Violence Inc.

‘I want her eyes.’

The text lit up the screen of her burner phone. She rolled her own, pocketing it.

Cheza had learned a long time ago not to ask questions. When a client had a special request and was willing to pay well, you just did it. It was one of the few options to get ahead in this life. Especially if you had the reputation to match.

Half the population were drug dealers, sex workers, or affiliated with some shitty, low-level street gang nowadays. Anything that brought in the extra cash. Whatever it took.

In her mind, it wasn’t shameful. It was simple math. An equation she’d been following since she was seventeen years old. Eleven years later, and it had never failed her. People couldn’t afford not to sell their souls off to some dark crevice of the underworld. They couldn’t afford to live.

They called it the Collapse. When Midland City imposed a massive price increase on everything six years ago. Gas, food, liquor, rent. Everything. Businesses closed, jobs disappeared and the homeless population increased drastically. Places like Smugglers thrived; it was cheaper to drink bootleg liquor in seedy gang-operated bars than anywhere else.

This led to addictions, debts and grudges. A problem for most people. The solution for Cheza.

The only people who could afford a contract, an efficiently executed one, had the money to back up their twisted little demands.

Her grey eyes followed the blonde woman across the darkened bar. Blue and green laser lights cut between them while an overdriven guitar riff and aggressive drumming pounded from the speakers. The woman lifted a glass of dark liquid to her lips, an illegal but effective recipe, courtesy of the owners of Smugglers.

The woman clung to a man who looked more like a bull than a person. Broad-shouldered, no neck, muscles pumped up with steroids. Massive, stupid and probably carrying.

Chin resting in the palm of her hand, she leaned against the bar, sipping her drink. Waiting. Bored.

“You want another?” The bartender yelled over the music.

Cheza didn’t bother to look at him, waving her hand dismissively in his direction.

The woman finally peeled herself off the man and wandered off towards the bathroom. She stumbled every few steps, blonde curls bouncing around her face while she grinned like an idiot.

Cheza slid off the barstool, pushing her way through the crowd of people on the dance floor. She trailed the blonde to the back of the bar and down a short hallway. A back entrance sat at the end of it. Convenient for dragging drunk bimbos with small bladders out of.

Just how she planned it. There were no dome cameras out there. The owners of Smugglers hadn't bothered with securing the outside of the building. They didn't give a shit what happened out there as long as it didn't happen inside.

The woman stumbled into the wall, leaning against it as she tried to regain her composure.

Cheza reached into her jacket, fingers wrapping around the grip of the Beretta 92 inside.

She didn’t need stealth. Between the pounding music behind them and the booze, this was easy.

The thin black polyester gaiter around her neck was pulled up over her nose, hood up as she stepped behind her. Her arm snapped around the woman’s neck, pushing the pistol tight to her temple. Cheza dragged her from the wall. Her feet stumbled and her body sagged toward the floor.

“What the fu-” The blonde started to slur, cut off by a choke. Her hands flew to the leather-clad arm tightening around her throat.

“Stand.” Cheza hissed into her ear, thumbing the safety. “Walk.”

Almost immediately, the woman started crying. She stepped forward, tripping on her own feet, ankles bending awkwardly as she tried to balance herself in her heels.

With a roll of her eyes, Cheza loosened her grip on the woman and shoved her towards the door.

“Try to run, I’ll blow your kneecaps out before you make it ten feet.” She warned.

The blonde nodded with a sob as she pushed the metal bar across the door.

The smell of rain and wet asphalt hit her as she stepped out into the alleyway, cold droplets of water whipping across her face from the wind.

“Who-” the emotional wreck ahead of her choked out, “Who the fuck even are you?”

Cheza didn’t answer, jabbing the woman between the shoulder blades with the muzzle of her pistol. Signalling her to keep walking.

She kept moving, but she didn’t stop talking.

“I asked you a question!” The blonde snapped, sniffling loudly. “Who are you?!”

“Shut up, keep going.”

Cheza’s boots splashed in an oil-slicked puddle as they rounded the corner to the back of the building. A dead end. Cheza stopped, twisting a silencer onto the end of her gun.

The blonde spun around to face her, mascara and eyeliner running down her face. She whimpered, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

“Did fucking Will put you up to this?” She asked, lips trembling as she wrapped her arms around her thin frame.

“Didn’t bother to get a name.” Cheza answered dryly, aiming the Beretta and firing.

The woman crumpled to the ground. Dark red soaked into her curls, mixing with the muddy grime underneath her.

