The Vigilantes Collection

by Lake, Keri

  Then, out of the blue, the two of them broke up. A few days later, her body was found dumped in an abandoned shithole. Police had questioned Reed, interrogated him, but it was David Kelley who’d vouched for his innocence, and when no evidence could link Reed to the crime, he’d gotten removed from the police department’s shitlist.

  Reed had fallen into a downward spiral after that. Skipped his treatments and spent most of his days doped up on whatever the hell he could find.

  As I studied the tattoo on his arm, though, for the first time, I wondered if he had played a role in her death.

  What I knew of my brother, he’d never torture or rape a girl. Yet, he carried the mark of individuals who did just that.

  I needed to know more about the tattoo.

  On the way out of the storage unit, I grabbed a few extra rifles, magazines and loose bullets, and made my way to the car.

  First thing I needed to do was find a place to stay.

  Second thing: find some whiskey.

  6

  Lucy

  When I was seven, my mother told me that there were devils cloaked as angels, and that I would learn to see beyond their masks. Fifteen years later, though, and I could still be fooled.

  The scariest part about working an underground club like Sphinx was, if something happened, no one would ever find the body. It was one of those places that somehow stayed below the radar, catering to a specific crowd who were into what I coined noir pornography, a sort of dark sensory spin to the usual strip clubs. The fact that it was located on the outskirts of downtown, butted up to the seedy neighborhoods in the city, just seemed to add to the obscurity of the place.

  Two days had passed since the Slaughterhouse shoot, and though I wanted to skip another night of work and stay in bed all day, as I had done the last two days straight, I couldn’t afford more time off. I’d come to the conclusion that the men who’d chased me didn’t know who they were looking for, and my best bet was to lay low. Fairly easy for me, since I typically worked behind the scenes. I’d have not bothered to come to the club, at all, except Viktor always paid me cash at the end of our meetings, and he’d requested that I come in to bounce some ideas for an upcoming promo.

  Hopefully Craig’s contact would come through and the murderers would be caught.

  The cop, too. I could very well run into an asshole like that at Sphinx.

  In the year I’d worked for the club, I’d learned through the strippers that only a handful of cops strolled in, and most of them were of the corrupt variety—stealing away with the strippers in the back, or swiping palms with the known dealers who frequented the joint. Nice and respectable, as Viktor expected all his patrons to be, but I sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted to meet up with one of the bastards in a dark alley. Or an abandoned factory, for that matter.

  The eerie, crepuscular echo of High For This by The Weeknd droned on in the background. Fitting for a club like Sphinx, where a thin veil of debauchery hung in the air.

  After my mother’s stroke, I'd needed money. Bad. Working at Sphinx turned from an occasional gig I did to help out a friend’s boyfriend, to necessity, at least weekly, or more if the club had a major event coming up.

  I sat at the bar, sipping a Coke, as I waited for Viktor, the club's head honcho, to escort me up to his office. Behind me, two small platforms held a thin, white, fabric-like screen, upon which the black silhouettes of naked women danced in slow, mesmerizing dips and sways. Occasionally they touched the screen, and the black shadow turned blood red, giving off a dark, Psycho aura.

  A month until Halloween, and the bosses had already begun to go creepy.

  A tap to my shoulder had me spinning around, to find Viktor, in three-piece suit, with his black hair slicked back, leaning against the bar beside me. “Come with me.”

  Thank God. I was so low on cash, I’d have had to come up with an excuse as to why I couldn’t cover my utility bill. Besides that, I needed something creative to distract my mind from the images of a woman’s cut up body getting dumped.

  I followed behind him, into the elevator. Viktor had the business persona down, but underneath was an air of darkness, a slimy nature that I didn’t trust. I’d seen his hand slide down the ass of some of the girls as if he owned them.

  Not me. No one owned me. Even if he paid me under the table, I was no one’s property.

