Psycho Within Us (The Psycho Series Book 2) by Chad Huskins Read Free Book Online Page B

a few keys on the touch-screen.  “What was that word?  Atta…?”
    “At-ta Biral.”
    “Spell it.”  And so Zakhar did.  The gunman punched in those letters.  Zakhar’s right hand was now just about fully wrapped around the grip.  He was ready to pull the Colt when the intruder looked up at him.  “Eight cats?  It says here at-ta biral translates in one o’ the Bangladeshi dialects as ‘eight cats’.  You pullin’ my leg, Zak?”  He gave Zakhar an austere look, glanced down at his gun, clearly saw his hand on the gun, but said nothing.
    Unable to admit to raping children, it seemed Zakhar also could not acknowledge going for his gun, even when he was caught red-handed.  “N-no.  They are, eh, they are the At-ta Biral, the ‘Eight Cats’ of Bangladesh.”
    “Bangladesh, huh?”  He looked back at the iPhone’s screen, then lowered it and tossed it onto the couch.  “You don’t wanna go for that gun, big fella.”  Zakhar froze, becoming the very quintessence of a mannequin.  “Tell me about these Bangladeshi boys.  The Eight Cats, ya say?  What are they, human traffickers like yourselves?  Heroin?  Prostitution?  A bit o’ all three, be my guess.  That’s how it works, right?  Steal them, get them doped up, turn them out on the streets, and keep shuffling them around, place to place, an’ before long they don’t even know where they are, where they came from, or what their names are?”  He jerked his head towards the hallway.  “Is that where ya got your new stock?  That how the Eight Cats keep ya satisfied?  They send you a new toy every so often to appease you?  You know what, don’t answer that, just take your goddam hand off that gun.  Slowly, like molasses in a Siberian Christmas.”
    For a moment, Zakhar didn’t believe he had the strength to just remove it.  The gun seemed clamped to his hand, and his hand to it.  It was his lifeline, his last chance out of this.  He couldn’t…he wouldn’t…
    But he did.  Slowly, and like molasses in a Siberian Christmas.
    “Turn around,” the gunman said.  Zakhar obeyed as though in a dream.  And could it be a dream?  Could it?  He’d always assumed that if he was found out, it would be police and sirens and the media snapping pictures of him.  Not this.  Never this.  What was this?  “Kneel.”  Zakhar obeyed, as a robot might do, the commands registering with a programming deeply embedded while everything else—the firewalls keeping others out, the stubborn administrator guarding all the entrances—was rebooted.  “Put your hands behind your head.”  Zakhar obeyed.  “Cross your feet.”  Zakhar obeyed.
    For a few moments, the lodge was engulfed in silence.  It seemed the wind had even died down a bit.  The radio had gone all staticky, and mostly silent.  Zakhar listened as, behind him, the gunman just hummed to himself.  He caught a few words being sung.  “This tainted love you’ve given…I’ve give n all a boy could give you…”  He hummed a few more bars and moved around behind Zakhar.  Perhaps checking windows?  “Song’s been stuck in my fucking head all day.  Like it’s on a loop.  Don’t you hate that, getting a song stuck in your head?”
    Zakhar said nothing.  What was the right answer?  Was there a right answer?   So much was racing through his mind in that moment.  The signs he’d ignored.  His own elongated footprints in the snow leading up to his cabin— He followed in my footsteps .  But when had the man come inside?  How long had he been stalking Zakhar?  Had he waited for him to put down the rifle?  How much had been calculated?
    He heard the gunman approaching from behind, slowly, slowly.  Then, all at once, the Colt was snatched from Zakhar’s holster and the gunman took a step back.  “Stand up.”  Zakhar obeyed.  At least, he tried.  His legs had turned to water.
    He started weeping.
    “Oh, fuck, you’re gonna cry now?”  The gunman