Dark Deeds: Dark Hunter, #4

By Logan Fox

Everyone is born a sinner. Some rise above it. Others embrace it.

On the day he should have uncovered a treasure trove of intel on the Irish Mafia, vigilante Kane Price wakes up in the arms of a provocative woman he's never met before.

Agony claims what they had was just a one-night stand, but when she's summoned to Owen Morrison's manor - the very Mafia enforcer Kane had been tracking - Kane realizes she's intrinsic to his mission.

As Agony brings him closer to Owen, strange events unfurl around him; events he's part of, but which he can't remember.

Soon, things begin spiraling out of control, and Kane is faced with an impossible decision.

Should he remove himself from Agony and Owen's depraved influence and risk failing his mission...or stay and let the blackest part of his soul consume him.

8mm meets Crash in this wickedly depraved tale of hedonistic excess.
Contains dark themes, triggers, and explicit content. Mature audiences only.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Logan Fox
• Release date: Aug 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223365105

Book preview

PROLOGUE

HUNTER

PRESENT DAY

I’ve just finished my cup of coffee when Zee comes back inside from taking Mary for a walk in the garden. Kane glances over his shoulder at her and straightens in his seat, holding the joint by its filter. There was no place for us to ash, so there’s a little pile of it close to his coffee cup.

Zee puts their daughter in Kane’s lap again, unsurprisingly silent as she gets a cloth and wipes down the mess we’ve made.

When she’s done, she comes to stand beside the table, one hand on her hip, the other leaning on the table, and stares at Kane until he looks at her.

I shift in my seat, wondering if there’s a fight brewing because I tempted Kane into smoking weed. But with mute Zee, how would that even work?

She lifts her chin, pointing to the nearby stove.

Kane sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and wraps his other around Mary’s tummy, balancing her on his thigh. Stay for dinner.

Uh… I’d thought Kane had invited me for a chat. I can’t stay long.

You’ll have to. Kane nods at Zee. She nods back, and then makes a shooing motion with her hands.

I stand when Kane does, and follow him upstairs. We head into a nursery, where he puts Mary down onto a changing table.

Oh, I’ll wait—

You’ll sit, Kane cuts in, his eyes fixing on a rocking chair in one corner. And you’ll listen.

I bristle at the tone of command in his voice. To what?

Kane gives a half shrug, and pops open the buttons of Mary’s onesie. There’s stuff you don’t know. Stuff about me. You’ve— He cuts off with an angry sound, puts his hands on the table and closes his eyes.

I want to push him, but his struggle is so blatant I’m too intrigued not to hear what he wants to tell me. I go over to the rocking chair, removing a folded blanket and a plush toy from the seat before I sit on it. It immediately begins to rock, but I plant my feet firmly on the floor to get it to stop.

Never understood the appeal of these things.

Kane licks his lips, looks up at me, and gives a small nod. If anyone knows anything about this ‘Blood King’, it’ll be Owen Morrison.

I interlace my fingers over my stomach. Because…

Because— Kane licks his lips again, glances away, and turns his attention fully to his daughter as he begins changing her diaper. Because he knows the most depraved people in this town.

Depraved? My eyebrows cock up. Depraved how?

People that… Kane sighs. Sick people that do things no one should do. Who treat people like animals.

My grip tightens. I know Kane has history with Owen. Is that what he’s referring to? Was what Colby said, what, ten years ago actually true? Kane brushed it off, but for him to feel the need to speak of it now, here…

People like Owen, Kane continues quietly. He stares up at me then. Perhaps it’s just the play of light on his face, but it’s as if he’s aged a decade.

People like me.

PART I

OF DARK & BRIGHT

She walks in Beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes.

She Walks in Beauty

George Byron

1

KANE

TEN YEARS EARLIER

It’s not the first time I’ve woken up beside a girl I didn’t recognize. It’s the first time she’s been tied to my bed, though. First time I’ve had to shove the sheet into her mouth to get her to stop screaming.

