“I don’t know. You know what they say about truth being stranger than fiction.”
“Laurel...” Kader set his fork down. “...it may seem like your life has reached an all-time low. I could be the one to make you think that way, but remember, if that’s true it means there’s only one way to go.”
“This morning, I wasn’t complaining about my new role.”
“It didn’t sound like complaints,” he said, lifting his fork.
For a moment, we ate in silence. While I was content to let my thoughts linger on everything that had happened this morning—his gift allowing me to see his arms and the amazing sex that occurred after—I knew it was time to face more facts.
“You could help me review surveillance footage,” Kader offered. “I’m trying to track Cartwright’s whereabouts over the last month in conjunction with Ms. Moore’s.”
“You said your footage doesn’t go back that far.”
“It doesn’t. That’s why I’ll use credit card receipts as well as hacking into other surveillance options. Last night, I hacked into the Indianapolis traffic cams. The university has a thorough system that monitors streets, sidewalks, as well as parking garages, and inside the buildings.”
Letting out a long breath, I turned to Kader. “I’ll do that if it will help. I’d like to spend some time working on the data from Russ’s and my flash drives. I think in some small way, it will give me peace of mind if I know the data is safe, even if it’s bait to be sold.”
“That reminds me, I’ll check on bids.”
“Okay.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“The little I’ve read about what you accomplished and the information you gave me for the posting...” He shook his head. “...I’m impressed.”
A flush of warmth covered my skin. “I used to think it would revolutionize the industry and help victims who have difficulty coping with the memories. I had high hopes.”
“It’s interesting that no one had gone this route or had these theories before you, and now you and Sinclair Pharmaceuticals are on the same path.”
“We’re ahead of them. We were. And as for being the first, that’s not exactly true.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was in graduate school,” I began, “there was a similar study by an independent company who offered, for lack of a better description, internships to graduate students at my university. I was never told the contractor’s name.” My nose scrunched. “They used a series of letters and numbers on the contract. The thing was that later after the study was suspended, the moniker they’d used no longer existed.”
“The company disappeared?”
I shrugged. “I couldn’t find anything.”
“Yet you were a part of it? You were involved?” Kader asked, seeming genuinely interested.
“I was a small part. Their study had gotten to the first clinical trials with a small sample size. It’s about how far we’ve gotten. It would have been helpful to see the data from that first study, but it was never published.”
He shook his head. “You said it was suspended?”
“It was weird. One day we were all working. My job was mostly crunching numbers and verifying conclusions with endless hours spent documenting refereed-source citations, nothing glamorous. Anyway, the facility was just shut down. No warning.”
“Was it in Indiana at the university?”
“No. I don’t know where we were. We were never told, only that it was classified.”
“And the university sanctioned this?”
I shrugged. “They did.”
“Did you apply what you learned there to your own research?”
“Not consciously, but I believe possibly. Maybe working on that other project for even a brief time bolstered my curiosity that such a compound could exist.”
Kader reached for my empty plate as he stood. “Your laptop is in the dining room. You can bring it to the office.”
“I think I’ll stay in there. The view is beautiful and I work best in quiet.”
“If you need the internet, let me know.”
Before leaving the kitchen, I walked to Kader. With only a shy grin, I reached for his hands and pushed up one sleeve and then the other. Though he didn’t speak, his body stiffened under my touch.
“Laurel.”
“You’re going to the office. I won’t even be there. This is your house; you should be comfortable.”
“What if I told you that this...” He lifted his arms. “...doesn’t make me comfortable. It’s the opposite.”
“If you told me that, I’d ask why?”
“Then, fuck, I won’t tell you.” He reached for the sleeve.
My hand covered his. “I’m not analyzing.”
“Bullshit.”
A smile came to my lips. “I’m telling you that your allowing me to see more of who you are makes me more comfortable.”
With that, I left him in the kitchen and found my way to his dining room. The table in the kitchen sat eight. This one had chairs for twelve.
Situating myself at one end, I opened a notebook Kader had provided as I brought the laptop to life. I’d uploaded the data yesterday. Today I wanted to begin to go through it, take notes, and cite any findings I could recall.
Four-plus hours later, I looked down at the pages of handwritten notes. Russ liked to refer to my handwriting as chicken scratch. He used to say that if I wrote out all of our findings, they would remain classified in plain sight.
The bittersweet memory was even more tainted than it had been from his death.
It was silly for me to be upset that he was involved with someone else. We weren’t exclusive. That didn’t stop the ache in my chest that came from the discovery that it was Stephanie.
Was I a joke?
The recent memory of her shopping with me for my clothes for the gathering came back. Stephanie was my assistant, but over the few years I’d also considered her my friend. Another thought came to mind: her periodic self-deprecating comments. Even as recently as at the gathering, she’d mentioned leaving the neurotransmitters to me while she took care of fashion and wine holding.
