Grayson

Perfection.

The ultimate assumption that it can be attained if one works hard enough, sacrifices enough, is determined enough to prevail…is the very definition of insanity.

But what is this maddening thing we call perfection?

It’s different for everyone.

That one, blissfully high moment of utter and complete satisfaction, of achievement. It’s a sweet glimpse of heaven. A split-second where demons depart and the gates inch open, granting us a limited view of something holy.

We have reached the top of the mountain. We have conquered. We reap our reward.

Ah, that reward doesn’t come freely. There’s a price.

Fear.

Fear governs our life—that soul-sickening dread of loss. Once we’ve obtained our perfection, anxiety creeps in like the demonic force it is to steal our light.

The truth is a nice dash of salt in a fresh, cavernous wound.

Once we’ve tasted the sweetest perfection, savoring it on our tongue, everything that follows can only be bland by comparison. Or worse; a sickly sour. Quickly becoming a rotten bitterness that roils our stomach.

The higher we reach, the further we descend immediately afterward. A crushing low.

A torrid pit of hell awaits us at the bottom.

Maybe that’s where London and I made our first mistake. Believing we could bottle our perfect piece of heaven. Immortalize it. Exist only for each other.

Maybe we still can.

My ears pick up the low thump of bass as I walk past the Blue Clover. I pull my jacket hood over my head, dodging a drunken, laughing group. Getting back to Maine was harder this time. Before, the authorities assumed I wouldn’t return—now they’re expecting me.

Luckily, Agent Nelson left me a trail of breadcrumbs. This is where he wants me. Which means he has leverage. He has her.

Let him take me.

London’s haunting words have set my course since I escaped the Rockland jailhouse. This is her design, and as she’s the dominant force, I’ve conceded to her request. Though it wasn’t easy; I caught up to Nelson twice, and both times I waited. And watched.

No one can run forever.

There are only two certainties for men like us. You’re either caught or killed.

But unlike Nelson, I have an anomaly—a beautiful dark angel who defies convention.

I notice the shiny lock on the warehouse door. It hangs open, an invitation. There’s no stealthy entrance on my part as I slide the door open. Nelson wants me here, London wants me here…so here I am.

Let the games begin.

I walk inside, and as soon as I see her, my heart lurches. It only ever beats for her.

Suspended above the garage on a hydraulic car lift, London floats there like the angel she is—a vision.

Her mouth and eyes are covered, but she can hear me. She’s been stripped of her clothes—her flesh on display, all except for her thin bra and panties. Wire ropes project from her wrists and waist….holding her aloft…like a beautifully disturbed marionette.

The cables are anchored around the lift’s arms—the yellow steel beams that support an automobile—and she dangles from just below. The cables flow above the lift, stretched taut above like piano strings, and fold over a second lift bar to drop down like rain. But instead of raindrops, padlocked weights dangle from the cables.

I tear my gaze away momentarily to study the mechanism. Within seconds, I’ve calculated the system.

The lift is set on a timer. Lowering her every minute. The countdown will end with London submerged in an 8ft shipping container.

It’s beautiful, really.

The trap London and I began to design that first night here, now complete, realized to its full potential. A trap I could truly appreciate, if not for Nelson’s fingerprints all over it, corroding it.

“I thought to myself,” Nelson’s voice sounds out, “it’s unfortunate that you’ve never had the pleasure of starring in one of your own traps.”

I push the hood off and unzip my jacket. “What’s in the container?”

“A concentrated sulfuric acid compound,” he replies. “Your recipe.”

I smirk and toss my jacket aside. “A copycat down to the last detail.” But I realize London’s exposed flesh will be submerged in the mixture with no barrier to mute the damage. This sobers me.

“That’s just the perfectionist in me. I do have a whimsical side. Like the addition of the locks…just for you. It’s a metaphor.”

I’m already tired of his voice. “Very clever.” I glance around and notice a covered rubber tub beneath the dangling locks.

“Go ahead. Open it.”

I stride to the tub and toe the lid open.

Keys.

At least a hundred gleaming keys fill the bottom of the bin…and they’ve been filed into lethal-looking weapons. The edges knife-sharp.

A hiss echoes through the garage, and the hydraulic lift lowers a notch. I look up at London. She’s strong, but her body reacts from the jolting motion, her muscles quaking with involuntary tremors as she sways only feet above the container.

The weighted locks above my head clang together, moving another few inches higher.

“I knew from the moment I found the doctor alive that she was the key to you,” Nelson says. “I admit, for a while, you eluded me. You’re a conundrum. A psychopathic killer in love… Not only is it ridiculous, but it goes against every FBI profile we have.”

