The Wrong Man

Michael O’Co

He stared at the mug in front of him, closed his eyes, and allowed rage to reverberate inside him, pinging off all the walls of his heart and imagination. He did not like being outmaneuvered or outthought or out-anythinged for that matter, and punishing the people who had done it was his immediate number-one priority. He was angry with himself for believing that the modest Internet troubles he’d already delivered to them would be adequate. Ashley’s family needed a far harsher series of lessons. They had cheated him out of something he was owed.

The more O’Co

Again he twitched in his seat. He was fully aroused now.

He had once read in a novel that the warriors of certain African tribes had become engorged with passion in the moments before battle. Shield in one hand, killing spear in the other, an erection between their legs, they had charged their enemies.

He liked that.

Making no effort to hide the bulge in his pants, Michael O’Co

No one did. A little disappointed, he crossed the room and walked out onto the street. Night had descended, and a cold chill touched his face. It did nothing to cool his imagination. He could picture himself looming over Ashley, thrusting at her, penetrating her, using every inch, every crevice, every space on the body for his own pleasure. He could hear her responding, and to him there was little difference between moans and cries of desire, and sobs of pain. Love and hurt. A caress and a blow. They were all the same.

Despite the cold, he undid his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, letting the cool air slide over him as he marched along, head back, gulping in huge breaths. The chill did little to erase his desires. Love is like a disease, he thought to himself. Ashley was a virus that coursed along unchecked in his veins. He understood in that second that she would never leave him alone. Not for a single waking second, for the rest of his life. He walked on, thinking that the only way to control his love for Ashley was to control Ashley. Nothing had ever seemed so clear to him before.

Michael O’Co

“Let’s go have a little talk, O’Co

Matthew Murphy had easily spotted O’Co

“Who the hell are you?” O’Co

“I’m your biggest fucking nightmare, asshole. Now open up the door and let’s go up to your place nice and quiet like, so I can explain the world and the way it works to you in a civilized ma

O’Co

“Maybe Michael O’Co

O’Co

“Inside. Up the stairs. Your place, Mike-y boy. So we can have our little chat in private.”

Half-pushed, half-forced, O’Co

Murphy increased his grip, squeezing at the muscle as they reached O’Co

As O’Co

“Not too popular with the locals, are you, Mike-y boy?” Murphy said, twisting the younger man’s arm again. “You got something against cats? They got something against you?”

“We don’t get along,” O’Co

“I’m not surprised.” Murphy gave the younger man a vicious shove, sending him stumbling ahead into the apartment. O’Co

But the detective was on top of him with surprising quickness for a middle-aged man, looming over O’Co

“Not too happy, are you, Mike-y boy? Not accustomed to being tossed around, are you?”

O’Co

Murphy took that moment to slowly pull back his suit coat, revealing the.380 in its shoulder harness. “I brought a friend, Mike-y boy. As you can see.”

The younger man grunted again, shifting his eyes between the weapon and the private investigator. Murphy swiftly reached inside his jacket and removed the automatic. He had not been intending to do this, but something in O’Co