Chapter 2
TWO
BUTCH
I should have kept my fucking mouth shut. Should have played nice just a little longer. I thought maybe I’d gotten far enough I could continue the investigation on my own, but now I keep fucking running into a brick wall every way I turn.
And I know why.
Because I was fucking right.
The chief, most of the force, the city government—they are all in the shit. Hell, the guy who mops the floors at the precinct could be part of what’s going on. It’s so far reaching, their network of evil touches everything in Memphis.
And now I’m screwed, because they all know I’m coming for them.
Pacing across the kitchen of my two-story just outside the city limits, I yank the coffee pot from the maker hard enough to slosh scalding hot liquid onto my hand.
Don’t care.
I’ve got way worse shit to worry about than a little bit of stinging skin. Like how am I gonna shut this fucking nightmare down when the sight of my face sends everyone scattering like cockroaches?
After pouring myself another cup of liquid as black as the souls of the men I’d enjoy hunting like the animals they are, I lean against the counter, pulling in a deep breath. I need to calm the fuck down. Rein in my anger instead of letting it control me. Flying off the handle isn’t going to work.
Not in this situation.
I continue taking deep breaths, pretending like I can find my Zen, or whatever that stupid new age shit is about.
It’s nothing I would have ever attempted before, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
And I will do whatever it takes to stop what’s happening. To find all the girls it’s happened to.
Because this shit is starting to hit a little close to home.
Picking up my phone, I dial the number I call more than any other. My niece picks up on the third ring, her voice laden with teen angst as she says, “Why are you calling me at six in the morning on a Saturday?”
I check the clock to make sure she’s not fucking with me, then wince when I see the time staring back at me. “Sorry, Al. I didn’t realize it was so early.”
I guess it wasn’t teen angst making her sound pissy after all.
“No shit.” She yawns. “You never know what time it is because you never fucking sleep.”
I can’t argue that. I do have something else I feel obligated to point out though. “Does your mother know you cuss like a fucking sailor?”
“Listen, Uncle Tony. You can either be cool or you can give me shit about cussing. You can’t do both.”
A smile threatens to work onto my lips. “I’m cool.”
“Sure you are.” Allie snorts. “Your mom thinks you're cool.”
“Your nan wouldn’t know cool if it smacked her in the face.” I’m a little more relaxed now that I’ve got confirmation my favorite person in the world is safe and sound in her bed. “What are you getting into today? You need a ride anywhere?”
Two months ago, a girl who went to the same high school as Allie went missing. She met her friends at the same coffee shop my niece loves to visit, telling them all about an older guy she was into. Claimed he was rich and successful and told her how mature she was for her age.
It was textbook grooming, and it worked. Because the girls she met were the last people to see her.
“I’m working.” Allie’s words are mumbled. “And if I go back to sleep now, I can get two more hours before I have to get up and get ready.”
“You want me to drop you off?” I take my niece everywhere I can. Make my connection to her known. Hopefully it’s enough to keep her safe while I figure out what the fuck’s going on. If it’s not…
I’m gonna have to get real good at disposing of bodies, real fast.
“Mom’s taking me. Thanks though.”
“Fine.” I wish I could explain to my sister what’s going on and why I’m being such a pain in the ass about Allie’s safety, but Miranda is high strung as hell. She wouldn’t sleep for a week. She’d probably make Allie quit her job. Possibly lock her in her room.
And then Al would kill me. She’s small, but that kid’s scrappy. I wouldn’t put murder past her. It’s part of what keeps me from losing my shit when she doesn’t answer her phone.
“I’ll call you later. Work hard, and remember to tell anyone who tries to kidnap you that I’ll hunt them down and cut off their eyelids.” It’s the same threat I’ve made since she was big enough to get the ‘stranger danger’ talk.
But it’s still just as fucking true.
Allie groans. “Oh my God, I know.” She huffs dramatically. “Now go to sleep, weirdo.” Her voice softens just a little. “Love you, jerkface.”
“Love you too, poopie pants.”
“You know if you ever call me that in front of a boy, I will kill you, right?” The edge is back in her voice and it makes me smile.
The kid is more like me than anyone wants to admit.