Was she jealous of what we’d accomplished, and that Russ and I were the faces Dr. Olsen wanted to put with the research and development?
“Laurel?”
Kader’s voice startled me back to reality.
“Yes. Have you found something?”
Mason
Over seven years ago on the streets of Chicago
* * *
Currently, Patrick and Reid were monitoring the McFadden gathering in East Garfield Park, accessing what information they could from the man we had planted inside. Pushback from the McFadden organization was something we’d expected. Rubio McFadden saw Allister Sparrow’s death as an opportunity to take control of the entire city of Chicago. Truth be told, if McFadden had been the one found with his skull crushed from an accidental fall off a fifty-foot-high beam at a construction site, the Sparrows—Allister or Sterling—would test the same opportunity.
That’s why we planned Allister’s demise for years, why we’d created our headquarters—our command center—and why we’d vetted new blood while unbeknownst to them, vetting old blood. Everything was checked and double-checked. The only unknown variable was the information in Allister’s home office. Now that we had that, we had names.
Those names weren’t limited to the customers, smugglers, and dealers involved in the human trafficking of children. We also had the names of those who were paid handsomely to turn the other cheek: law enforcement, government officials, and judges on all levels of the court. Essentially, we could bring every one of those scumbags—those willing to profit from the suffering of others—to their knees. However, in doing so, we would also bring the Sparrow organization into the limelight.
This was a marathon, not a sprint.
The exploitation would end.
Sparrow would survive.
The four of us had worked long a
nd hard.
The victims we found would be offered help.
The people in the Sparrow organization who balked about the closed-for-business sign were being dealt with. Anyone else who made waves had been or would be reminded of the incriminating evidence we possessed. These individuals had choices: reevaluate their position, go quietly, or be gone.
All options had been utilized over the last weeks.
A few days after Allister’s funeral, Sparrow met with McFadden. The meeting wasn’t arranged so that McFadden could offer his condolences—he’d done that with splendid fanfare at the funeral. The meeting was set by McFadden with the intention that he’d make Sparrow an offer: the new Sparrow organization could retain the same infrastructure his father’s organization had possessed, and if Sparrow was hell-bent on ending his family’s part in the trafficking, then Sterling was to hand over the Sparrow portion of the dealings to McFadden. McFadden claimed the new arrangement would keep the customers and suppliers happy while allowing Sterling to wash his hands of any involvement.
Sparrow politely listened to the old man’s offer and replied with a counteroffer. The Sparrow organization would retain the previous infrastructure with new oversight including new capos already in place. Sparrow’s dealings with trafficking and exploitation would end, and he’d make it his mission to bring down all trafficking of children in the greater Chicago area.
It sounded like a threat.
It was meant to be one.
To say that McFadden was surprised or maybe even shocked by the younger Sparrow’s prowess and understanding of this underground world would be an understatement.
Words meant nothing without action.
That was why we were now fighting this war on multiple fronts.
We weren’t only battling with all ends of the supply chain Allister had used but also with McFadden’s organization, bottom-feeders trying to assert themselves, and a handful of defiant old Sparrows. The latter was lessening. One dead king and a dead consigliere had a way of silencing others.
The only effective way to take down an enemy, even family, was to cut off its head.
Allister Sparrow and Rudy Carlson had been the head.
Our new Sparrow organization had four heads.
We weren’t going anywhere.
Currently, Sparrow and I were in the back seat of a reinforced SUV on our way to an abandoned dry shipyard. A shipment of five females had arrived this evening. As Patrick had said, the capo who had been sent to deal with the situation had gone radio silent.
That meant he’d either gotten scared and bolted, or the more likely scenario was that we’d find his body dissolving in a drum of acid.
According to the coded manifest, the females ranged in age from nine to twelve years old. The smuggler wanted payment tonight and threatened that if he didn’t receive it, he’d find other buyers.
“This could be a trap,” I said, my gut twisting with the possibility.
“I know,” Sparrow said. “They’ll see us coming. But we’re ready. They won’t see the ten other men we have there.”
I shook my head. “Stay in the car, Sparrow. Your face is currently seconding as a target for half the city. They take you down, all that we’ve done and what we will do will be lost. Fuck, the three of us know what to do and how to do it, but those others...” I tilted my chin toward the capo driving. “...they’re risking their lives and securing control for you, for your name.”
“And you think I should pussy out and hide in the sky?”
“It’s not fucking pussying out,” I growled under my breath, keeping our conversation away from the ears in the front seat. “It’s being responsible. It’s keeping the king safe. That’s our job, not just the three of us—the hundreds of others out on the street. Don’t risk it by walking into a trap. They know your weakness.”
Sparrow’s dark glare came through narrowing eyes. “Walk fucking carefully, Mason. I’m already pissed.”
“I’m saying what others won’t.”
“There’s a reason they don’t. They want to live to see tomorrow.”