Tucking a long dark strand of hair behind her ear, Cheza crouched beside the body. She slid her gun away into her coat, a pocket knife, a clear seal-top bag and a pair of black, nitrile gloves replacing it.

She hated this part.

Killing was one thing. A quick shot to the head, a quick photo and off she went. Harvesting souvenirs was another fucking thing. It didn’t make her gag anymore. At least not like the first time. Her stomach was basically iron-clad at this point.

It was just messy. It always left weird stains on her clothing, with a smell that never seemed to wash out. And she fucking hated shopping.

Snapping the gloves on, Cheza unfolded the blade. Her thumb lifted the woman's eyelid. In a scooping motion, she pushed the tip of the blade behind the lifeless blue eye. There was a slight suctioning noise as it popped out of its socket and into her hand. The vitreous slicked her glove.

Severing the nerve, she dropped it into the bag. Then she moved on to the next.

When she was finished, she pocketed the empty casing on the ground and rose to her feet, sealing the bag. She rolled it up and shoved it into her pocket before snapping a picture of the woman and sending it off to the lone contact in her phone.

She gave a final glance at the body, a familiar feeling of indifference settling in her stomach. Cheza learned early: they were jobs, not people. And she’d kept telling herself that until it stuck. Though, it hadn’t taken very long.

-

Rain soaked through her hood while she leaned against the aluminum wall. Sirens wailed in the distance, muffled by cars splashing down the wet streets.

A dull irritation sat in her chest. She took a long drag off her cigarette, checking the time on the burner.

They were late. Fifteen minutes late.

It wasn’t the cold, or the fact that she was nearly soaking wet that irritated her. It was the wait. She had better things to do than stand around outside a shuttered homeless shelter with a pair of human eyes in her pocket.

Cheza flipped open the burner again, double checking she hadn’t missed an update. She hadn’t.

She kicked off the wall, exhaling a plume of smoke from her mouth. Gravel crunched under her boots as she absentmindedly strode closer to the street.

A large, black Hummer finally pulled up, its colourful underlights pulsing and flickering across the pavement. Heavy bass vibrated from the vehicle, strong enough that she could feel it in her chest.

The rear door swung open. A skinny, brown-haired man grinned at her. He was dripping in the latest brand names, sunglasses on at night. Like a total douche.

“You the one?” He shouted over the obnoxious wave of throbbing bass.

Cheza crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing up the gaudy excuse of a man.

“You’re late,” she said, sharply.

The man tilted his head to the side, brow furrowing as he looked at her. His attention briefly turned to whoever was in the driver's seat. He leaned forward and muttered something inaudible to them. The music grew quiet.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Cheza stepped closer. She raised an eyebrow, scowling up at him. “Pay up.”

“Hop in.”

She took a long, final drag off her cigarette and then flicked it off to the curb. Grabbing hold of the handle inside the door, she hoisted herself up into the unnecessarily lifted showpiece.

The door slammed shut behind her as she sat sideways in the seat. The warm air inside cut through the chill of her wet clothes. In the front seats, two men, another brunette and a blonde, twisted to face the back of the cabin. Both dressed just as well as the man beside her.

They watched her like she was the most interesting thing they’d seen that month.

Cheza glanced over at them, the corners of her mouth twitching downwards. They both smirked.

“So?” The man asked, dark eyes wandering down her body and then back up to her face. “You got the eyes?”

“You got my other five grand?” Cheza shot back.

He grinned again, and motioned for the blonde to reach into the glovebox.

“I’m Will, by the way.” He said, tone a little too smug. “That’s Cameron, and that one there is Lewis.”

He motioned to the brunette first, then to the blonde who was passing an envelope back to her.

She didn’t care what their names were and she didn’t respond. Instead she opened the envelope and thumbed through the cash inside, silently counting.

Once she was satisfied, she pulled the rolled-up bag from her jacket and tossed it onto Will’s lap.

Almost simultaneously the three men began laughing and whooping, as Will unrolled the clear bag and held it up to view in the dim cabin lighting.

They sounded like a bunch of fucking gorillas.

Her fingers pulled the door latch, and she shoved the door open, grey eyes rolling at the frat boy atmosphere in the vehicle.

“Hey,” Will said, hand grabbing her upper arm to stop her, “If you wanted to make a couple more G’s I might have a few ideas.”

This earned a few snickers from the front of the vehicle.

Cheza froze for a moment, teeth grinding. Then she slowly turned to face him. A smirk sat stuck on his face, one that confirmed the bullshit she just knew he was about to spew. She yanked her arm from his grip. Not hard enough to be aggressive, but hard enough to let him know she didn’t appreciate the sudden contact.

