The Blasphemer Read Online Free PDF Page A

Otahuhu had come home after a trip to the grocery. What she didn’t know was that a rapist had broken in and laid in wait. The attack was horrific—the man had shattered the woman’s face so completely that she needed reconstructive surgery.
    When the police failed to get him, the woman had turned to a freelancer—Adam Larsen, Maya’s one-time partner. Prowling the streets, plumbing his connections, Adam had zeroed in on the perpetrator in under twelve hours. Quid pro quo, he had fractured the guy’s jaw before handing him in.
    Right after, Adam had insisted on installing the security setup in Maya’s home. ‘It’s a sick, sick world out there,’ he had said with hard eyes. ‘You can never be too careful.’
    Maya had to admit, Adam’s paranoia had rubbed off on her. She went through the security logs one more time. Everything looked clean. No predators lying in wait. Not today, anyway.
    Maya fingered the remote on her key ring. The garage door rolled up with a steady hum, and she drove in. She touched the remote again, and the door rolled down shut behind her.
    She switched off her car’s engine and got out. Unlocking the door to her living room, she stepped through, tapping a code into the keypad on the wall to disable the motion sensors. She breathed in a sweet, calming aroma. The air freshener in the corner had sensed her entry and dispensed a new scent. This time, it was jasmine.
    All around Maya, boxes were stacked, sealed, untouched. Though she had moved in weeks ago, she still couldn’t bring herself to unpack everything. It wasn’t easy. Her belongings were mixed in with Papa’s. She felt uncertain about going through old mementos, old reminders, old memories. Maybe even a little afraid.
    Damn.
    Maya winced.
    Promised herself that she would get down to it.
    Eventually.
    Maybe.
    She made her way to the bathroom. Stripped off. Showered. Got dressed. Then she approached the safe concealed at the back of her built-in wardrobe. She swiped her thumb over the fingerprint scanner and entered her PIN into the keypad.
    The safe unlocked with a heavy clunk.
    Maya reached for the top shelf. Took hold of an Emerson tactical-folding knife. Thumbed the blade open. She tested its edge by running it across her forearm, shaving the fine hairs off her skin. It was as sharp as could be. Ready to go.
    She closed the knife and clipped it on the inside of her hip pocket. It was an old spec-ops trick she had picked up from Papa. In an emergency, you could unclip the knife and do a quick-draw, and the back of the blade would catch the pocket’s edge, unfolding itself. Instant. Automatic. Streetwise.
    Moving on to the middle shelf, Maya reached for a SIG Sauer nine millimetre. She had disassembled, cleaned and oiled the pistol just last night. It was all good to go. Pulling the gun from its holster, she loaded a magazine into it and racked the slide, chambering a round. She performed a press-check to confirm, then holstered her gun and secured it under her waistband, between her navel and her appendix. She allowed her shirt to fall over it. It was the best form of concealed carry. No bulge. No imprint.
    Maya peered at the two boxes she stored on the bottom shelf.
    One was blue.
    One was red.
    The blue box held hollow-point ammunition—soft-nosed rounds designed to fragment upon impact, shredding flesh and tissue.
    The red box held full-metal jacket ammunition—solid-nosed rounds meant for punching through body armour, capable of penetrating hard and deep.
    Beside both boxes, there was a stack of spare pistol magazines. Maya had kept them empty on purpose. Since magazines were spring-loaded, they could lose their tension if kept packed with rounds for too long without being used. In a worst-case scenario, a round could fail to chamber, stopping a gun from firing. She didn’t like the idea of that. So she only loaded the magazines when she actually needed them. Like right now.
    Maya peeled open the blue box and the red box.