by Marata Eros
“You brought the clothes home…” I raise an eyebrow.
His face turns a little sheepish. “Didn't have you in mind.”
I shift my weight, feeling the press and dig of the snub nose .38 against my inner thigh. I hate having to carry, but I'd miss it if I needed it. And I just might.
Standing, I do a slow spin. “Can you see it?”
Puck studies me. “No, but it's a near thing. I know you like exterior, but the skirt shows all because of the silky fabric.”
Yeah, no kidding. It's technically a mini, but it's actually lower mid-thigh. The material is what's sexy—not the length.
I open the back passenger-side door. Calem's big brown eyes look up at me.
He takes my hand, sliding out, and hops to the ground. He doesn't notice the outfit because he's seen lots of women dressed like this.
I'm not sure what it is about this boy—could be I know it's my last handoff—but I don't want to leave him. I don't care that he'll be placed in a loving home. There's just some indefinable something that makes me want to be with him always.
But I turn in the direction I have to go, tugging him along with me.
We're not at Gasworks park this time. We're at Scenic Hill park in Kent.
This is the second drop-off as per the arrangement I've had with these goons since the beginning. The first was supposed to be an intermediary, but it's this second part that's critical.
Now that I'm here, my heart's in my throat.
I've done a dozen of these in three years, and all of them were awful. They felt like a reward after Puck called me and said the children had been placed, and the ring of criminals was shrinking as we pick off player by player.
My unease has increased with each handoff, my instincts spot-on. Maybe my disquiet is because of what happened between me and Viper. Or my fractured rib. Or the mess with the first part of the handoff. Or all of the above.
“Miss Candi,” Calem whispers from my side.
But I'm in character and don't answer, tugging his small hand from the far reaches of the parking lot where Puck dropped me to the place where that path begins that I scouted last week.
The metal grip of my gun has grown warm against my flesh and digs into my thighs as I walk. The whore's makeup I applied feels heavy on my face. Cool air drifts against me, biting against all that skin I leave on display, looking like the mule I play.
Worn out and rode hard.
I see him first and don't react. Sharpness means a lot of things to people like them. And when I phoned my Bureau contact, he said the place would be surrounded with feds. Today is the day the ringmaster will be here.
Finally, I can be done.
No more acting the part of dumb slut. No more taking kids to be transferred from bad to good.
Just no more.
A sharp image of Puck's house on the knoll rises hard in the front of my mind, making my vision of the evil person walking toward us waver like water poured over glass.
For a moment, I am the role I play, and the effort of being this person I am not has never been more daunting.
The man stops ten feet from where I stand. He’s nondescript, around six feet tall, with brown hair so washed out that it's almost blond. I can’t tell the colors of his eyes across the few yards that separate us. He could be anybody, and I never meet the same person twice.
The leader is smoke because his people keep getting taken. My handoffs were every two months then every four. This year, I haven’t done one in six months—Calem is only the second.
The leader of this sick ring has every reason to be cautious. Holes in his organization mean one thing: getting caught eventually. And this isn't the only branch of his tree of crime. I can't stand to think about all the other kids who are taken and don't fall under our purview.
I can't save them all.
The man sinks to his haunches. “Hey, Calem.”
Calem doesn't say anything. The man wears the typical clothes of the region: jeans and a loose T-shirt.
I know he's carrying.
His eyes flick to mine, gaze cruising down my outfit. “Bring him here, slut.” He cocks his head back. “Why isn't Dagger here?”
“Ran into something complicated,” I say. More complicated than you know.
I saunter over to where he squats beside Calem, making my hips sway, but careful not to reveal the gun under my skirt.
Calem drags behind me, not wanting to go near this guy.
I don't want him to, either.
Finally, he stands. “Nice little Chaos whore to give us the merchandise.” He laughs at my expense and eye-rapes me again. Then his gaze narrows. “You think you're too good to talk to me?”
I know I am. “I don't have nothinʼ to say.” I have four languages under my belt, and aside from that, I intensely study the dialect of my chosen region and the socio-economic phrasing I will be masquerading within. I must blend in, though Puck says I have the eyes of a police officer.
Hard to shroud the windows of your soul.
“Fine,” he huffs, “but I want a taste of what you got.”
No way. “Never had to before,” I hedge, though I'm not usually a part of this stage of the handoff.
“Miss Candi,” Calem says, panic rising in his voice.
“Are you sweet… Candi?”
He has no idea. I smile, and whatever he sees in my expression has his shit-eating grin wilting at the edges.
“No.”
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he says, “Wasted enough time. Boss man is waiting.”
The man jerks his chin toward a distant point in the park.
A dense, shaded canopy of trees sways in the wind, lining a narrow asphalt path that winds into the deepest part of the woods then disappears from view. I shiver in the breeze. At late September, the slut gear isn't cutting it for warmth.
I've perused old blueprints of the park from when it was installed in the 1970s, back when a park-crazy mayor got ahold of Kent and transformed every spare patch of land into a park.
But I don't remember where that path leads.
And I don't like not having a clear visual geography of the map inside my head.
