Stalked By A Serial Killer

Chapter Thirty-Three: I'm Not The One With My Head Stuck In A Cookie Jar

Chapter Thirty-Three: "I'm Not The One With My Hand Stuck In A Cookie Jar."

One year later

"HUSTLE, HUSTLE, hustle! Come on, Peters, use those arms, I didn't raise a weakling! Let's go, let's go, let's go!"

"Let's see you get off your ass and do this, old man." I shout out as I breathlessly drag another 200 lbs around the obstacles, then to the finish at the top of a twenty-step staircase.

I whoop in accomplishment as I punch the punching bag, finalizing my test. I check over my shoulder to look at my time, and see that I beat it by a few minutes compared to my last test, which was taken about a month ago.

"Ah, see? I told you that shouting does the trick." Gordon smirks as he comes up to me, handing me a bottle of water and a towel. I'm still working on some training for the academy, but I'm making good progress. The course consists of you holding a 200 lb mannequin over your shoulder, jumping and crawling under obstacles. I've worked my weight up from the original 80 lbs in the beginning, to the amount of a full grown man.

I was treated fairly when I joined with Bryce. Nobody seemed to acknowledge the fact that they have a juvenile working with them, which I was grateful for. Bryce was accepted in immediately, and he gets a lot of the attention for being the boy who works computer wonders. So far, we've still only been beginners, but Gordon says we're progressing well. He said that even in the next couple weeks I might even be able to go out in the field and face some hardcore problems.

I've done tiny things. Pull people over for speeding, call of parties that have complaints, etcetera, etcetera. Considering I'm still in that stage, I don't get much thrill of activity happening. We haven't really gotten anything fun to go after anyway, but apparently nothing more fun than the Rio de Janeiro incident that happened last year is more thrilling.

Yes, a year of having no stalkers.

My father has yet to reveal himself, and I'm grasping the fact that Faith could have just been scaring me, though I doubt that's the case. The FBI and everyone are still working on finding Charlie's whereabouts, along with Pepper's and the other men he still has living and at his service.

I've been relieved to know I don't have to look over my shoulder every other second, but that doesn't mean the thought isn't there. With the training I've been receiving, I'll be able to fend more for myself than I could when I was eighteen; which was only a chance by luck; considering it was mainly the syringes and the bullets that did most of the work for me.

Gordon was right; I am used to make the interrogation suspects reveal truths. I've been practicing with some new chemicals and mixing other compounds, and so far I've only come up with some really painful pain stimulators and a drug that kills you instantaneously, but that doesn't really get me much. My creations are murderous to say the least, and I'm not so sure if that's a good thing. Of course I have treatments to them, but nobody will have access to them besides its creator, and I don't want to only create harmful stimulants, I want to create more than that. I'd be damned if I was playing around and suddenly found a cure to cancer or AIDS.

Of course I'd never test that theory personally, but the option is still there and the window's wide open.

"Ow!" I yelp out suddenly as I sit down to tie up my sneakers, but the dummy unclips from where I held him and drops down perfectly on my hand. "Son-of-a-bitch."

"Should have placed 'er down where she's supposed to go. Should have listened to me. You get what you get after all, yeah? N–"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. No pain, no gain, right?" I interrupt through grinding teeth.