  The elevator opened to a hallway of offices, where Viktor hid away on the rare occasions he actually worked at the club. Down the hall, I trailed after him, straightening my sweater, remembering that I’d soon be alone in an office with him. I liked to keep it all professional, no flirting, so I made it a point to dress casual each time I arrived at the club.

  Only two other girls had ever seen the inside of his office besides me. My best friend, Jolana, who'd worked there as a stripper for a good couple years and happened to be fucking him, and Talena, who was something of a mistress to all the dancers, and at the mercy of his authority.

  At least I had the option of picking and choosing the jobs I took, which limited my time with him alone.

  He pushed the door open, and my eyes darted left, toward a man sprawled on the couch in the corner, next to Viktor’s desk. Conall, one of Viktors … well, I didn’t really know what the hell he was to Viktor. Short, blond, muscular, and covered in tattoos, he reminded me of an MMA fighter, the way he carried himself, with a mean long, white scar that looked like someone had tried to stretch his smile out, or something—if the man ever happened to smile. The sight of it left me wondering if a victim had put it there. He didn’t strike me as one himself. In fact, the guy was downright unnerving, always staring, silently, as if plotting his next murder.

  I took my seat on the opposite side of Viktor’s chair, where the laptop had already been turned on, keeping myself tightly wound into my body, hands in my lap, ankles crossed. Being in the same space with both men had my nerves firing and my thumbs rubbing against each of my fingers and back again. One-two, three-four, five-six, seven-eight. My mind counted off each circle.

  As if sensing my unease, Viktor snapped his fingers in Conall's direction. “Give us some privacy.”

  The blond’s eye twitched as he glared at me from his corner, but he rose up off the couch and left the office without a word.

  “As you know, Halloween is a few weeks away, and this tends to be a huge time of year for the club.” Viktor’s words slapped me straight back to business. “I want dark and sexy.” He said, and rounded the desk to his chair, where he fell back and kicked his feet up. “Think sex and blood.”

  “Sex and blood,” I repeated, eyes widening as I opened Photoshop. Weirdo. Jolana had told him I was a photographer, pretty skilled in Photoshop, so he put me in charge of his events marketing. “That’s … kinky.”

  “What exactly comes to mind when you think of Devil’s Night?”

  “Not Halloween?”

  “Devil’s Night.”

  What came to mind was the brutal murder of my best friend, who’d been attacked on Devil’s Night when gang members had broken into her home. “Um. Bad things. I guess.”

  “Bad things.” He looked thoughtful. “Yes. Very bad things.” His lips curved into a wicked smile. “How about, come do very bad things this Devil’s Night?”

  Original. I cleared my throat to keep from rolling my eyes. “Bad things. Devil’s Night. Got it.”

  “I still want blood and sex.” He seemed to bite the inside of his lip. “They complement each other well, don’t you think?”

  Ugh. Viktor just seemed like one of those guys who barely walked the line of consent when it came to sex, and that comment brought to mind the markings I’d often seen on Jolana’s back and thighs. She’d said it was all in play, but the guy always left me feeling like I needed to wash my brain with bleach after bouncing ideas and creative juices with him. Not that I was a prude, by any means, but Viktor just struck me as a pretty enthusiastic sadist.

  “I can do blood and sex.”

 
“I’d love to see that.” As he rose up from the chair, the hairs shot up on the back of my neck. Keeping my gaze glued to the screen prevented me from staring at his crotch, which he positioned just to the left of me. I hated when men used their dicks to intimidate, and instinct begged me to draw back a fist and punch. “Ever thought of getting up on that stage, fifty-two?”

  To the club, I was fifty-two. A number. A nobody. And I preferred it that way. Even though Viktor knew my real name, he mostly referred to me as the allocation. Perhaps it made me less human in his eyes.

  His fingertip drifted down my shoulder, stiffening my muscles, and had my fingers balling on their own as I imagined gripping his nuts and watching him doubled over in pain. “I’ll bet you’re hiding one hell of a body under all those clothes.”

  “I don’t—” My argument was cut short by the buzz of his phone at his belt.