“I’m not a profile.”

“You will be now. See, I struggled—with every kill—to get inside your head, but I don’t have to share your obsession to beat you. I just needed her.”

London is so much more than a mere obsession.

“If you try to remove her from the trap,” Nelson continues, “I push the button on the lift controls. She might survive the acid dunk…but she won’t be very pretty anymore.”

I grit my teeth and whirl around, looking for the man behind the voice. “You could just shoot us both. Save us the trouble.”

He tsks. “Do you think I’m doing this for you? For her? I don’t give a fuck how you two twists kill each other in the end. She dies by your hand—by your death trap—that means I get to go back.”

“You’re not going back, Nelson. You enjoy my persona too much. It might have started out as a way to get inside my head, to hunt me, but as time went on, you got comfortable in my skin. Because otherwise, I’m here.” I raise my hands. “You’ve caught me.”

My voice echos around the garage.

I let my arms drop. “You don’t want to capture me. You want me dead. So you can continue to use my methods to kill. It’s the perfect ruse.”

At his intense silence, I have my answer. Nelson doesn’t intend for either me or London to leave here alive.

“Being on the run is exhausting,” I say. “I know. It wears on a man. Shows us what we’re made of. I’m never going to stop hunting you, Nelson. The FBI is the least of your worries.”

Another shrill whistle from the gears on the lift, and London descends lower. A warning that Nelson is ready to start the game.

Even if I save her, we’re not simply walking away. The only way Nelson gets to be the hero is if we die. He’ll become the insulted agent who went rogue to capture an escaped killer.

Except London becomes a victim in the process.

Two deaths have to happen here. That’s what’s needed.

“Only one key unlocks her shackles,” Nelson says. “Dig in.”

I look up at London, beautiful and angelic. Her dark hair tangled in disarray, mascara smudged down her porcelain cheeks. Masking tape covers her eyes and mouth, and yet she’s speaking to me, urging me on.

It ends here, she said in this very place as I held her in my arms. She saw the design before I could recognize it myself.

I start with the locks, inspecting each one. A Houdini lock and three other puzzle locks. I used to solve these as a kid. I could use the bump key I keep in my pocket to open the locks right now—but that’d be breaking the rules. London would suffer.

Nelson wants blood.

I roll my sleeves up and kneel before the tub of keys, noticing an odd glint beneath the surface. Swiping my hand over the top, I push aside a number of keys.

Razorblades.

“Damn. This is going to hurt.”

I fortify myself, and a sort of calm encases me as I sink my hands into the sharp objects. From my peripheral, I see London kicking her feet, seeking the edge of the container. She won’t reach it. She only has five minutes before her toes touch the acid.

Five minutes is more than enough time.

I can assume Nelson wouldn’t put the keys to the locks anywhere near the top of the pile; he wants me digging, razors shredding my skin. I work my hands all the way to the bottom of the tub, gritting my teeth against the acute pain.

I’ve had worse done to me. I’ve done worse—I’ve scarred my flesh deeper than these razors can cut. I dig through the bin without a single wince for Nelson.

I don’t need to try every key here. I know what I’m looking for. I know what the grooves of the teeth will feel like, how they’ll slide into the keyhole and turn easily with that satisfying click. My favorite sound other than London’s soft voice.

This trap was designed for me.

A buzz sounds, then I hear the hiss of the lift. London’s body lowers closer to the acid.

Blood stains the silver key as I pull it free. I inspect it quickly, then lay it on the cement. I dive back in. Fine slashes assault my wrists. Blades carve into my flesh, flaying my skin. But I press on until I find the second, and the third.

Sweat stings my eyes and I’m shaking with adrenaline by the time I unearth the final key.

I rest my forearms on the edge of the tub and take measured breaths. Then I get to my feet, the keys gripped in my bloodied hands.

On the Houdini lock, I twist the beveled screw on the backside loose, then slip in the key and twist. The lock pops open, and I toss it to the floor, the sandbag falls free. “Hang on, London. I’m coming to you.”

The next puzzle lock is just as simple. I realize—while I’m sliding the gold flap on the front sideways to align the inner mechanism—that this isn’t the trap. Nelson knows I can pick a lock—can pick any lock. I’m waiting for the real fun to begin.

The second lock clicks open. The weight releases, and I grab the cable before it can zip across the lift bar. “Grab hold of the beam above you,” I shout to London.

With her wrists freed, she grasps ahold of the lift arm and clings to the steel beam.

