Killing Freedom Read online

  Killing Freedom

  Ryan Casey

  Contents

  Bonus Content

  Also by Ryan Casey

  KILLING FREEDOM

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Want More from Ryan Casey?

  About the Author

  About This Book

  Copyright

  Bonus Content

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  Also by Ryan Casey

  If you enjoy Killing Freedom, check out the following releases from Ryan Casey.

  Dying Eyes

  Bubblegum Smoothie

  KILLING FREEDOM

  Chapter One

  He stared at the large ornate fireplace and twiddled with the match. Would it be big enough? It would be big enough. He’d used fireplaces of similar sizes in the past, and they had been big enough. He took a deep breath and threw the match onto the fireplace, the flames roaring upwards as he walked over to the oak table in the corner of the room and picked up the bottle of wine. Castle Margaux 1995. A nice way to go—not too strong. Blackberry: sweet and rich.

  He didn’t drink alcohol, but he had to do his research. Research was important.

  He held the bottle and walked through the heavy wooden door into the second lounge area. The red walls that enveloped the room were seductive.

  Deadly.

  The chandelier must have cost a fortune. It never got old, spending time in places like this, living with people like them. It’s just a shame it could never last.

  He saw her in the corner of the room, wrapping the diamond necklace around her neck. Its tiny pieces glimmered in the dim glow of the low-hanging chandelier and yellow-tinted lamps. Cosy. He cleared his throat, and she turned to face him, shiny white teeth beaming in his direction.

  ‘Hello, Ronin,’ she said, in her soft accent, her eyes flickering around his face. ‘You surprised me.’ She continued to smile.

  He loved the sound of foreign accents, especially on women. It made them seem so regal—so alluring.

  He smiled back at her and tilted his gaze towards his feet. ‘Sorry, Madame. I was just wondering if you would like to head to the dining table for drinks? Your husband is waiting.’ He tapped the side of the bottle with his fingers and raised it upwards, tilting the label toward her. ‘I have good wine.’ He wasn’t so bad at accents himself. That Egyptian twang seemed to come as second nature. The more he faked, the easier it became.

  Olive rubbed her hands up her red satin dress and tiptoed towards him. ‘Who am I to refuse a drink?’ she said, resting her hands against his suit.

  He clenched his lips together as Olive caressed his suit. It had been a long time, and Olive was so forward with these things. Always touching. She was probably a nice woman. She seemed friendly enough.

  If only she knew.

  He stepped back towards the doorway. ‘We’ll be waiting for you.’

  Olive looked on, wide-eyed. She had beautiful green eyes. He liked green eyes, but they always made things more complicated because they reminded him of his sister. That’s why it was so important to switch off, to forget about things like that.

  He looked down at the bottle and headed for the dinner table.

  Olive laughed when he told her about the time he’d got stuck on the bus. At first, he just stood around and watched while they ate, but he’d broken down their defences; earned their trust.

  ‘You’re such a silly man,’ she said, before nibbling on her crackers, pule cheese smeared across the top.

  Federico grunted and wiped his chubby face with his hand. ‘For a servant, you do a decent job. I’ve hired gypsies before, and they fuck things up. Piss in my soup, and touch my woman. One of them tried to steal my watch.’ He flicked his gold watch in Ronin’s direction. ‘But you,’ he said, pointing his chubby finger towards him, ‘you’re different. You do as you’re told. You respect us. I’d like to raise a glass to you, and to your future.’ Federico lifted his gold cup into the air and bowed his head. There was a crumb of leftover cheese tangled in his beard.

  He’d always had a keen eye for the smaller things in life, an attention to detail. Attention to detail was always important. That’s what he’d been told. That’s what he’d learned.

  But crumbs wouldn’t matter soon. None of it would matter.

  Olive laughed and Federico grunted some more.

  He just smiled. Kept calm and smiled. He’d watched this routine a hundred times before, or maybe nearer to a thousand. He didn’t like to think, didn’t like to remember.

  But he watched and he waited. He didn’t drink, not unless he felt he absolutely had to. This family never seemed to notice that he didn’t touch his wine. They were too busy getting drunk themselves.

  Simple.

  Olive’s green eyes began to grow heavy, drooping at the eyelids. Either she was drunk, or it was taking effect. It had different ways of working. Sometimes it was slow, other times it was instant. He wished it could be instant for everybody. Raymond told him that this was the kindest method for fucks like these people, but Raymond said a lot of things.

  ‘Why have you no special woman in your life, Ronin?’ Olive asked. She grinned with those pearly teeth and leaned over the dark marble table towards him, her red lipstick spreading around her mouth as she pursed her lips. Her arm, which she leaned her head on, began to wobble.

  Ronin undid the top button of his shirt as he spotted Olive’s empty wine glass, lipstick staining the rim. He would have preferred to have gotten out before she’d interrogated him, but he couldn’t just walk out now. It would look rude, and they’d know something wasn’t quite right.

  Not that it mattered what they thought.

