to spill blood.

He held the shotgun tightly, raising it every now and then as he scanned his surroundings, waiting for an attack. It never came. These cunts were cowards at the end of the day. They ran for their lives, clutching their sorrows in open surrender, like it might somehow save them.

Another whimper cut through the air, and it was closer. Locke slowed his steps, taking his time, trying to draw it out. His eyes latched to movement. The dark figure between the trees moved haphazardly, twigs snapping beneath his bare feet, his fat shoulders ramming into bushes and trees, causing branches to sway.

Locke stood still, allowing the seconds to bleed, for the idiot to get further away. Locke waited patiently, sighing calmly. He let his head fall back, staring up at the night sky through the break in the trees. Watching, for a moment, the dotted stars, twinkling down at him.

If he could just stand still like the stars did. If he could just shine bright then maybe all this madness would be over. The broken watch on his wrist felt heavy as he ran a hand through his hair, sighing slowly. Then he shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He unwrapped it, skimming the names on the list so that he could reignite the rage that had given him so much purpose once.

Trenchcoat Man

Thornby

Pearson

Man in the red shirt

The rage didn’t come.

He pocketed the list and resumed the hunt, taking his time, hoping the weasel got far enough away that he might be difficult to track down. This was what Locke was good at. Hunting, tracking, finding the subtle hints in the land it had been disturbed by these grotesque men.

Mostly, he looked for blood.

If there was even a drop of it, he could find it.

The minutes slipped by, ebbing and flowing like water. Where it should have felt like a raging inferno, the mood was cool and tepid. The desensitisation of what he was doing was at its all time high. He was just a moving thing, much like a robot following programmed instructions.

It was only when he’d heard the next whimper cut through the air that he felt vibration coming from his pocket. He stopped, keeping his gaze glued to the dark figure in the distance as he thrashed through the forest, falling straight on his face.

It appeared this was as good as it was going to get.

Locke shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone, cutting his gaze from the scoundrel that hadn’t gotten back on his feet and to the screen of his dumb phone.

A message shone on the screen. line that felt like a hot punch in the arctic wasteland that was his chest. It took a few minutes to understand what he was reading. It felt like foreign words, the meaning lost, and he was filled with confusion.

Then his breath escaped his lungs all at once.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and this time he felt a flash of purpose in his strides as he moved through the bush, quickly catching up to the weasel that had yet to get up from his pathetic collapse.

Locke, a masterful hunter, came upon him, and there was nothing to savour about the moment. Not after a message like that. Simply, he was down to business, his emotions almost flickering in his chest, but still, he remained composed as he looked down at the half-naked geezer, huffing and puffing into the ground like he might have a heart attack.

“Please…Pleeeeease…” he begged, aware of Locke as he stood over him. “I’m a father …a husband…I’m not the same man…I’m not…”

Here he was, the man in the red shirt, who’d done things to a little boy that were so unimaginable, not even Satan himself would want anything to do with him.

He was still begging when Locke raised his shotgun and, from close range, fired at the man’s head. He watched it explode before him. Warm blood and brains coated his face and black suit, and he did not stir as he stared down at him, unmoving, taking in the scene with a stony expression.

The hunt was cut short, but for good reason. Locke finally looked away, pulling out that piece of paper again. He didn’t have a pen on him, but he didn’t need one. He dabbed the blood streaking his face and slid it across the final line on the list.

Trenchcoat Man

Thornby

Pearson

Man in the red shirt

Then he pulled the phone back out and stared down at the message, his eyes drunk off the line staring back at him.

She’s been spotted, but not in the way you might think.

There had been so much carnage in the last eighteen months. Endless street wars and recruits that were brainwashed and assigned to his underbelly association. Troops he’d send out to harness power and then collect. And when it had gotten too hard, and the pain cut deep, he had needed someone. But there was no one. And he had turned on himself in response.

But now this message…

Locke thought of smooth skin and large brown eyes and that familiar gnawing hunger within him ignited.

He turned around and waded back into the black forest.

He hoped for… hope .

And vengeance.