“That’s what we want you to do—see tomorrow. This...” I motioned forward. “...the kids, that’s your weakness. Your father would have said fuck it and let them be sold off to someone else if he even smelled a trap.”
“I’m not my father.”
My jaw strained as I forced myself to stay quiet. There was another way to win this argument.
The reality was that Sparrow and I battled; it had been that way since the day we first met. I was one of the few people who could and would reason with him. I could talk. I couldn’t make him listen or heed my advice.
The tension within the vehicle built as the SUV’s tires bounced over uneven pavement. We weren’t going to a busy hub with cranes unloading cargo containers twenty-four-seven under bright lights. This dry dock off the Calumet River hadn’t been active in over a decade. The scattered cargo containers were more shelters for the homeless than usable.
Everything about this pickup screamed setup.
“How many recorded pickups did we find occurring in this abandoned hellhole?” I asked.
“None,” Sparrow admitted. “The supplier, he’s legit. He’s been used many times and should have gotten our message that the ring has been closed for business. After tonight, he’ll understand that when I say we’re done, we’re done.”
The vast emptiness of the lot steadied my nerves a bit.
The car we were in came to a stop a few hundred feet from a seemingly abandoned brick building. The windows were broken, but the bars covering the openings were still intact. More than likely, at one time it had held the foremen’s offices.
I scanned higher, looking for shooters. Still within the car, I narrowed my gaze. Having the ability—which I had—to fire a kill shot from over two thousand meters meant someone else could do the same.
“It’s too fucking dark,” I said. “I don’t see anyone. Where are our Sparrows?”
Sparrow was looking at the screen of his phone. “They’re here. I’m picking up their signals.”
“I don’t see them.”
“You’re not supposed to.”
I shook my head. “If I can’t see them, then I might not be seeing others.”
“Fuck,” Sparrow said louder than before. “Look.”
He shoved his phone my direction.
The picture on the screen turned my stomach. Five girls were huddled together on a filthy concrete floor, their hair stringy and visible stages of bruising on their faces and arms. Thankfully, they were clothed. Yet the clothes they wore could be better described as rags. Each one looked malnourished.
“We’re paying,” Sparrow said.
“The cash is in the bag in the back,” I said. “I agree with you. If the seller doesn’t get the money from you, he won’t stop until he finds another buyer.”
“Probably someone from McFadden,” Sparrow said. “The seller wants them unloaded tonight.”
“Tell him we’ll take the merchandise and to bring them out,” I said.
The network transmitting the messages was highly encrypted, causing a delay from time sent to received. Sparrow typed out his message.
“I’ll give him the money,” I went on. “After the exchange, get another Sparrow to transport the girls to the clinic. Dr. Dixon will check them out.”
The clinic was makeshift and poorly staffed. Our doctor was dedicated and capable. It was that once this was done, it would be complete. We saw no reason to put more resources into it.
“This is my operation,” Sparrow said. “I’ll hand off the cash and make it clear we’re done.”
I reached for the handle of the door. “It is your operation, boss.” I opened the door. “And it’s going to stay that way.” As I stood, I turned slowly, searching the darkness.
From the depths of the brick building came the muted echo of a child’s cry. My neck straightened as I tugged downward on the Kevlar beneath my suit. I hated wearing
it, especially as the temperatures rose in the Chicago summer. However, my time in a war that others recognized—unlike the one occurring now—taught me about safety and precautions.
Closing the door, I said a silent prayer that Sparrow would listen to me.
As I opened the back of the SUV, he turned my way. “His message is to come inside. I’m going with you.”
I swung the strap of the duffel bag over my shoulder and removed my gun from the holster beneath my suit jacket. “Give me five. If I’m not out, send in every fucking Sparrow in the area.”
I didn’t wait for a response as I closed the back hatch.
It was the girl’s cries that led me toward the old metal door.
With my gun drawn, I pushed the door inward and peered around the darkness. My only clue was the sound of crying. The old brick walls and rotting interior caused the sound to echo, making the direction from which it was coming difficult to assess. Removing the penlight from my pocket, I projected a beam of light.
One step, maybe two.
I strained to listen.
Twisting to my left, the crying grew louder.
Another step.
My ears filled with explosion before my mind had time to register.
Fire erupted, shrapnel and bricks falling as the building’s structure gave way. The flames burst out, consuming every flammable thing in their path. The crackling was the backdrop as more explosions echoed in the smoke-filled air.
Screaming and shouts.
Sparrow appeared through the flames.
Get out.
The thought came but words wouldn’t form.
The world moved as he dragged me through the debris. In the distance, more voices tried to break through the chaos. Their words were lost to the echo of the explosion.
As the smoke-filled night sky came into view, like the lion before a movie, Sparrow’s voice roared. “Fuck. Get him to the hospital now.” He continued to yell, but like everything else, his meaning was lost to the flames.
Lights and pain.
Doctors and police.
Where were the girls?
It was my last thought.
Obsessed Page 18