  ‘I did have someone special,’ Ronin said. His voice was croaky, his accent forced, but they didn’t notice.

  It didn’t even matter if they did notice now. He could speak in a German accent, start raving and ranting. It didn’t matter anymore.

  A line of sweat began to trickle down the side of Federico’s face. He undid his top button and coughed.

  Just a bit of food stuck in his throat, that’s all he’d think.

  Olive continued to stare at Ronin as Federico grew more restless.

  ‘And what happened to her?’ Olive asked. Her eyes drooped even more. She tried to lean against her arm on the table, but it kept flopping away beneath her.

  Still she smiled with those glistening white teeth.

  Blood began to trickle from Federico’s nostrils and down his mouth.

  And action.

  Ronin took a deep breath, stood up and wiped the crumbs from his lap as Olive’s arm finally gave way. Her head cracked against the edge of the hard, sharp-cornered
table before her body slipped to the floor like a doll. It was probably better that she went that way: asleep, unconscious.

  Smiling.

  Federico wasn’t quite as lucky.

  He tried to pull his bulky body to his feet as he looked over at Ronin, panic in his wide, bloodshot eyes. ‘What—what have you—Olive—’

  Federico’s nose streamed with blood. Every time he tried to wipe it away with his red-stained hand, more of it trickled down his face. He dug his bitten-down nails into the marble table, struggled to pull his body up from the chair, but his knees kept on giving way as he collapsed towards the floor below.

  Federico and Olive faced each other on the ground. Olive’s red dress. Red lipstick.

  Blood.

  Beautiful and red.

  No—he couldn’t see things like that. It wasn’t beautiful, it was horrible. He had to keep his distance. He couldn’t get too involved, not like Frank and the others.

  Ronin pulled his suit trousers off and folded them as the sound of Federico’s heaving tore through the room. No one would hear him. The advantage of living so far out of the way was that you could pretty much get away with anything.

  In this family’s case, that had become a distinct disadvantage.

  Ronin took his blazer off and threw it on top of his trousers before sliding them both into a white bin bag. He’d sneaked it in from the kitchen cupboard and left it on the side earlier. When he turned round, Federico was foaming from his mouth, shaking and fitting like an electrocution victim.

  But this was worse than electrocution. Ronin knew because he’d seen electrocution. It wasn’t as bad as this.

  He pulled a pair of clear latex gloves from the pockets of the clear protective coat he had on underneath his suit and marched over towards Federico’s shaking body. Federico’s eyes struggled to focus—to make sense of everything. He tried to grasp Ronin’s arm before his hand gave up and went limp. Ronin patted his flabby stomach. ‘It… it’ll be over soon.’

  Federico’s eyes bulged out of his skull like snooker balls. His mouth whispered something inaudible, a weak, dying sound emerging from the pit of his croaky throat. ‘Why Roni… why?’

  Ronin stood up and scratched his wrist before turning to Olive’s lifeless body and pulling the necklace from her neck. Some things he had to dispose of in more elaborate ways. He winced as he got down onto his knees and picked her up. He had to get this part right. Pick them up without supporting the lower back, and he’d end up doing his own back a world of damage. There was an art to it, a process. It took time to learn, but he was the best at what he did.

  At least Raymond told him so, anyway.

  ‘It’s just the way things go,’ he said, turning towards the burning fire in the lounge as the weight of Olive’s body grew heavier in his arms. He carried her over to the fireplace before turning back to Federico. He’d be more of a struggle to lift. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t completely honest with you about things.’ He paused and stared at Federico’s glazing eyes. ‘Raymond. You know him, right?’

  Federico’s fists clenched together as he heard the name. Ronin nodded. ‘I thought you might know him.’

  Then, he turned to the fire and threw Olive’s body into the flames. He slipped a camera out of his pocket and caught a snap of Olive, sighing as he watched her golden skin crackle, before turning back for Federico.

  The cleanup always was the worst part.

  Chapter Two

  His clothes stuck to his skin as he sat in the seat of the plane. Fresh air blasted down into his face. Well, cold, dirty air, really. Full of people’s breath and sweat and moaning. He kept his eyes closed and waited for the bump of the tyres against the runway.

  He’d be able to throw the passport away soon. Ronin Jahar. One of the better fake names he’d had. Not quite on the level of Raheet Smeer or Jacques Franco, but definitely superior to Bertie Scannell. Raymond had said it was perfect for the job. He wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, mister?’

  Stewardess. Young Asian woman, smile plastered across her face. Probably went home crying every night just to balance the emotions out after being so endlessly friendly all day. Clueless.

  ‘No thanks,’ he said, smiling, holding eye contact. Always a good way to feign interest. Semi-flirtatious smile. If she’s anything like the others she’d…

  Yes, there’s the giggle.

  And there’s the slipping of her fingers through her dark, wavy hair.

  He closed his eyes with a smile still on his face. The buzz of nearby chatter. The rattling of headphones.