“Always just pass the kid off, then go,” I say, thinking about my defense options and not liking being between two high points. I look at the 1950s houses perched on a steep embankment to my right and the slope of Kent-Kangley to my left.
The guy shakes his head. “Not this time, sweetheart. Boss man wants to see you, in person. Non-negotiable.”
I've got a gun. I can take care of myself. They are obviously after Calem. I mean less than nothing in the big equation.
They'll protect the package, which is the seven-year-old boy at my side.
Maybe if I get closer, I can make the arrest myself. Of course, other agents will move in. They're everywhere. And Puck's fellow cops are too.
So why do I feel like the Lone Ranger?
“Don't got all day,” he prompts, and turning, he starts walking toward the dark path.
I follow.
Chapter 21
Puck
I set my binoculars down with a thunk on the dash. What the fuck are you doing, Candi?
She knows better than to walk off with one of those fuckers.
I get out of the car, slam the door, stride around to the trunk, and pop the lid. Yanking out my Kevlar vest, I shrug it on.
Things could get saucy—fast.
Picking up my dangling mouthpiece, I say, “This is Hockey. Do you copy?”
“Copy, Hockey.”
“Target is moving east on designated pathway. Copy.”
“Copy, Hockey. Sending players.”
I'm as anxious as fuck, but I want Candi protected. When she used my secure line to phone in for backup, they were leery because the first part of the handoff was botched, though she'd called that in too.
Candi is very by the book and only showed up for the second part of the handoff because the first was compromised.
Hate the feebs. If everything doesn't go as planned, they act like we might as well just throw up our hands and call it quits—after three years of chasing the same dog.
Not so for cops. For us, it's personal. We want this bastard.
And even though Candi has proven herself capable, I'm still protective. Too much, I guess. Doesn't matter. Can't take that out of the fabric of who I am.
My backup is closing in, and they don't know that the feds are involved. Thankfully, only Candi and I know about each other. As far as the other cops are concerned, she's part of the trafficking operation. They'll want her alive so they can question her. In a strange way, she's almost more protected this way than she would be if they knew she was a fed.
I follow, trying not to look like a cop, sloughing off that wary, hyper-aware manner that so many of us gain as we go along on the job.
My Glock 22 is tucked along the waistband of my jeans, and I know I hold myself different because of it. Making a conscious effort to stride more casually, I try to ignore how hot the Kevlar is, though it’s making me sweat. My gun slides along the slick skin.
When I get to the pathway, I keep going, knowing I've got the team right there on either side of a valley formed by two hills. Houses built in the mid-twentieth century line one side, and the other is filled with four lanes running up a steep hill toward the east hill of Kent.
Deciduous trees line the path, casting everything in deep shadow. A smallish creek that probably held spawning salmon back in the day runs swiftly to my left. It's a trickling memory now.
The park is nearly soundless. It's midday in early autumn, and kids are in school.
Except Calem.
Up ahead, I hear scuffling noises and something muffled.
I go on alert, my heartbeats piling up like stacked boxes, jamming into my throat.
But I hold steady, wishing I didn't have to do without my earpiece and mic. I'm flying blind and don't like it. Of course, who does?
I round the corner and duck behind a tree, drawing my weapon.
The man who was talking to Candi earlier is on the ground. Bleeding.
Another man is talking to her, and Calem's tucked behind her protectively.
A thrill of fear zings through me. The man's back is to me and I can't see his face. Something's gone south. I'm sure Candi incapacitated the perp. But why? Why screw our covers?
Then the man turns, as if sensing my presence.
I nearly drop my gun at the sight of him. My knees go weak. I feel like I just got shot back in time about twenty years.
“Come out from behind that tree, William. And toss the weapon.”
The sound of his voice sews a thread of terror through my body with a poisonous needle.
With his left hand, he shows me the gun he's trained on my sister.
With his right, he beckons.
I have no choice. I walk toward my father.
*
Viper
“Where is Puck?” I say, gritting my teeth.
Mover lifts a shoulder casually. “I implied he'd find the woman at your club. An educated guess. No more.” He adjusts the sleeves of his suit jacket, and a wave of pure hate warms me to my core.
His eyes stare into mine. Dark like a raven's wing. They used to match his hair, before it began to silver at the temples.
Not unlike my own.
“Was I correct in that assumption?”
I nod. “Sure were. He came in there like a gunslinger and shot one of the brothers and took Candice Arlington.”
Mover gives another shrug that simultaneously says everything and nothing.
“She's the bitch that's feeding kids to that trafficking ring that sprouted up the instant Ned was permanently put out of commission,” Noose expounds at my back.
“Candice Arlington is one of ours,” Mover admits reluctantly. “But we have bigger problems.”
Goosebumps roll over my bare skin, my deeds piling up inside my mind. Mover confirms my suspicions in one verbal fell swoop. His admission is almost too easy. That, in turn, causes suspicion to take root. Candice is FBI. Okay, one mystery solved.
“Like most of our operations, we have distinctive roles and serve in only those capacities. And in this case, we both have the same Bureau contact—only one—who choreographs everything.”