I rock back on my heels, glancing down at my naked body with a faint grimace.

The fuck happened to my clothes?

I spot them on the scuffed wood floor a few feet from the tangled, trailing mess of the bedsheets.

The captive starts thrashing against her bonds and, judging from the wounds on her wrists and ankles, this isn’t the first time. Dark tracks streak her face where tears made her makeup run, and her thin body is peppered with what I can only imagine must be bite marks.

With a thundering heart, I yank up my pants and shrug into my shirt.

Where the fuck am I?

Who the hell is this chick?

And what happened to the sick sonofabitch who tortured her?

Clothed, I spin around. There’s a small table close to the motel room’s curtained window, littered with junk. Energy drinks cans, some on their side. An overflowing ashtray. An empty bottle of vodka.

And a stack of cash.

A large stack of cash.

When I face the girl again, her struggles intensify.

Shh! I hurry up to her, stare at the ropes, and begin untying them with shaking fingers. Please, I’m getting you out of here. Just calm down.

The ropes come off, and the girl immediately tugs the sheet from her mouth. Help! she shrieks.

Quiet, fuck! I push through my teeth. I grab the sheet and shove it back into her mouth, but not before she bites me. Luckily, she doesn’t draw blood, but it’s still sore as fuck.

Mercy, woman, just calm the fuck down! I realize I’m pinning her to the bed, and try to ease up without letting her go entirely. We’re gonna figure this out, okay? You and me. I gesture between us as she stares up at me with terrified, limpid eyes. But I can’t do that if you keep yelling.

She relaxes a little, but more as if the last fight has left her body than anything else.

Yeah? I ask quietly, tossing a section of hair from my face.

The girl nods. She’s young—maybe no older than twenty-two, but her face has been aged from the sun and too many hours spent in pay-by-the-hour motel rooms like this one.

Good girl, I murmur. I release her, and she slowly sits up, taking the sheet from her mouth and then carefully wrapping it around her nakedness.

Now… I lean a little closer, and she immediately leans back. Did you see the man who did this?

Her eyes flash wide, mouth gaping. Wh-what? Her voice sounds rusted as an old tin can. And then, as if she can’t think of anything else, again, What?

The man— I shake my head. The john. Who was he?

Her chin dips down. She’s staring at me like I’ve lost my fucking mind.

Shit. She’s in shock, isn’t she? Only way to rouse someone from—

The girl bursts out laughing. It’s so loud, so unexpected, that I jump back onto my feet. Now it’s my turn to watch her dissolve into a strange hysteria I’ve never witnessed before. She’s laughing so hard that snot’s coming out of her nose, but she doesn’t notice.

There’s a hard knock to the door. I spin to face it as someone announces, Sheriff’s department. Open up.

Behind me, the girl just keeps laughing, and laughing, and fucking laughing.

The door handle rattles. I flinch, and swing around to face the hooker. She’s wiping at the tears on her face, smearing her make up even more as she slides off the bed. The sheet falls to the floor, and she snatches an orange sun dress to slip over her head.

Another furious knock. Open up!

Sure, officer. The words tumble out of my mouth. Lemme just put on some pants.

I don’t care if you’re buck naked, you open this door immediately.

I pad over to the door. What’s the problem, officer?

Reports of a disturbance, the cop says, his voice slightly muffled by the door. Are you opening?

I pull back the latch. Something catches my eye, and I turn to see the hooker shoving that entire stack of cash into her rhinestone-studded purse. She peers up, and our eyes lock. But I say nothing, merely stepping aside when the cop strides into the room like he owns the fucking place.

Sure it’s my room they were complaining about? I ask, swiping a hand through my hair.

The cop outside the door’s wearing dark green uniform, his badge a bright golden contrast to the sullen fabric. Lime-green eyes give me an intrusive scan before he turns his attention indoors.