  After some time in the air, a little girl came and sat next to him. She had a pink ribbon tied through her hair, long dark ponytail at the back. She grinned at him, revealing a mouth of missing milk teeth.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. His throat crackled a little bit. ‘What’s your name?’

  The little girl fidgeted on her seat and peeked around the chair.

  ‘Are you hiding?’ he asked.

  ‘Sssh,’ the girl said, holding her finger to her lips.

  ‘Elouise, you aren’t bothering this gentleman are you?’ A woman appeared from behind the girl. She was tall, blonde, and stank of perfume. Mouth packed with bleached teeth and false smiles.

  He paused and scratched at his knees, clearing his throat. ‘It’s—it’s fine, really,’ he said, smiling at the woman and dropping his eyes back down towards Elouise.

  The woman wrapped her arm around her daughter’s shoulder and gestured for her to walk down the aisle, but the little girl stopped and turned to look at him.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Jared,’ he said. ‘My name’s Jared. Very nice to meet you.’ He nodded his head as the woman and her daughter scooted down the corridor.

  Jared. When had he last been able to introduce himself with his real name? It was almost like a disguise in itself. Reality had become just as challenging to portray as the make-believe.

  Jared poked his head around the side of the chair. Gone. On the chair next to him sat a little chequered blanket. It wasn’t there before. Definitely wasn’t there.

  He stuffed it in his pocket and closed his eyes again.

  Plane journeys were hard work.

  Raymond was waiting for him when he touched down at the airport. He had his Aviator glasses on even though it was the middle of the night. Something looked different about him. Maybe the glasses just—

  No, it was the hair. Bushier, sticking out from the sides at the back. Usually the grey tufts at the back were barely visible. Maybe a strand or two. Yes, grey tufts at the side of his head, that’s what it was.

  Raymond grinned at Jared as he spotted him dragging his suitcase into the reception area. ‘Jared,’ he called.

  Jared nodded his head towards Raymond in acknowledgement before pulling his wheeled case towards him.

  ‘Hello, my friend,’ Raymond said, wrapping his arms around Jared. Jared’s shoulders went limp as Raymond engulfed his body. Faint tang of alcohol on Raymond’s chequered suit. ‘How was the flight?’ he asked.

  ‘Alright,’ Jared said.

  Raymond smirked, his grin silver with metallic fillings. One of the fillings had gone as dull and faded as his hair. ‘Which means it was shit, right?’

  Jared nodded. ‘Usual.’

  Raymond chuckled and grabbed Jared’s case handle. He pulled it towards the entrance and through the departing families and reunited siblings. ‘And, erm, you got what we went for?’ Raymond asked, scratching at the side of his blood-shot nose.

  ‘Sure,’ Jared said, tapping the side compartment of the suitcase. ‘All in there.’

  Raymond nodded. ‘And my gift?’

  Jared reached into the bag and pulled out a medium-sized model sphinx. He placed it into Raymond’s hands, pulling away as their palms brushed.

  ‘Nothing like a bit of… a bit of culture, eh?’ Raymond said, grinning. He raised the golden sphinx up into the air. ‘Fucking beautiful. Egypt. My
favourite fucking place. Never been.’ His eyes switched back to Jared’s. ‘Hey, you did good, kid. Don’t you forget that.’ He walked off in the direction of the cab rank before swinging round to turn to Jared. ‘Are you coming or what?’

  A little girl was wailing because she’d lost her ‘blanket.’ Her father held her in his arms, patting her back. Crying over a fucking piece of cloth. That’s why they grew up so weak. They were trained to be weak, trained to be victims.

  They all ended up in the same place, without exception.

  ‘Come on, back to mine.’ Raymond called. ‘Grab a drink. Talk about things.’

  Raymond waved his arm towards Jared, shaking the sphinx. The family disappeared down the terminal, hand in hand. Jared pulled the chequered blanket from the plane out from his pocket and dropped it to the floor before following Raymond out into the night.

  The blue lights on top of Prima Office Block stared down at Jared and Raymond as the cab approached the car park. It was one of many focal points in the city, one of the buildings that was visible from miles out, whether midtown or in the suburbs up the hills. Those three blue lights, staring out, were a sign that you were in the city and that all was well.

  Raymond fidgeted with his trousers in the car, restless.

  ‘All okay, boss?’ Jared asked.

  Raymond’s cheeks went a rosy shade of red, his eyes meeting Jared’s. ‘Don’t—don’t call me that,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s Raymond, okay? R-a-y-m-o-n-d. Come on kid, you’ve been living in my company for fourteen years now. We can ditch the formalities, can’t we?’

  Fourteen years. Had it really been that long? Everything seemed to blur together. He used to keep track of the days and the months once upon a time, but that became irrelevant when you killed people for a living. Now, he marked time based on the jobs he’d done and people he’d killed. Two jobs ago was the rich family on the West Coast, seven jobs ago, the mad woman with the cat and moustache. It made things easier to pinpoint, easier to place.