Novel & Cerita The Original Jeff The Killer Story

"He is just a condescending jerk trying to draw attention. I will sort out my textbook issue with him after school, but now, I am more worried about why he was with Killer earlier." Nate relaxes back into his chair, exhaling. "Killer's real name is Chris Bradford. Before he joined the underground, he was well known in the big leagues. His trainer then was Steven Rodriguez." I cough out in shocked reflex. "Steven Rodriguez? You mean. . . .you mean Jason's dad?"

Jefferson said, and spat on the floor. “He won’t find you. Your car has no tracking system, your phone’s at the motel. He’ll reach that dead end and even if he knows where I live, which I’m sure he does, he won’t get to me. I went to prison an innocent man, but I left there a murderer. I killed seven men in prison, got myself the name ‘Wrath’ on the inside. You think you know me, but you don’t. You sitting in that chair … that’s what I do now. I kill men like you for money and I’m really fucking good at it. You turned me into this.” “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Kill me if that’s what you have planned,” Jefferson said.

How would I just waltz into his room with this story and expect that he would applaud me for coming into the light? As I paced back and forth, my phone chimed. I rushed to it, expecting to see something from Collins but there was nothing. Instead, an article glared at me. I sank into my bed and scrolled through it, my heart stopped. “Billionaire underdog exposed as criminal mastermind… Jonathan Mysterio, serial killer and dangerous felon.” I read silently. Jonathan was none of this and it was clearly a set up. I knew whose handwork this was and my grip around my phone tightened.

I looked up at him, my gaze chilly. "Do you really think you're still in control?" I asked, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "Do you think you can keep hiding the money you've embezzled from the company and the tax fraud you've committed? Did you really think the truth about my dad's death would stay buried forever?" The color drained from his face. "W-What are you talking about? Since when did I embezzle company funds and commit tax fraud? I didn't kill your father either! Stop making things up!"

I asked, my voice low and conversational. The man spat a glob of bloody phlegm onto my boot. "Go to hell you bastard!” I didn't flinch nor did I look at the boot. I just took a slow, methodical drag of the cigarette and exhaled the smoke into his face. "I've been there, Son. Now, let’s try again. Where is your Don?" The survivor stared at me with his one good eye, a spark of defiance still flickering in the dark. "I don't tell the Valak secrets to worthless scum like you. I know who you are. You're the one Don Bane destroyed . He threw out like trash."

I sniffed nervously trying as much as possible not to look at his intimidating eyes. "You know what made me attracted to you?" Theo grunted in disgust. "Your ability to be able to speak fluently in every one of my moods. It would be better if I informed you in advance that I have no control when I am dealing with someone who betrays me. I met you the night I was shot, and in case you don't know…this bastard had snitched my movement to my biggest enemies which had led to a successful gunshot. Do you know what that means, he was trying to kill me!!" Theo muttered angrily, breathing in constraint after every sentence. "Says the cousin who had murdered my parents with the assistance of 'SEVEN'.

“Nah, it ain’t like that. These guys . . . no. They don’t know shit. You could almost call my client’s interest academic.” Joe’s eyebrow jumps and I hurry to add, “Not in a public way. Nobody’s writing a book.” “I’ll play along for now,” he says, “but I’m trusting you, Miles.” I nod and trace a circle in the air over our empty shot glasses for the bartender. “What do you want to know?” “For starters, your honest opinion: Do you believe the killer is a gangbanger?” “The first victim was a known member of the Ghost Shadows.” It doesn’t get past me that that’s not a direct answer.

I countered. "Well, I'm sure you can see why, but I'd rather hear everything from you." At the word ‘everything’, her eyebrows narrowed and I gulped. I held my breath momentarily before speaking, knowing I was about to get in massive shit. "I heard about the rival gangs and talked to the police, but they wouldn't give me anything. Then Mr. Jeffers rejected me, despite this story being a front-page one, and when I got home that night…I-I took one look at the picture of Darick and knew I had to pursue the story. There was something about his eyes that—"

My pleas for justice went nowhere; every report I filed vanished, and my efforts were met only with assassination threats from Silas himself. Before the coma took me completely, I had one last period of lucidity. The law couldn't touch him. A gang war would be suppressed. I needed a show. We, the victims' families who had nowhere else to turn, united to stage a spectacle so bloody, so bizarre, that the entire world would be unable to look away. Since no one would care about the lives of low-level mobsters, we had to make the story known to the entire world. The nine "dead" soldiers never died.