Authors: Jeff Menapace
Table of Contents
Playtime is Not Over…
In Autumn of 2008, the Lambert family headed to western Pennsylvania for a weekend getaway to the family cabin.
They visited hell instead…
The Fannelli brothers. Two psychopaths who believed themselves exceptional, put on this Earth for the soul purpose of tormenting others for their own amusement. To make people play their twisted games.
Except the Lamberts managed the impossible. They played the game and survived. Showed the Fannelli brothers that they’d messed with the wrong family.
However, the game is far from over. There are some new players in town. Players who appear to have close ties to the Fannelli brothers. Players who are taking things very personally…and promising results that are very deadly.
is the highly anticipated sequel to the acclaimed thriller
. If you thought you’d glimpsed evil before, prepare to plummet headfirst into the abyss as author Jeff Menapace shows you a new level of fear and heart-stopping suspense.
Let the vengeful games begin…
Table of Contents
About the Author
Other Works by Jeff Menapace
Although the interior of the house was black with night, Monica could have slinked her way upstairs and into their bedrooms eyes closed. She had been in their home—alone—several times already. Her job demanded this kind of tactile homework. She had to be perfect. Always. But it was never a burden. She loved her job. It was why she was so good.
Monica never cared to know the reasons behind her assignments unless they were critical to the job. Reasons meant little to her. It could be a terrorist hiding in suburbia, or a school teacher having an affair. She didn’t care. It was the work itself she prized. Her first solo assignment at nineteen was carried out with the exactness of a veteran—her hand never shook, her movements never second-guessed.
At the top of the landing, Monica made an immediate right into the boy’s bedroom. He was a freshman in high school. Five-foot nine. Scruffy brown hair. Skinny. She’d studied him on his way home from soccer practice. Every day after school until five. He walked home.
Monica now stood over his sleeping body and withdrew a pistol from her leather bag. Teenagers were always so easy. They slept like the dead. The boy snored deeply, his mouth ajar. She smirked at the opportunity and placed the suppressor of her Glock into his mouth. The boy never opened his eyes, even when the two quiet thumps bounced his head and turned the back of his pillow red.
Mom and dad were down the hall. She didn’t have to hurry with this one, and that was just fine by her. Quite often a job would require a quick in and out with little time to savor and enjoy. But with this one, she could (and would) secure the situation, and then take her time.
She glided into the master bedroom, hung at the foot of the bed, watched their sleeping silhouettes. She felt the familiar tingle flutter its way down her spine until it made a pit-stop in her belly, swirling hot and bad, waiting for the chance to continue its exquisite journey south.
Monica had once read that Adolph Hitler would often ejaculate while delivering passionate speeches to his minions. A crazy notion to most, but she understood the moment she’d read it. She desired sex as often (she assumed) as most women did, but achieving orgasm was near impossible no matter how earnest the man’s efforts may have been. But when an assignment like tonight’s allowed her to take her time? She was able to explode with ecstasy—multiple times.
One poor fellow unknowingly volunteered to be her first successful effort at sexual gratification when Monica was only twenty-two. The young man was not an assignment, just another random penis stepping up to the plate in hopes of hitting one out of the park. Unfortunately, the man, despite his efforts, could not even manage a bunt, and in a desperate attempt for fulfillment, Monica—she on top, he still inside her—reached for one of her instruments (always hidden close by) and slashed his throat.
Staring down at disbelieving eyes, a mouth gurgling red, and frantic clawing at a throat that no longer worked, she came instantly.
Future sexual encounters of the same nature occurred, but they were infrequent. More sport than anything else. The job satiated her appetite with far greater satisfaction.
And so now, just as the female subject (40, dirty-blonde hair, five-foot two, Pilates at twelve on Tuesdays and Thursdays) lifted her head off the pillow to likely obey the blind suspicion subjects sometimes had—the suspicion they were being watched—she did not receive two quick bullets like her son had. Instead she got a lightning-quick injection to the side of the neck that put her back into a deep sleep. The husband (42, brown hair, five-foot ten, work hours eight to six, happy hour with colleagues on Wednesdays and Fridays from six to eight) barely stirred, even when he received an injection of his own.
Monica left the sedated couple, entered their bathroom and hit the light. Her reflection in the stretch of mirror above the dual sinks was exceptionally kind: dark, seductive eyes, full lips, healthy dark hair that usually bounced at the shoulder (now pulled back tight for job efficiency), and a body that defied the majority by being slim and tight in the usual trouble spots, full and firm in the oft-desired.
These physical gifts were accentuated—and coveted by every female eye she passed—by a powerful and sophisticated aura, product of conditioning from years in the most elite of boarding schools. If she were wearing a power suit instead of the unassuming but apt attire needed for her current assignment, she could easily pass for a seven-figure knockout parading down Wall Street.
Monica placed her leather bag on the sink, glanced into the bedroom at the couple, and felt the familiar tingle begin its feathery dance down her body. Now she would take her time.
Monica sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. Inhaling deep, she glanced over her shoulder, searching for the remote. It was on the nightstand next to the wife’s corpse.
She stood, strolled past the chair that held the husband’s bound and mangled body, flicked an ash on his scalp, picked up the remote from the nightstand, and returned to her spot at the foot of the bed.
Crossing her legs, she took a second drag, leaned back on her elbows, and blew a long stream into the air. She tweaked the toes of the dead woman next to her, then clicked on the television.
The news was replaying a top story from a few days ago. The incident had caught her attention the night it aired, and she had given it a brief glance. Multiple murders in the sticks of western Pennsylvania. A place called Crescent Lake. Torture. Sick games. Something out of a movie, they had said.
Now they apparently had the whole story.
She turned up the volume and looked on with the casual eye of an athlete watching their own sport. She hoped this local station had the balls to air recordings of the aftermath. The breaking report she had witnessed days ago on assignment in New York had given her nothing but a woman with a bad dye-job blabbering in front of a cabin in Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania.