Order Killer Novels & Stories

Thane explained. ‘That explains why he didn't cover his face when he took Aria.’ Alessa thought. “Who are you?” Alessa asked. He looked up at her and slowly laughed. “Alessa. The killer who took out thirty men in two minutes without a scratch, she pulls the trigger faster than anyone. Smart, pretty.” “Sexy,” he added and laughed out loud. He doesn't look Russian, Mexican, or Italian, he was an American which confused her more. No American has ever been after her.

When he looked up, the gun was already pressed against his sweaty forehead. "I-I’ll tell you, Young Master Lorenzo. I’ll tell you everything," The man pleaded desperately. His eyes widened in terror as he gazed up at Regis, whose expression showed no hint of mercy. As Regis was about to pull the trigger, the man quickly blurted out, "M-Mr. Volker! It was Mr. Volker who gave the order!" But it was too late for Regis. There would be no second chances for an opponent who, in his eyes, was as worthless as an insect.

"Your father wasn’t a good man, Cass," she said softly, but with absolute certainty. "He killed without hesitation. Until he met your mother." Twenty-five years ago, New York was a much darker place than it is now. The mafia controlled most of the city, and the law was nothing more than an illusion for those wealthy enough to manipulate it. Amidst all of this, there was a man known as the most ruthless executioner of the Silver Rose Mafia. His name was Marvin Bakker. He wasn’t just any hitman—he was the executioner who never failed a mission. Every target ended with a single bullet to the head or a knife straight through the heart. But one day, he was given a mission that changed everything.

He had stepped on a land mine he knew but what it had been was far from his knowledge and gulping a load of his saliva, he looked away. “Mr. Dean, I am sure you have heard about the quote, curiosity killed the cat?” Alastor alleged eyeing the man with his freezing blue eyes, “Working in this particular facility you must be aware that it has gotten more people killed than just a puny animal. You wouldn’t want to be one of them, do you?” To threaten a police officer in their own station and yet have them cower in their presence was the kind of man that Alastor Tynen was.

The Harrolds are old money, wealthy for generations, their empire spanning petroleum, wine, gemstones, and industries I can't even begin to count. Dr. Mary Harrold, a renowned surgeon, and her husband, Gregory, have two sons. Liam and Kendrick. Liam, the eldest, runs their businesses. Kendrick, the rebellious younger son who could have walked straight out of a novel was rumoured to have died in a car crash after a drunken night. His girlfriend had left him at the scene, helpless and the rest they say is history. Keisha never believed it.

The calls I managed to make were dismissed as me “putting on a performance for attention.” In the end, I lay in my own pool of blood,my eyes wide open, filled with despair. The glow of the Memory Prism faded. Leo was the first to react. He stormed into Olivia’s room, where she was happily trying on new clothes. “It was you!” he shouted. “You hired those intruders to kill Bella!” Olivia’s face drained of color. She waved her hands wildly. “No, Leo—what are you talking about?” “Look at what the Memory Prism recorded!” Leo trembled with rage, on the verge of losing control.

“Routine is predictable.” “So the killer knew it,” Quinn said. “Or studied it,” Damian added, quieter now. Quinn kept reading. “Financials?” “Messy,” Mark replied. “Offshore accounts.” “Not random,” Damian muttered. Quinn closed the file halfway. “No forced entry. No theft. This wasn’t about money.” “They came for him,” Damian said. Quinn looked at him. This time, she didn’t disagree. Mark placed another file beside it. “Two more cases. Same pattern.”

None of them had gotten it right. The real thing standing in my doorway, catching the light from my hall lamp was something else entirely. It was not costume. It was not theater. It was a specific, intentional, centuries-old object, and it was being worn by a man who had chosen it the way a man chooses a signature. The Verdict Killer was standing in my living room. I want to be precise about what that meant. Because if you live outside this city, or if you don’t read the tabloids, or if you don’t listen to the podcasts — you might think he was just one more name on one more news cycle.