When Lily and Jane go missing one night after a party, ex-cop Luke Carillo does whatever he can to try and find them. He ends up undercover on an island run by the drug trafficker who was responsible for the attack, alone and without backup. Before...
The knife I held in my grip felt familiar, like an extension of my gloved hand. I kept it by my side as I walked through the hallway of the apartment building, stopping at 2b. There was only a wooden door separating me from my target.
The hallway was short, the walls white and bare. There were only three units on this floor. A faded floral carpet ran the length of it and a plastic leafy plant sat at the end. All was quiet, as it should have been at eight o'clock on a Tuesday night.
Pressing my ear against the door, I could hear faint sounds coming through. Water from the tap filling a pot. The click of a propane stove igniting. Loud footsteps approaching and moving further away, a rhythm, almost as constant as the rise and fall of my chest.
Then he was in another room.
I reached into my pocket for the lockpicking device. I had his door open in seconds before slinking inside. The pot of water was boiling on the stove. I moved past the kitchen and stood beside the bathroom, my eyes fixed on the sliver of light protruding from underneath the door. I waited, knife still in my grasp, anticipating the opening of the door.
When it did, I didn't hesitate. The 200 pound man didn't have time to react before I stabbed the four inch blade between his upper ribs. He let out a loud roar and turned to me, face red from pain or anger. Or both. He took one weak swing at me before I tackled him onto the linoleum floor.
He stilled once the knife was pressed against his throat. I gave him a minute to look me over. To take in the brown hair tied in a tight bun. The green eyes that once had more life in them. The curve of my cheeks and jaw that should be familiar to him.
Finally, recognition.
"You."
I smirked. I gave him one last moment to take it all in before I slid the knife across his carotid artery. Blood spilled all over. Onto the floor, onto my hand, into his clothes. It didn't bother me as much as it did before.
I climbed off of his lifeless body and turned off the stove. Then I washed my knife under the sink, put it back on in the leather sheath attached to my hip, and walked out.
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