Nadia Siddiqui Read online

  BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  NADIA SIDDIQUI

  Anonymous

  IN THE BLOOD OF JUSTICE

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the

  author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or

  persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 Nadia Siddiqui – All rights Reserved

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced

  into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the

  copyright owner. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners

  of various products referenced status and trademark owners of various products referenced

  in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication / use of

  the trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Sign up for the author’s newsletter here.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  Check out the next episode.

  Check out the next episode of Nadia Siddiqui’s

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY NADIA SIDDIQUI

  sea of red.

  This much blood shouldn’t feel routine to anybody. This much blood should be shock-

  A inducing, at the very least stomach-curling for anyone who has never seen this much

  blood.

  It certainly shouldn’t feel comfortable.

  The overwhelming tang of iron flooding his system, the cold, shrink-wrapped feeling

  that death always leaves in a room. The stagnant dust in the air from the soul that has

  departed from its body and not yet decided whether to move on or stay.

  He can always feel them, hovering in the in-between. If luck is on his side, this will be

  one of those that keep to themselves. Just out of sight. And if luck isn’t on his side, then

  perhaps the visions won’t level him. It isn’t like he has a choice either way. He has been hired

  for a job, and, given how recent this death was, it is only a matter of hours before the police

  become involved.

  “Another one.” His tone is distant, leaving the door the way it was. By the time he leaves

  this room, there won’t be a thing unturned. And yet, not a footstep will be left of his presence

  here. The cops will think they are the only ones to have touched the place.

  Better yet, no souls are hanging around. No questions to be answered. Which, given the

  violent state of the room and the sheer amount of blood, it is hard to see why they wouldn’t

  stick around.

  It isn’t his job to have an opinion; it isn’t his job to speculate. It is his job to gather

  information and report back to his handler. Nothing more; nothing less.

  Scarlet never provides a word of information more than needed. They provide the

  location and the objective, and he is expected to report back promptly.

  This situation, of course, is no exception.

  He looks around the room once more, shuddering as he sees the dried blood, but then

  he notices something near the scene. It is another mystery and another murder left unsolved.

  However, the item here has blood on it, which piques his curiosity.

  A fire poker.

  Did the person who was killed use this instrument to inflict a wound on the victim, or

  was it the killer who used this? He checks the room, shaking his head as he takes one more

  look around the place.

  “Nothing,” he mutters.

  He gazes at the fire poker. When he touches it, the metal feels cold.

  The scan of the crime is recent, but at the same time, it feels like forever ago. He checks

  around once more before looking into the next room.

  The place is the Whitts’ residence, a notable suburban-class family that doesn’t seem an

  obvious target of serial killers, but someone has something against these people.

  He looks around the kitchen, noticing nothing; that is until he hears the sound of

  someone crying.

  “Who is that?” he asks.

  He moves toward the stairs, caution keeping his movements poised. He has the ability

  to kill, a hired murderer who takes out dastardly foes. He works alone due to necessity,

  making sure not to involve anyone in these situations who can’t handle it.

  The top of the landing creaks in spite of his caution, the knuckles on his hand popping

  with the motion of curling his fist to his side. Better to be prepared for whatever is on the

  other side of the door. The soft sobs became more muffled, like hands are being clamped over

  a mouth and he lets himself into the room. The door is already hanging off one hinge and

  when he toes the thing open, a flash of skin transfers quickly from one side of the room to

  the other. Stark naked and now shivering in the corner. There isn’t nearly enough blood on

  her person to be the victim from downstairs.

  Which begs the more relevant question of what she is doing here. Has she seen

  something? More importantly, what is he going to do with her now that she has seen him?

  “G-get away from me!” she cries, her voice shaking.

  “I’m not here for you.” His voice is gruff as he surveys the rest of the room. “What

  happened?” he asks.

  “No! You’re like them! You’re just like them!”

  Them? So she has seen something and he can’t let her go until he knows what it was.

  With a speed that couldn’t have been predicted, she races out of the room and toward the

  stairs. Her swift footsteps are cut off as a second cry is quickly stifled.

  “Where are you?” he barks, throwing caution to the wind and chasing after her.

  As he gets out of the room, he sees it. More blood. The mysterious assailant is gone,

  leaving him alone with the dead body.