I fill my lungs, taking a full breath as I move to the last lock. The key slips out of my hand, slippery from my blood, and I curse. The gears on the lift grind, and I look up to see it drop another few inches.

Her feet hit the acid. London’s pained cry is muffled, but the agony of it slices through my chest more painfully than a million razors.

She pulls her knees toward her waist, keeping away from the acid. But she’s in pain. She’s getting weak.

“Hold on!” The final lock springs open.

I race across the garage and scale a large shipping container to reach the lift. “I’m here.” Seating myself on the edge of the beam, I grab ahold of London’s arms and help her wrap them around my neck. She’s trembling as I bring her to my chest.

I work the wire rope free from around her waist. Then I tell her to keep an arm around me as I guide her across the machine and onto the container. I glance around the shop, seeking Nelson. He remains hidden.

I quickly inspect her feet. Only her toes suffered the acid, but she needs to treat and dress them.

London digs at the tape over her mouth and pries it off, leaving angry red skin behind. “This isn’t the whole trap—”

“I know.” As gently as I can, I ease the masking tape from her eyes. She winces at the sting. She blinks a few times to clear her vision. “Are you okay?”

She nods repeatedly, still shaky with adrenaline and her sweat-slicked, exposed skin. “I’ll be fine, but I need to get you to a doctor.”

At my confused expression, she palms my face between her trembling hands. “The razors—”

“Were tipped with aconite.”

Nelson stands at the base of the container, gun aimed up at us. I pull London behind my back.

“That’s amazing,” Nelson says. “A selfless, heroic psychopathic killer. I believe that’s an oxymoron.”

I can feel it now—the poison coursing my system.

A clamminess blankets my skin. Spikes of cold and hot prickle my body; nerve endings misfiring. My muscles twitch, spasms starting to set in. Nausea will soon follow. Convulsions. Paralysis. Asphyxiation.

An excruciating death.

How long has it been since the first blade sliced my skin? Five…six minutes?

I don’t have much time.

I kneel before London. “Take the switchblade from my pocket.”

The panic lacing her gleaming eyes gives way to horror. “What?—I’m not—”

Nelson’s deep chuckle grates my already fraying nerves. “Oh, this is priceless. Just perfect.” He taps the barrel of the gun to his temple, as if he’s thinking. “Yes, London. You have to. A mercy kill…end his pain. You don’t want him to suffer an agonizing death.”

I swallow as I hold her gaze, resolute. “Put the blade to my throat.”

“Grayson…” Her eyes seal shut. She knows this is the only way—but she’s fighting fate.

“Trust,” I whisper. I wet my lips, my mouth running dry.

With unsteady balance, she dips her head and places the softest kiss to my neck. She talks in a hushed tone, her swift words for my ears only. Then her hand slips into my front pocket and grasps my newest switchblade.

“I underestimated you, Nelson,” I shout down to him, keeping my gaze trained on London’s beautiful face.

When I’m gone, he’ll either shoot her or submerge her in the acid, finishing the job. The scene will be set. It’s brilliant, really. London and I—accomplices, lovers—destroyed by our own maddening devices. Our own hands.

Such a perfect ending.

Maybe that’s where London and I made our first mistake. Believing we could bottle our perfect piece of heaven. Immortalize it. Exist only for each other.

Maybe we still can.

But the higher we climbed, drugged on each other, ruling over a damned world that bowed and trembled before the god-like monsters we’d become, the harder our fall.

We are perfection.

And we are the fear that lurks beneath it.

We feast on each other and exist only for the highs…and even now as I kneel before my dark goddess and pray for her mercy, I regret nothing.

We truly were happy.

Maybe we still can be.

The razor-sharp edge of the knife presses into my neck and splits my skin, and I release a hiss. I search her gold-flecked eyes for the spark that tells me she’s ready. Her eyes are wild, filled with loathing contempt, her chest heaving as glistening beads of sweat dot her smooth brow.

My beautiful angel of mercy, now my vengeful angel of death.

“Do it,” I command.

Her hand steadies. The cold steel a tantalizing tease to my heated flesh.

“Close your eyes, Grayson.” Her voice is throaty and raw, wrapping me in her cruel, loving embrace.

I push against the knife, drawing blood. “I want to see the satisfaction it brings you.”

Her delicate neck pulses with a strained swallow. I feel the force of it in my throat. My thirst for her never quenched. Even now, as she grips the weapon with both hands and begins to drag the blade across my skin, I yearn to taste her one more time.

Death at my lover’s hand. The ultimate reward and punishment for our perfection.

I couldn’t ask for a more perfect ending.