  “Excuse me,” he said, stepping into the hallway.

  I blew out a breath and adjusted the size of the image template for the flyers. I’d had men hitting on me before, and Viktor looked like a gentleman compared to the assholes I encountered downstairs, but something about him just rubbed me the wrong way. Like watching a movie and knowing the bad guy from the get-go. His whole persona just screamed ‘Badfellas’.

  Outside, his quiet mumbles broke into a firmer voice and though I tried to listen, all I picked up on was a steady vibration of his voice through the door.

  The door clicked and I cleared my throat, added the text to the flyer. Nice thing about doing side gigs—I ordinarily got in on the gossip. Viktor apparently didn’t find me much of a threat, as easily as he carried out business while I worked across from him. The call must’ve been something really juicy for him to take it out to the hallway, though.

  “How’s the graphic coming along?” His voice preceded his form in my periphery.

  “It’ll be good. I should be done in the next thirty minutes.”

  “I could easily pay anyone to do this, fifty-two. You know why I picked you?”

  I shook my head, lowering my hands from the keyboard, prepared to flip on my defenses.

  “I like watching you work.” He fell back into his chair, legs splayed open, and I had to remind myself not to gag. “Your breathing, the slow and steady rise and fall of your chest when you work. Your concentration. What that big brain of yours must be thinking as you scroll through those images, nailing those graphics.”

  “Jolana … she’s the smart one. Med student?” A burst of fake laughter flew from my chest. “Way bigger brain than me.”

  “Jolana’s smart. But I’m drawn to creatives. Ever put yourself on the other side of the lens, Lucy?”

  Ugh. The sound of my name on his lips was wrong. Just wrong.

  “Not if I can help it, no.” It was true. I’d always hated being photographed, a shyness that had me only posting pics of my shoes, or the neck down, in my Aperture shots.

  “You should, sometime. In fact, I think you’d be a natural in front of the camera.”

  “Thank you, Viktor, but—”

  “Always so polite. So proper.”

  Another buzz of his phone broke the awkward conversation that seemed to be rolling down the hill like a runaway wagon without a wheel. “Yes,” he answered.

  Talena’s voice could be heard across the desk, as I directed my attention back toward the screen.

  “Call thirty-eight.” He paused. “Forty-six?” Another long pause. “Fifty?”

  I didn’t like the way the numbers were fast approaching mine and when his gaze locked with me, my stomach sank into oblivion.

  “I’ll call you back.” He hung up the phone and sat quiet for a moment, crossing his fingers. “Fifty-two—”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry. I just don’t—” Won’t strip.

  “Well, see. I’m in a pickle. One of my girls OD’d and spent the night in the ER. One is traveling the country, and another can’t get a fucking babysitter for her brat.” He licked his lips. “What do I pay you for these projects?”

  “Viktor—”

  “Please answer the question.”

  “One hundred. You pay me a hundred dollars.”

  “In a matter of thirty minutes. You could make five hundred tonight.”

  Five hundred? No way the girls made that much. By the time they paid out to the DJ, the bouncer, all house fees, they walked away with about two hundred, tops.

  “You’d be helping me out of a tough spot. I’d match whatever you make in cash. No house fees.”

  Holy shit. I could use the money. Five hundred bucks could make one hell of a week. From Ramen noodles to gourmet Chinese carryout. The girls would hate me if they knew he paid me that. Jolana would probably bitch me out, accuse me of fucking her man, or something insane. “That’s a nice offer, but—”

  “It’d be our secret. No one would know. I promise.” He steepled his fingers. “Look, I know you’re a student. Jolana told me that much.”

  The reminder that I wasn’t a student anymore had me cringing in my seat.

  “You’ve got your reputation. Your identity.” His tipped head in my periphery didn’t pull my eyes from where I intentionally kept them glued to the computer screen. “No one would know you behind the mask. You’d be completely anonymous.”