  The cold he had been feeling pulls away from him once more, allowing the warmth of

  the stale air to wash back over him. She had never been there to begin with. The visions are

  getting worse, more and more vivid each and every time. He could have sworn the girl was

  there. He could feel her body heat as she passed by . . . and now she is here on the ground.

  Cold and lifeless.

  It was a clean kill. He looks around, trying to find any other information on this woman.

  She seems to be part of the family who must have lived here, but she isn’t in any of the

  pictures on the walls. Her bone structure and features have the markers of the ones around

  her but she isn’t in the pictures. Why is that?

  What is left of her body is pocked in scars and marks, and right over her left breast is a

  deep scratch. Bruises in various stages of healing litter her skin. There are clear marks of

  handprints on her arms and finger marks on either side of her neck. Blood stains down the

  insides of her thighs are clear marks of sexual assault. As he looks at the dead form, he

  realizes that whoever is doing this ha
s full intent of not only killing people but raping them

  too.

  Sirens. That’s what he hears next.

  “Shit. I’ve got to get out of here.”

  He quickly leaves the scene of the crime, looking at the dead woman once more for clues,

  but there is nothing.

  There aren’t any leads. It is another unsolved serial murder, and it will make his job a

  whole hell of a lot harder. For now, it is best to retreat, to get out of this shithole before things

  get any worse.

  Something about her is sticking with him. Something about the speed with which she

  moved, and the accusations that were her last words.

  1

  e goes back to his drab apartment, calling the phone number reserved for Scarlet.

  When he hears the sound of the familiar dispatcher on the line, he sighs.

  H His dispatcher is known as Bailey. She is the closest thing to a “friend” that he

  has. She gives him his missions and doesn’t say much more. It barely classifies as a

  friend in most cases, but he likes talking to her at least a little bit. He is fairly certain that he

  made her laugh at least once.

  “I went to the location. The killer already took care of everyone there,” he says.

  “I see. And no sign of who did it?”

  “I know there was a struggle. I saw a weapon used in self-defense, but the body was

  disfigured beyond recognition.”

  “I see.” Bailey pauses. It seems like she knows he is leaving something out but also that

  it is useless to pry. “Well, did you find anything else?” she finally asks. She clearly wants him

  to say something else, anything else. He can hear the leading inflection and he cannot indulge

  it.

  He tenses, wondering if he should tell her about the girl, the one who was raped and

  later stabbed. He wonders if he should let her know that the visions have returned or that

  this time it almost felt like he could touch her. The last time he brought up the visions, things

  hadn’t gone very well for him. His eyes close, brow pinching in deliberation. “There was . . . a

  girl,” he says.

  He doesn’t need to clarify the context in which she was there. The line is silent for far

  too long, the soft clicking of Bailey’s fingers working over the keyboard is his only companion

  for a while.

  “A girl? Is she okay?”

  “No. She was killed by whoever was doing this. She was raped first and then killed in

  cold blood,” he explains and waits. He is almost surprised that she doesn’t log him in for

  another evaluation. It would have been appropriate, given the circumstances.

  “Oh, well, that’s unfortunate.” Too casual, especially given the information he has just

  reported. The sort of detachment from a person who is told too many horrors to have any

  surprise left in their body. “So, that’s the third this week. You know, you’re going to have to

  find out what’s going on eventually. We can’t keep doing this,” Bailey tells him.

  He pauses, processing her information. Normally she doesn’t offer additional

  information. Is she giving him a hint? “I know. Trust me, I know very well. There are no leads

  though and . . . the sight of it feels very familiar,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  She is asking if it was like the visions from before; if it was the same. Perhaps that is

  what he wants. He can picture her. A faceless form with her index finger hovering over the

  “kill” order to terminate his contract. A button that would have him back in those offices,

  waiting to commit himself to damnation with a couple of words.

  “Never mind. It just . . . felt familiar,” he says.

  “Well, this is the sixth case this week. Listen, we are trying to do something about this

  because the police aren’t doing a goddamn thing. Those stupid-ass pigs are better off

  snorting cocaine in the bathroom than trying to help out with this,” Bailey snaps. Expressing

  her feelings about the civilian sectors is the only breach in protocol that she makes.

  “I know, and being the agent that I am, I’m trying to find out the truth as quickly as I

  can,” he reassures her.

  “I know. You’re doing well. There is one lead that we might have if you’re willing to look

  into it,” she offers.

  “Who?”