“Oh yeah?” She asked, putting her elbow up on the back of the seat and resting the side of her head in the palm of her hand. A small smile of her own crept on her face. One that didn’t meet her eyes. “Let’s hear ‘em then.”

Will’s smirk stretched into a grin, the gold and diamond cap on his left canine catching in the dim cabin light.

“None of us have ever fucked a killer before,” he shifted in his seat, scooting slightly closer to her, “You take on all three of us, then walk away with another five grand. If you can handle it. What do you think?”

Cheza arched an eyebrow, her lips curved in amusement.

“I think that sounds like a shit time.” She answered, eyes flicking between all three men as her smile thinned. “Boujee gangbanger wannabes aren’t my type. Besides, if your little girlfriend was so desperate she had to go chasing after ‘roid dick then I’m guessing the only one packing in here is me.”

Will’s smug face twisted into one of anger. His lips parted like he was about to speak and he leaned forward, hands tightening into fists.

She flashed the grip of the Beretta inside her coat, daring him to try anything. Everything in her brain screamed at her to shoot him between the legs, just so she could watch the little creep cry.

She resisted, but the image persisted.

“I’d lose my contact if I were you.” Cheza said, dropping out of the vehicle. Wet air smacked her face once again.

She didn’t wait around for a response. Just slammed the door harder than necessary. She pulled the burner flip from her pocket and snapped it in half, tossing the pieces into the storm drain at her feet. Then started the walk back to her own car.

-

By the time she stepped into her darkened, third floor apartment, it was nearly four AM.

Her mind was numb from exhaustion, and irritation still lingered in her chest from the sheer idiocy that had just taken place.

Tossing the envelope of cash onto the marbled countertop, she began peeling the wet jacket and hoodie from her body. She let them fall to the hardwood floor, her muddied boots kicked off beside them.

With her pack of cigarettes in hand, she dragged herself through the kitchen towards the living room. Then she dropped into the black, leather sectional like a sack of rocks.

She reached for the remote beside her, flicking on the TV. It was still turned down low from the last time she’d used it as background noise. The news came on, footage of a local televangelist church taped off with crime scene tape filled the screen. A body draped in a white sheet was carried out of the frame behind the well-dressed blonde holding the mic.

The volume was low, but she caught the reporter’s words.

“Tonight the body of Pastor John Renee was discovered, disemboweled and nailed upside down on a wooden cross. Renee had been the pastor of The Church of the Redeemer for the past 15 years. Police have not released any more information regarding Renee’s brutal murder. Rumours have spread that this was another violent act of Midland’s latest serial killer, who police are now calling the Midland Sin-Eater.”

Cheza sank deeper into the couch, legs sprawled out in front of her and pants still wet from the torrential downpour that hadn’t let up since it started the afternoon before. She only half-watched as she plucked out a joint from the half-crushed cigarette pack and held it tightly between her lips. The soft click of her lighter cut through the reporter's voice as she lit it.

“Police have not confirmed that the Sin-Eater was responsible for Renee’s death. Though witnesses who found the body have reported to us that one of the Sin-Eater’s messages was found at the scene.”

The camera panned over to a tall, redheaded woman. The shock of the night’s events was still stuck on her face.

“They left a note, stapled to his forehead,” the unnamed woman started, eyes darting between the reporter next to her and the camera. “It said something about hellfire. I can’t really remember.”

Cheza scoffed, inhaling off the joint before blowing two tendrils of smoke from her nostrils. Muting the tv, she turned her attention to the soft blue glow emitting from the half-shut laptop that rested on the coffee table.

Cheza let out a long exhale as she leaned forward and tilted the screen up.

The cursor moved across the screen, clicking open the minimized dark browser.

Several new messages sat waiting for her. She went through them one at a time. A woman who wanted her husband dead. Someone who was done waiting for a drug debt to be paid. A jealous ‘best friend’. Each job sounding as equally mundane as the last.

Until she came to the last message in her encrypted inbox.

‘Need someone found and taken care of. Willing to pay big. $800,000.’

Her grey eyes widened slightly as she re-read the message over again. Double-checking that she’d seen the numbers right.

She sat upright, joint burning between her fingers as she tried to process the message. Her breath froze in her throat for a moment.

Hand hovering over the keyboard for a moment, she read it a final time. It almost seemed too good to be true. What was the catch? Would it be someone high profile? And who exactly was willing to throw around that kind of money?

She lowered her fingers to the keys, the buttons clacking as she typed.

‘Let’s talk.’