As soon as the cop’s eyes latch onto the girl, his hand drapes over his gun.

Had he taken it out, I’d have been dealing with a dead cop and a strung out a hooker. Luckily, he decides to assess the situation before jumping to conclusions.

Ma’am? The deputy holds out a hand to her, and no wonder; she looks ready to bolt out of the door. Has this man harmed you in any way?

My brain finally starts turning, like an old crank start engine that was sticking in the cold.

It’s obvious she’s a hooker. The cop’s gotta expect me to be a john, even if he didn’t see her stash that wad of cash into her purse. So why aren’t we both being arrested?

She’s my girlfriend, I say, locking eyes with the hooker again. She stares unblinking at the deputy, but I can’t tell what she’s thinking with those glassy eyes of hers.

The deputy glances at me. Neighbors said they heard screaming.

I shrug, flashing him a grin. What can I say? She can get a little loud.

The cop’s face twists in disgust before he turns back to the girl. Ma’am, are you sure you’re okay?

Yeah, Ethan, fuck. The girl rolls her eyes. He’s a fucking sicko, but I’ve had worse.

Ethan rolls his shoulders. Amber, you know I have to check. If someone’s—

Get out the way, Amber mutters, pushing past Ethan when he doesn’t move.

You’re overdue for a test! he calls out after her. I catch her throwing him the finger, and let out a huff of a laugh.

Mercy. The fuck kind of a town you running here? I say, before I can stop myself.

The deputy faces me in a rush, mouth a thin line. Just because this county regulates prostitution, doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want. He steps closer, jabbing a finger into my chest. The girls in this town have rights. You lay a hand on any of them again, you’re out of here.

Where the fuck am I? I ask with a laugh in my voice. This the fucking twilight zone?

Ethan glares at me. Mallhaven. Where did you think you were? Then he straightens, inhales a breath big enough to push out his chest, and holds out his hand. I need to see some identification.

Am I under arrest?

No, but I like to know who’s new in town. He runs a quick scan over me. And who’s about to leave.

I shrug, and take out an ID. He glances at it, frowns, and hands it back.

Business or pleasure? he asks, shifting his weight to his back leg and taking a notebook from his pocket.

Little bit of both, I’m hoping.

He chews the inside of his cheek without looking up. As he’s sliding his notebook back into his pocket, his radio goes off with a burst of static.

All units respond.

This is Brooks, Ethan barks out, taking a step back from me. It says a lot that this town uses surnames instead of call signs.

Possible 10-54. You close to Shadow Fox Grove?

Brooks laughs, but the sound is far from pleasant. Ain’t no one near that place. He frowns at me over the top of his handheld radio. But I’m on my way.

I wave at him, grinning.

He tips his hat and lets out a grudging, You have a nice day now, sir.

2

OWEN

There’s a hum in the air. At first, I thought it was perhaps blood singing in my ears. But when I focus, focus, focus …that’s when I see the flies.

So many of them.

The Cleaner makes a sound behind me as he steps into Darcy King’s room, but whether it’s disgust or resignation, I can’t say. I’ve never met the man before. Usually, it’s my job to clean up. That’s why I’m here, after all, standing at the threshold to Darcy’s room. I came here to clean, except—

Sorry, man, comes my brother’s quiet voice behind me. Had to get it done. Can’t just leave her like this.

Will’s shoes brush the carpet as if he’s shifting his feet around. My little brother never could keep himself in check. No wonder he doesn’t play poker—a novice could read him like an open book, large print edition.

"I mean, it’s been days," Will adds reluctantly.

Days? Strange, I hardly recall any time passing since I returned to Rhodium Drive after disposing of Ronan King’s body.

But the flies.

There are so many of them.

They couldn’t have accumulated in such vast numbers overnight.

The Cleaner is a large man, brutish almost, but silent as the grave. It’s fascinating watching him move about. He’s wearing booties, gloves, and a white smock. Even a hair net.