  “The police chief in Kansas City. His name is Alex Thompson. He’s pretty well known.

  He’s been investigating the case as well, but I’m not totally sure if he’d be of use to you. That’s

  ultimately at your discretion,” she explains.

  He tenses. He doesn’t like working with others, but maybe—just maybe—this person

  could prove useful. They wouldn’t have bothered offering his name up if he couldn’t get

  something from them.

  “Is he looking to work collaboratively or just provide information?” Everything about

  this case seems more and more strange, first the names and the additional information, and

  then this addition of somebody that they want him to work with? He isn’t supposed to speak

  to people. He is supposed to gather information. Be seen and not heard, to be a fly on the

  wall.

  “Little bit of both,” Bailey explains. “He told us he wants to work with a group that’ll do

  something about it. He says he’s got the information, but giving it to the fuzz in town is

  useless.”

  “I see.” He pauses. So, this chief is contacting them? “Understood. Please give me all that

  information.”

  “Will do. And remember, if you do well with this, you’ll be properly promoted. You’ve

  been a good dog for so long; it only seems fair to give you a nice little bone, right?” Bailey

  teases.

  That is the second time he has heard humor in her voice.

  “Alright, thanks for the information. I’ll talk to you in the future,” he says.

  “Will do. And remember, Anonymous, you’re a player on our team, and it’s only right to

  give you enough pieces to play correctly,” Bailey replies dryly, obviously reading from her

  closing script.

  “I know, Bailey.”

  He turns off the phone and sits back.

  Anonymous.

  It is meant to keep his mind on his goals, he is sure. Removing all other sense of his name

  to keep him from straying from his job. They certainly pay him enough not to ask questions,

  but he has been “Anonymous” for so long that he can’t even remember his real name, if he

  ever had one.

  It is then when it happens. The pain, the ringing in his ears, and the sudden vision in

  front of him.

  “Arrgghh,” he cries out, his hands clutching at the sides of his head and pushing inward,

  as if the pressure would do anything to distract him from the searing pain behind his eyes. It

  is always like this, without any known trigger or cause, and so debilitating. He is supposed

  to report them. He is supposed to alert Scarlet to any known issues with his health that might

  in any way tamper with his performing to the best of his abilities.

  As he sits down on the chair, trying his best to cope with the feeling, he sees the vision

  again. He almost never has two visions in one day—certainly not two that envelope him so

  strongly.

  Screaming. It is always a bunch of people screaming, and he is there, helpless. The

  sounds of anguish rattle around inside of his skull. The visi
on shifts. Most of his visions are

  different, small glimpses into events, memories, things that he needs to know. This one,

  however, includes a man in a trench coat. He wears a mask and always holds a large knife

  loosely in his grip. The vision always feels familiar, but Anonymous can never determine how

  he knows him or why he appears to him.

  Kill. It echoes around the screams, weaving through the sounds, embracing them. Kill

  them all.

  It is always like this. He doesn’t know if this is himself saying those words or if he is

  hearing another voice. As he sits back, realizing the scene in front of him, he touches his

  temples.

  He can feel the sudden, searing pain stab his body once again, and the desire to do

  something grows within him. A lot races through his head, a lot that makes him realize the

  sheer potential of this, and all that he needs to figure out. He certainly doesn’t know what

  else to do at this point, other than to accept the visions.

  “Why do I always have them after getting off the phone with Scarlet though?” he mutters

  to himself. It is almost as if the vision is automatic, and he has no other way of controlling it.

  He remembers that night when he was found by Scarlet. He remembers the pain he was

  in, how cold he was, and how he didn’t have any succor. Destitute and in desperate need of

  help. Those gloved hands had pulled him back from death.

  He remembers the scene perfectly.

  15 Years Ago

  Anonymous stood there, clutching a box in his hands and rocking back and forth. The

  weight of his body made it hard to stand upright. His legs ached and buckled, unable to hold

  his slight bodyweight any longer. His knees slammed into the ground and he cried out in

  pain.

  He was not a day over seventeen at the time, and it was like a different life. He was

  young, but he didn’t have any recognition of what happened before Scarlet took him in. His

  stomach had felt like it was about to fold in on itself. His vision had passed the pin-pricking

  blur of exhaustion days ago. He was existing with the simple goal of just needing to keep

  moving.

  The defeat at having fallen had felt like the end of his life. He clutched that box so hard