  Jolana had been trying to get me to strip for months. I was sure she’d love knowing I caved at her boyfriend’s request.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “How about a few lap dances. It’d be no different than grinding on some asshole at the club. Same deal applies. Whatever you make in tips, I’ll double.”

  Goddamn, I needed the money. Maybe I’d find something out about this Seventh Circle group. A guy had a tendency to talk when a girl bounced on his crotch—at least that was what Jolana often told me. I could stay low-key, since dress code included crazy ass black sphinx masks that all the staff wore, plus the shit ton of makeup, fake name and big blown out hair that’d make me damn near unrecognizable to the homely student picture, assuming the men who’d chased me had found it. We were all assigned contract numbers by the club IT, too, so a search would show nothing for my work history there. I was completely anonymous. “Just this once?”

  “Just this once.”

  I didn’t want to dance. I didn’t want to be at the club, at all. I wanted to tell Viktor that I had lady problems so he’d back off, and I could suffer the never-ending loop of having watched a body tossed into a hole by myself, but I’d spent most of the week worrying about rent.

  “I’ll do it.” My shoulders dropped, disappointed that I’d given in for money. My mother would’ve killed me, her only daughter. The one who was meant to go on and do great things with a shiny college degree and a well-paying job.

  That was the thing about family sometimes, though. When shit happened, it could send a person spiraling into the abysmal pit of lost dreams.

  “Fantastic. Talena will help you.” Viktor’s lips slid into a crooked grin, and he reached to shake my hand as he often did after our business transactions.

  I glanced down at a flash of ink on his wrist.

  The circle seven tattoo.

  Shit.

  7

  Jase

  From the window of the Camaro, I locked my attention on the stocky bastard strolling up to the club like he didn’t have a fucking care in the world. My blood spiked at the easy swagger and the subtle handshake he gave the bouncer as he slipped inside.

  I had a feeling I’d remember the asshole.

  Larry Peepshow McBryant.

  According to the file Roman had given me, he'd carried out a number of hits and often worked alongside members of the Seven Mile Crew. His nickname derived from his frequent flyer status at the strip clubs and an old peepshow on Gratiot. Most of the peepshows had closed down, save the ones that’d been grandfathered in before the zoning laws had passed in the early seventies. I’d gone to the one on Gratiot once, back when I was eighteen. I thought it cool, until some older guy
sat down beside me and whipped his dick out. Never went back again. Besides that, anyone could find that shit for free on the internet nowadays.

  The neon sign above the old Wayne Foundry Stamping company, a factory that’d been abandoned for years before it was renovated into a club, flashed ‘Sphinx’ alongside a curvy brunette with a tail and a cat mask.

  Black Betty sat at my hip, along with my Glock, hidden beneath my T-shirt and leather jacket. I kept my clothes relatively casual, trying to avoid the Terminator look and drawing attention to myself, and instead went for something more along the lines of suburban in a ball-cap, black T-shirt and dark jeans. Sliding out of the passenger seat, I pulled my cap low to conceal my eyes, as I made my way across the street to the entrance of the club.

  Not even a hand on the door handle, and the bouncer’s finger pressed into my chest, steeling my muscles.

  “Where d’you think you’re going asshole?” The guy had maybe fifty extra pounds on me and resembled the biker from The Village People, with his thick horseshoe mustache and leather coat.

  The tension pulled inside of me, so taut I was ready to snap, but his hand flipped, palm up, and my temper dissipated.

  I slid him a fifty, tamping down the urge to knock a fucking hole in his smug grin, as he tucked the money into his back pocket and opened the door for me.

  The dark belly of the building swallowed me in blackness, and I followed the sound of the beat, until a flash of light cut through the momentary blindness and a beam lit the entrance of the main floor, which was packed with mostly men.

  Women danced, slow and erotic, on the stage behind white screens. The flash of red looked like blood and tickled my senses, as their silhouettes swayed like shadows on the wall. Between the music and visuals, I slipped into sensory overload and nearly forgot what I’d gone there for.