A Predator's Account: Part Two

I clock you entering the ballroom in the company of a taller gangly man, both looking like fish out of water to my eye. Slowly making my way around the outside of the large room, hosting a meeting of crime bosses from across the Midlands, I keep my eye on you, admiring how your silvery dress compliments your petite figure. You perch at the bar near the entrance, your partner leaving you to make his own circuit of the room, and I slip into the lobby, exchanging quietly forceful words with an attendant. She returns with a clutch-purse she assures me is yours and I open it. Inside are the usual items found in the possession of women but my interest lies in what might be on your phone. Within minutes I hit jackpot, pictures of you in just enough uniform that I can confirm it to be the genuine thing, and I return the purse to the attendant, heading back into the ballroom and up to the bar.

Up close I can see you're only young and I shake my head. Whoever sent you thought your age and size would make people overlook you but it isn't an exact science. Sometimes you stand out more. Your dress is genuine, not a cheap rental knock-off like those worn by the other women present, and I'm wondering which division of the police you belong to.

I patiently wait until you're handed a drink and then step up to the bar next to you. A flute glass is pushed towards me and I grasp it, aware of your furtive glance.

"Which faction are you representing?"

I note the widening of your eyes when you realize I'm speaking to you, the hurried gulp.

"A London mob." Your voice is sensual, like a '20s club singer's. "We're here to make sure this lot stays in line."

"We?"

You wave a hand vaguely at the ballroom but I know where your partner is.

"My colleague and I."

I took a sip of the champagne to give myself a moment. My search of your purse told a truth you don't but I play along with your charade. Putting down my glass I extend a hand towards you, offering it.

"Come with me then. It won't take a minute."

I don't quite believe it when you take my hand and hop down from the stool, how naive can you get, and I shepherd you into a side-chamber.

The moment the doors click shut behind us I'm in motion. You're still staring in bewilderment at the weird set-up in the middle of the room, as I did until I watched someone use it to inject alcohol directly into their system, and you can barely react when I grasp your head with both hands. I violently twist as your hands are just starting to rise, an ugly snap filling the room when your neck breaks, and I catch your limp body before it crumples. I quickly drag you over to a chair and stick an IV drip into you, hooking the other end up to a keg, to complete the disguise in case you're discovered. You seem younger in death, I imagine it'd be the absence of life and all that comes with it that removes the years. Maybe your partner will look similar when I'm through with him.