Like a butcher man.

Will he chop Darcy up to make it easier to dispose of her body, like I did with Ronan last night?

No…not last night.

Days… I murmur.

Yeah. Will steps closer. I can smell his cologne over the miasma of decay clouding this room. I twist my mouth in distaste. Christ, does he bathe in it?

It’s been a week, Owen.

A week? Since what? A lot has happened these past days—securing the heroin shipment, Darcy’s death, the show-down at Cora Swan’s manor, Darcy’s death, the drive out to the desert to dispose of Ronan, Darcy’s dea—

"Oh my fucking God."

I cringe at the sound of Shayla Doyle’s breathless declaration. She should become an actress—that would put her dramatics to good use.

How long will this take? I ask, twitching my wrist to read my watch.

The Cleaner wraps Darcy’s frail body in the bloodied sheets without pausing to answer me. I suppose it’s more efficient that way—disposing of her body and evidence in one fell swoop.

Hour. Cleaner’s rough voice is a stark contrast with the gentle way in which he handles Darcy’s bloated corpse. He even moves a hank of matted hair from her forehead before drawing the sheet over her head.

Thank God. I couldn’t take her staring at me with those dry, clouded eyes anymore.

And the carpets?

Just here for Darcy, the Cleaner says, eyes still fixed on his task.

He used her name. He’s no cleaner. Who the hell—?

I pivot to Will, frowning hard.

He swallows visibly. Jim’s taking her to the funeral home. Behind him, Shayla takes a step back on her high heels. She’s hugging herself as if the manor is arctic, when I know for a fact there’s nothing wrong with the air conditioning in here.

Funeral? My voice sounds hollow in my ears, but it could just be the fact that I can barely hear it over the hum of the flies.

Yeah. Will shifts his feet. I don’t when yet, but I’ll—

I won’t be attending. I walk past them, heading for the main bedroom.

What? Why? Will says, and a second later, Shayla adds, You’re in denial, Owen. It happens. Soon as this hits home, you’ll—

I stop walking and turn to face them. They both stiffen, as if caught between standing their ground and fleeing.

Darcy King was a whore. She simply got what was coming to her.

Confusion flashes over Will’s face. He shakes his head and opens his mouth, but Shayla lashes out with a strained, You fucking monster! before he can speak.

Then she staggers back, pale faced, and stalks down the hall.

When my eyes return to Will, he’s a shade paler than before.

I cock my head at him, waiting, but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. From the room, there’s the unmistakable sound of a sheet being ripped up.

Do you think I’m a monster? I ask, genuinely intrigued with what my little brother thinks.

He licks his lips, swallows. She was having an affair? he asks quietly.

Yes. I nod. With me.

The en-suite bathroom in Ronan King’s room is the closest room with a basin. The face in the mirror is a ghostly one—darkly shadowed eyes on a pale face, underscored by white lips. Eyes that should have been green, not a dull jade, hair that should have been a glossy black, but it’s matte and sticky as tar.

Guess I also got what was coming to me. Isn’t that how life works?

Can’t make wine without thrashing some grapes. Wine buys wealth. And with enough wealth, I can do whatever I want. Be whoever I want.

Ronan was my key to a better life. A short cut to the power I so desperately crave.

But he’s dead now.

Monster.

I lean forward, smiling at my gaunt reflection. If Shayla thinks I’m a monster, she should have been in Cora Swan’s mansion the night Ronan was killed. Then she’d have seen a real monster at work. A man as brutish as the Cleaner, but with no trace of gentleness.

Ronan had gotten what he deserved.

He was careless, and he’d paid the ultimate price for that carelessness. He went from having everything he wanted or needed to running after Cora Swan because she’d escaped with one of his toys.

I won’t make the same mistake.

