I don't need a man to make it happen
I get off being free
I don't need a man to make me feel good
I get off doing my thing
I don't need a ring around my finger
To make me feel complete
Men were pathetic.
They all were weak in certain aspects. Some of them for the simple fact they disrespected women and their bodies and others on the field, while fighting. Like this annoying cop.
No idea who he was, but I presumed he was the guy Desmond called before I knocked him out. Harry - I only knew his name because I had heard Desmond over the phone - mentioned both of them being related and that left me thinking. I most definitely couldn't kill a cop because the D.M.G. was already working its ass out to protect me, and killing a fucking FBI agent would be really stupid and reckless of me. Even so, I would've definitely killed him if it didn't involve major problems.
I was currently at the warehouse, waiting for dear Mr. Styles to wake up so I could have a little chat with him. I had an idea... the most risky though exciting idea I had come up with yet. Desmond and this Harry guy were father and son, and the look in the agent's face showed he actually cared about his father. So I didn't have to necessarily kill Desmond.
I could torture him and keep him for a while. Harry probably had waken up by now and he was for sure overworking his brain because he knew I was about to kill his father. They thought I'd leave him in a dumpster tomorrow, not which one, but a municipal one. But what if I didn't?
It would include messing up my whole schedule and my plans for the rest of the month, but this would be a low blow and they'd definitely wouldn't expect it. It was just to take security measures and keep them away, or at least scared, of me. It would make everything much simpler.
I would just keep Desmond in this warehouse for some days, weeks maybe. I wouldn't make any more appearances and they would definitely freak out. Maybe this backfired and they got even angrier, which meant they'd try harder to find me. But I could take perfect care of myself, so it wouldn't be a problem. Plus, this was different from what I had done in my entire second life. I was playing with fire, and by fire I meant the FBI.
I knew this time everything would be a little harder since Desmond wasn't a ghost like the rest of my victims, but I most certainly had no idea his son was a fucking FBI agent. I was really thrown off, but I was good at hiding emotions.
Now, it was time to think of all the possibilities. I had already gotten rid of every electronic devices Desmond had with him so they couldn't be tracked, but that was already my daily routine. I had tied him up to a chair, both wrists and ankles, and some blood was streaming down his nose because of how hard I had punched him.
Punching didn't hurt my knuckles anymore. In the beginning, they used to get all bruised and swollen, but I had developed some sort of numbness on that area and now I didn't even feel it. Besides, I had punched thousands of noses and sprained my wrists more than once, but now I was quite experienced and I knew how and where to punch in order for everything to go perfect. The good part about me was that I was ambidextrous, so I had fought with broken wrists more than once.
I had left my leather jacket in my van and had changed into one of Zayn's old hoodies because I was about to get really stained in blood, and the leather jacket was my most precious belonging. The sweatshirt was gigantic on me. It was already gigantic on Zayn, and I was literally 5' 1" while my boyfriend was 5' 9". God, I hated being so tiny, even though it came in handy sometimes, but I was the same height as a fucking twelve year old.
The cigarette smoke hovered in my mouth as I stared at Desmond, though I wasn't really looking at him. I wasn't looking at anything specifically, just lost inside my thoughts. The moments before torturing my victims were always for pondering on whatever topic came to my mind.
A quiet groan snapped me out of my trance when I realized Styles was already awake. Routinely, I tossed the cigarette on the floor and walked towards the man, who was starting to regain consciousness little by little. When he managed to keep his eyes completely open, he looked everywhere and then at me, pannicking.
"Please don't hurt me! I didn't do anything!" He squeaked, squirming under the tight grip of the ropes. Luckily, I was very good at tying knots and I had experience on them.
"Of course you didn't, though poor little Ella wouldn't say the same. Or Zoe, or Casey, or Lily." I mocked and counted the names with my fingers, even though the list kept going on.
"That was years ago, I don't do that anymore! How do you even know about that!" Desmond spat in fear, his whole body spasming lightly. Seeing people in this vulnerable state always made me want to laugh. Maybe I enjoyed this a bit more than I should.
"Records. Everything you did back then was being monitored." I paced side to side in front of him, my hands latched together behind me.
"Monitored? By who? Are you part of the FBI?" He widened his eyes and I couldn't help but laugh.
"They wish I was working for them." I shrugged egocentrically, and I had to keep talking because of the confused look on Desmond's face. "No, I'm not a part of the FBI. I'm a killer."