“I’d like to see you try.”
I’m not lying. I would. I’d love to see how feral that little girl can be. Might make me feel better.
The urge to smile lingers, even after she hangs up, and I feel lighter than I have since walking out of the precinct for the last time.
But only slightly. Because until the fuckers responsible for the missing girls across the state are caught and brought to justice—whatever that might look like—I won’t be able to rest.
And I fucking need to rest. Lack of sleep is already starting to catch up with me, making me irritable and grumpy.
Not great, since I was an asshole to begin with.
After polishing off the remainder of my coffee, I stalk through my house to the office set up in what most people would call a formal living room.
I moved into this place over a decade ago, and in that time have done jack shit outside of maintenance.
The wallpaper from the woman who lived here before still lines every room, making it look like a flower shop upchucked throughout the place.
The color coordinated carpet still runs wall-to-wall, softening my steps even if it mildly assaults my eyeballs.
Obviously it’s not painful enough to inspire me into renovating. It’s never been worth the hassle. Not while I worked the kind of hours I did. And for sure not when I’m facing a battle I can’t even figure out how to start.
I drop into the chair in front of my computer, waking it up so I can spend another fruitless day attempting to track down a lead. But when I open my email, the first subject line catches my eye.
Rumor has it you were recently put on leave.
What the fuck?
I don’t recognize the sender, so I quickly open the email, wondering who in the hell from the force is trying to start shit with me now.
Mr. Romero,
I’m interested in speaking to you about your recent experience with the Memphis PD. Feel free to call any time.
Pierce
I read the two-sentence message over again, sure there’s got to be something I’m missing.
Who the fuck is this Pierce guy? And why in the hell would he be interested in my experience with the Memphis PD?
I type the phone number he listed into the search bar, hoping it will help narrow down the possibilities. I don’t like going into shit unprepared, so there’s no fucking way I’m just dialing that number without collecting all the information I can.
The results pop up and I lean forward, not quite believing what I’m seeing.
Alaska? Why is some prick in Alaska emailing me to ask about my time with Memphis PD? Better yet, how the fuck does he know I was put on leave?
I continue clicking through the list of results, hoping for anything that can narrow the number’s origination down a little more. Maybe tie it to a more exact location or—better yet—give me this Pierce guy's last name so I can start digging into him with both hands.
The first page doesn’t give me anything, so when I reach the bottom, I navigate to the next one. When that list populates the screen, the first result at the top of the page makes my skin go cold.
You should call Pierce.
What. The actual. Fuck.
I know I shouldn’t, but I hover my mouse over the link and press the button, already pissed over what I’m going to see.
In front of me is what appears to be a normal website…
As long as you don’t read any of the words.
It’s filled with stock images of smiling people in office settings, their expressions plastered on and fucking ridiculous looking.
From the top of the page, three words stare back at me in big bold letters.
Hello, Anthony Morelli.
Again. What. The actual. Fuck.
The rest of the text is essentially an introduction to a company called Alaskan Security. They’re located—no shit—in Alaska, but are active worldwide, with divisions that focus on private security, business security, and whatever they consider miscellaneous.
I don’t understand what in the hell this has to do with me until I scroll down to the bottom of the page.
My eyes land on the only image that doesn’t seem to be some stock photo pulled from the Internet.
It’s a snapshot of what might have been a large factory at one point, but is now a sleek and modern compound.
The text below labels it as what I’m guessing is the connection I’m looking for.
Alaskan security—Nashville headquarters
I look over the page again, absorbing every bit of information they’ve given me. It’s not much, but it’s better than what I had.
However, it’s unnerving as hell that they went to this extreme to get in touch with me. Except, I can’t say I wouldn’t do the same thing if I found someone I thought would help me stop the shit that’s going on.
I’d like to take more time and do a little more research, but curiosity is gnawing at me. I want to find out what they know. If they're on my side.
Or if I’ve encountered one more entity working against me.
Reaching for my phone, I force my jaw to unclench in preparation for the conversation I’m about to have. There aren’t many people I find interesting enough to actually talk to, and I don’t have high hopes for Pierce. However, if he can help me, I’ll fucking fake politeness.
I’ll try, anyway.