I keep washing my hands in Ronan’s marble basin despite the fact that the water runs clear. It’s soothing; the warm water, the slippery soap, its fragrance. It reminds me of him—of Ronan. How he’d smell after he came out of his bathroom and I still lay on his floor or his bed, spent and panting from the punishment of his belt.

How strange, that I can feel this sensation—washing my hands—but nothing else. I suppose Shayla may be right. Maybe I am grieving for Darcy. But then there would be pain, wouldn’t there? Emotional, perhaps even physical.

Instead, there’s nothing.

I feel nothing.

Ronan left many of his trinkets laying around in this bathroom; a razor, his nail brush, some peppermints, a cigar wrapping. He was never a neat man, King, but he didn’t have to be. He had servants for everything. They fed him, laundered his clothes…gave him the release the sadistic bastard craved.

I have scars on my back to prove it.

But those aren’t the only marks on my skin. Mother left marks of her own.

Scars, from when I dared to defend Will. For when I dared to stand up to her.

It took a while, but by the time I was sixteen, I realized accepting my punishment didn’t leave scars. That the pain was less intense.

The acceptance of pain brings relief.

The acceptance of loss. Of failure.

Except…failure is something I’ll never accept in myself.

The smell in the bathroom changes. It’s no longer tainted with Ronan’s lavender soap, but something tangy and metallic.

I look down, and freeze. I didn’t realize I had Ronan’s fingernail brush in my hand.

Because I can’t feel pain.

I’ve torn open the skin on the back of my hand. I lift it, twist it, study it. It could have been a carpet burn or a rash, that exposed stripe of flesh. But as I wash, blood wells up in little spots.

There’s a towel beside the basin. I wrap it over my hand, squeezing hard to stem the bleeding.

Ronan’s cellphone rings. I take it from my pocket, and stare at the number.

Gaffer.

This is Owen Morrison, I answer.

Mornin’, boyo.

I tense. Graham O’ Connor’s thick accent reminds me of Ronan. He also used to call me boyo—but that was when he was in a good mood. He had a whole different set of names for me when he was feeling particularly vindictive.

Ya know where the Fox Pit is? Gaffer asks.

I do. I’ve had to drive Ronan there on several occasions. I’ve never been inside—Ronan made it clear I wasn’t invited.

Bring ya Will and meet m’ there at noon. Gaffer ends the call with a slimy cough.

Yes, of course.

Mallhaven is without a chief. I suppose Gaffer requires my assistance searching for Ronan’s replacement. Will the old man expect me to travel back to Ireland?

I fucking hope not. I swore to myself the next time I set foot on that soil, it would be to spit on my mother’s grave.

I keep my promises.

3

KANE

The Jeep’s interior fills with a nicotine haze as I roughly expel a plume of smoke through my nose.

Fuck, but this shit’s boring. You’d think rich people would have interesting lives. You know—vacationing in the tropics, high price hookers…that kind of shit.

Not a fuck.

I’ve been staking out King’s mansion the last five days.

Nothing.

Well, I guess it’s not exactly King’s mansion anymore. Who the fuck does it belong to now? Ugly-ass piece of concrete and brick face, but probably worthy a pretty penny.

There was a van earlier—just before nine. It went around the back, perhaps to make a delivery, but I haven’t seen it since. Then, a few seconds later, a yellow Mustang went and parked right in front of the building.

I would have left if I hadn’t recognized the fucking dick head who climbed out.

That fucker had had a noose around my neck a few days ago.

Him and some leggy chick with auburn hair went into the building. Looked like they had a key, ‘cos I didn’t see anyone opening for them.

But since then? Not a fucking soul. No movement.

Granted, it’s only ten-fifteen, but if it’s the same as yesterday, the day before, the day before that? Then I can expect shit tons of fuck all the rest of the day, and a damn cramp in my back from all this sitting.

Mallhaven’s a ghost town.

The traffic in this place—cars and townsfolk alike—is non-existent.