What I answered to all of my victims' questions was basically the same by now. I loved to see the scared expressions on their faces when I told them I was a killer. None of them were tough and, clearly, none of them had ever been tortured before. I was a torturer myself and I had been in the opposite position as well, so I knew the deal perfectly.
"P-Please, let me go. I'll give you whatever you want, money-" He attempted to talk, but I interrupted him.
"I don't want fucking money, I want little kids to live a normal life without being fucking raped. They can't because of people like you." I snapped.
The place was starting to feel really hot, and my only option was taking off my hoodie. I did and was left with my tank top only, and the fact Desmond's eyes lower to my boobs made me loose it. I widened my eyes a little, my lips curling into what could be labeled as a very small smirk.
He chose a great timing.
"Oh, you're going to so regret that." I laughed quietly.
"What?" Styles furrowed his brows in concern and fear, tensing when I grabbed my gun from the back of my leather pants.
My finger on the trigger whole, I started rolling the gun purposefully dangerous. If I accidentally dropped it to the floor, the trigger would go off in a random direction, but this was just visual torture. Desmond was frozen in his place, his eyes wide open, and I just knew he wanted me to stop. I had experience though. Still, he would be shot at some point of the day because that was the fun part of torturing someone.
"Do you want to look at my boobs again?" I talked in a seductively fake tone. Then, I grabbed a chair from behind me and sat on it with the backrest between my legs. My arms were crossed over the rim of the seat, the gun hanging with my fingers wrapped around it, and my chin supported on the back of one of my hands. "Go on. I won't be mad, I promise."
I blinked innocently and he was so fucking stupid to actually glance at my body. Seriously, men had limits? He had literally just dug his own grave, poor man. Poor fucking man. Honestly, I didn't give a damn about him, especially since he had stared at my boobs - twice.
I wasn't ashamed of my body. In fact, I was very fucking proud of it. But having a goddamn rapist staring at my boobs was so fucked up and it didn't feel good either. Usually, if someone checked me out, they would just be fulfilling my giant ego. But who the fuck would be that stupid to check out their torturer not one, but two times?
Without any advice, I clenched my jaw and pressed the barrel of the gun against his thigh, shooting it right away. He squealed in pain way too loudly. Well, he was weaker than I expected. I liked it when they suffered, so I smirked, staring profoundly into his eyes as he shut them. I was a deranged psychopath and I wasn't denying it. I was proud of who I had grown to be, even if no one thought equally.
"Are you mental?" Desmond screamed at me, tears welling down his eyes. I let out a high-pitched chuckle.
"You know me so well." I snipped, standing up from my chair and tucking the gun on the back of my pants.
"FBI, drop your weapons!"
The voices coming from behind me startled the fuck out of me but, as I said, I was good at hiding emotions, so I stood still, my back to them. If I turned around, they'd know who I was. Fuck. The two knives and the gun were still tucked on my pants. How the hell had the FBI found my whereabouts? Did I not destroy every fucking electronic device? This wasn't happening.
I knew how the police worked, so they wouldn't shoot me unless I attacked. Slowly, I reached out for the hoodie on the floor next to me. I knew every single agent behind me was aiming its gun at me.
"Stay still!" I recognized the voice as Harry's as I slipped into my sweater and put on the hood. "I said stay fucking still!"
"Don't you fucking tell me what to do." I whispered loud enough for them to hear, Desmond watching everything as he grunted in pain.
In a swift move, I grabbed one knife with my hand and the gun with the other, shooting Desmond on the head. I couldn't risk him revealing my identity, and my plan was fucked already so killing him was the best option. Then, I turned around and launched my special knife to the center of the circle all of the agents were, not before clicking the little red button on the handle. They all stared at me, confused on why I had done that, and I could already see the smirk creeping up Harry's lips.
"You missed." He mocked.
"No, I didn't." I smirked back, even though I knew he could barely see my mouth under the hood.
I turned around and started running the moment I heard a quiet explosion, which only made me widen my smirk. The place soon started filling with tear gas and, luckily, I made it out of the place through the back door before the gas reached me. The agents were literally next to the door, so they didn't have to run as much as me to get past the tear gas.
The warehouse was this very ample place with two sliding doors for cars and trucks and a tall ceiling. Both of the wall-length doors were open, and I was with Desmond near the principal entrance where the cops had gotten through. I had to run all the way to the back entrance.
I heard some distant coughs as I slid into the driver's seat of my red Toyota van. I was smiling widely because I knew I had succeeded, so I turned on the radio when BOYFREN, by LoveLeo, started playing. I drove off at full speed.
Fuck you, FBI.