“We thought Candice was a trafficking liaison. A mule,” I say.
“She's meant to appear that way. Unfortunately, the cop, Puck, he is determined to see his part through—as we are. He knows my role, but I was unable to reveal Candice to him.”
“Why?”
“Because it would compromise the last, critical detail that by a fluke of circumstance will go perfectly well if uninterrupted.”
“He took her!” I yell, and Noose straightens, as does a man with a clear case of scarring from a bout of teen acne.
They face off, eyes only for each other.
Tension is high, and every bit of rivalry that's ever been there between Road Kill and Chaos Riders is stuffed in the space we share.
My voice drops to a dangerous roar. “He doesn't know she's a fed. He might hurt her.”
Mover smiles. “Candice Arlington is a capable agent. Puck doesn't have the skill set to stop her. She will see the handoff through.”
Mover doesn't have a stake in Candice. He sees her as a small pawn on the Bureau's large chessboard.
I close the three-stride distance between him and me. I'm so close, he's somewhat out of focus. “Tell me where they're meeting.”
“I can't do that.”
I spin, shouting my fury into the room, feeling the cords of my neck rise with my rage.
“Why is this so important, Vince?” Mover uses my real name for the first time in twenty years.
Slowly, I turn to face him, leaning forward, I hold my fist against my chest. “Because I threw down for Candice. She's mine.”
A surprised shout of laughter bursts out of him. “You're kidding?”
I step into his space, both my hands in fists. “Do I look like anything is remotely funny?”
Mover stands as well, and we face each other, staring each other down for a moment.
Then he says, “Let me get a clearer understanding. Road Kill MC thought they'd collapse the debauched child trafficking ring, without knowing two different law entities were involved. Then you grab a deep undercover FBI agent, rough her up—”
“We didn't know. Thought she was a mule.”
Mover nods at Noose's insertion. “Nevertheless, she is a federal agent, and this was the final sting.” His hand raises and he makes a fist, giving it an abbreviated pump of triumph. “The final piece to capture the one who's behind this.”
“And now Puck has your agent and… what?” I ask.
“Now we wait until the handoff is complete. Then our team comes in and handles things the way we handled Ned.”
“Well, Snare's not here because of the way you handled Sara,” Noose says in a voice gone low with barely contained menace.
Mover's dark eyes narrow like a shadow on Noose. “Not everything I've done, I'm proud of.”
“No shit,” Noose states with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
Mover gives him a withering stare then says, “Dagger.”
Dagger, the guy with the acne scars, moves forward out of the shadows.
“Debrief Vince about our other problem.”
Dagger slides his attention to Noose for a moment then returns it to me. His entire demeanor changes. Standing up straighter, he clasps big hands behind his back.
Gone is the typical rider surliness. Instead, his eyes sharpen on me. “We have an agent within your ranks, and he's gone rogue. The timing couldn't be worse. We were in no position to go after him. We're at a critical junction in the apprehension of the man responsible for this pedophile trafficking ring. We could not go in and take him. Even now, he believes everything is a go.”
“What ʽgoʼ?”
“He is working with myself and Mover—T
hom—to see this last handoff through, but he was not aware that Arlington was an agent, either. He was vetted too early. There are some things in his past that make him too volatile for the role he's been assigned, but there wasn't anyone else we thought would be a believable enough fit.”
Dagger shrugs.
“Fucking Storm,” Noose guesses, pushing away from the wall he was leaning against, a grimace twisting his lips. “Don't you boys do some bigtime psyche profiling? Pfft.”
Yeah. Fucking Storm. All the pieces of the puzzle are fitting together beautifully.
“He fractured her rib,” I say almost to myself.
“And you allowed that.” Mover's eyes glitter at me from the short distance that separates us.
I whirl to face him. “No. Didn't know what he was going to do fast enough. I'm not a fucking mind reader.”
“So we have an injured agent, courtesy of Road Kill MC, a rogue agent who thinks his role within this case is progressive, and the entire thing hinges on Arlington making the meet and handing over Calem Oscar.”
“I want to be there.”
Mover folds his arms and gives a chuckle. “Now that's rich.” He cocks his perfectly groomed head to the left, studying me. “Did you hear me? This is an FBI case. The police are also involved, and their key player believes Arlington is a mule and in no way suspects her real status. Putting you in the mix is out of the question. Look at how you handled it when you got ahold of her.” His eyes go razor sharp on me in condemnation. “What happened between the two of you to make you decide she was going to be your property? You haven't cared for a female since Colleen.”
My body tenses. “You don't deserve to say her name.”
“Me saying her name doesn't kill her twice, Vince.”
Our chests touch now—my Slipknot T-shirt and his thousand-dollar suit. “Shut the fuck up, Thom.”
He lifts his hands, palms out in a sign of surrender. “Fine. I am telling you to stay out of this. Let agent Arlington do her job. I told you more than I should, Vince—more than I needed to. And if you still want to pursue her after this is through”—he leans against their version of a church table and claps his hands on his thighs—“be my guest.”
I can tell by his expression he thinks a lasting thing between an agent and me is a long shot.