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, try to keep to a rhythm, fail miserably.

The fag end of my smoke flies out the window. I hunt in my pocket for my box of smokes. My hand touches something else as I grab the soft pack, and I take everything out.

King.

1 Rhodium Drive

Mallhaven.

I wouldn’t have found this place if Owen hadn’t left this card behind at Cora’s place.

So why’d he do it then?

I guess I could have left it there, gone my own way. But I have to be at Benecio’s heroin deal so I can nab every fucker involved—Irish Mafia Owen included.

The card crumples in my hand, and I drop it into my lap where I can smooth out the thick card-stock over my thigh.

At least Cora’s out of this for good. She doesn’t need shit like this in her life, not after what happened with Zachary and all that shit.

A faint, repetitive squeaking draws my gaze.

There’s a woman pushing a baby stroller—the culprit of the noise—down the sidewalk. The front left wheel wobbles, squeaking every time it makes an unsteady revolution. She seems oblivious—her eyes are focused somewhere ahead—perhaps even to a future where the baby in the stroller is old enough not be pushed around.

Another reason Cora shouldn’t be involved in any of this. What with a fucking baby on the way? Ain’t no kind of life, that of a cartel princess.

Hmm. Baby girl, or baby boy? God, I can’t imagine a baby in that setup of hers. Three goddamn daddies? But I guess she’ll tell the kid that Finn’s the dad, and the others are her uncles.

Like close uncles.

Those oafs had better keep her safe and sound until I get back to her.

Because I am going back to her.

Soon as this fucking mess has been cleaned up, I’m done. No more vigilante shit. No more…no more blackouts and dark nights.

Yeah? Your nights’ll always be dark, y’fucking pansy.

My fist thumps so hard into the steering wheel, the cab shakes. The young mother with her baby stroller pauses, eyes wide and limbs stiff. She glances around, perhaps sees she’s all alone on this street, and crosses the road.

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

A single, wary look over her shoulder is all I get from her before she takes a corner and moves out of sight behind a coffee shop. But not before she takes a cellphone from the pocket of the jeans barely encompassing her doughy ass and makes a call.

I stretch, opening and closing a hand still tingling from the impact of fist against rubber.

Well, time to get moving anyway. I start up the Jeep, and I’m about to pull into the road when the van from earlier drives out of Rhodium Drive. I let the Jeep idle, lighting a cigarette in lieu of driving off.

It pauses, indicates, heads away from me.

The Jeep’s cab briefly fills with smoke.

Well, fuck me. Perfect timing.

4

OWEN

Y ou speak to O’ Connor yet? I ask.

Will chokes on his coffee. He turns, swiping a hand over his mouth and watching me warily over his cup. What?

’Bout the meeting.

What meeting?

Interesting. Will hunts around the small dinette in his guest bedroom for something to mop up the coffee on his golf shirt while I go into the en-suite bathroom, snatch a hand towel, and toss it at him.

We have a meeting with Gaffer at noon. I glance over Will’s outfit. Get dressed.

I am— he begins, but I cut him off with a derisive snort.

"Get dressed for a meeting with the boss of the Irish Mafia, you fucking pup." I shudder internally, and do my best to forget that I just used such colloquial language on Will.

He won’t be forgetting. He grins wide at me. ‘Pup’? M’fuck, haven’t heard that since—

Shut it. I press fingertips against my lips, and then snatch away my hand when I catch sight of the makeshift bandage on my hand. I’ll have to clean that up before we leave. I’ve never been inside the Fox Pit, but that place oozes money like a wound weeps pus.

Downstairs in ten minutes. And wear a suit.

Sure thing, boss, Will mutters, but there’s still a glimmer of mirth in his eyes.

He might think it hilarious, my colloquial tongue slipping in, but to me it’s a warning—if I’m distracted enough to start speaking like a commoner, then what the hell else could I let slip through?

Discipline equals professionalism.

Professionals rise