Chapter 7
Heathen
"I need to apologize to you," Rooster says the second I step into the kitchen.
I rub the backs of my hands over tired eyes, a yawn escaping before I can ask him why.
"Really?" I ask. "Do you make apologies often?"
I say it as a joke as I walk toward the coffee pot, wondering when I got old enough to need caffeine before functioning correctly in the mornings.
It wasn't a handful of years ago that I could party all damn day and all night, and pop up out of bed, ready to go again after a brief two-hour nap. These days it seems like I need a day to recover from a tiring day. I didn't do anything yesterday other than the flight here and grocery shopping. I think maybe Cerberus made a mistake in hiring me. I'm probably better suited for an office job, something with a nine-to-five schedule and holidays off than covert ops and dangerous missions.
"It doesn't happen often at all," he says, a seriousness to his tone that makes me turn to face him, instantly awake. "That woman you asked me about last night? You may be on to something."
I freeze. "What do you mean?"
"I looked up that address in the industrial park, and it's registered to A-1 Janitorial."
"A cleaning service? So they have women dressing up in kinky maid costumes and—"
"They do large jobs like casinos and massive offices. I didn't see anything about maid costumes, man."
"Doesn't sound too nefarious," I say, turning back to the coffee pot, grateful he was up before me to get it going. I don't know if I could handle waiting for it to brew.
He sets his coffee cup down on the counter. "I searched the dark web, and word in certain circles is that they're running a mail-order bride-type business out of there."
This information fully catches my attention. "Really?"
"You know the story. Men who have too much money who can't get a woman the old-fashion way pay to buy one. The men usually align with that involuntarily celibate group of white heterosexual males that blame everyone else for their inability to get laid. The women are usually from a foreign country and are promised citizenship in exchange for marriage."
"A lot of that shit ends up with very abusive outcomes, and a lot of those women are never seen again."
"Exactly," he says. "So that's why I owe you the apology. I gave you shit for thinking it was your ego that was suspecting something was wrong when, in reality, that girl might be in a bad situation."
"She's American," I argue. "What did you find out about the car and the house?"
"The car is in her name. The house is a rental. Diving deep into that person's background, I don't think they have any link to the janitorial service. I can't tell you why she'd be driving by there at night, but maybe you can go to the store and ask?"
"Just ask?" I scoff. "I'll have to explain that I was being a creep and followed her all over the place last night. She'll call the cops on me."
"I'm monitoring 911 and non-emergency traffic through the dispatchers already. If she calls, I can easily have it forwarded to my contact with the Vegas police department." He shrugs. "No big deal. It's all in here."
I look down at the folder he hands me, opening it up to find a lot more detail on the situation than I ever expected.
"I'll hold off on alerting New Mexico about it until we know we might have an actual case. I can tell you that the direction is going to be to stand down until at least the guy from Tennessee gets here and can go over everything."
"That won't be until next week," I mutter, flipping through the paperwork, my eyes landing on her information sheet.
Kaylee Renee Rhodes, twenty-six. A former resident of Midlothian, Texas. Las Vegas resident for two years and four months .
"It'll be here before you know it," he says. "Don't get into trouble with that."
"Thanks, man," I tell him as he leaves the kitchen.
I feel like I'm holding a ticking time bomb. All of me feels like I should do something while there's that hint of a whisper that says I need to do things the way Cerberus expects me to do them. There's a reason for every direction we've been given, and I know Kincaid and the men under him have decades of experience. I also know I won't be able to just sit on this information. The whispers will grow until they're a roar in my ears and impossible to ignore.
After making myself a steamy cup of coffee, I continue to flip through the information Rooster gave me, committing it all to memory, unsure which bits and pieces I'll need if I decide to look deeper into this situation.
One cup of coffee turns into two as I read the dossier on the men who are known to be connected to this sort-of mail-order-bride organization.
Edmon Vasilev, the big bastard that he is, came to the United States fifteen years ago and has been an employee of the janitorial service the entire time. He pays his taxes and was prompt in taking care of the one traffic citation he got nine years ago.
Dima Tkachenko is a first-generation Russian American, born to immigrant parents who started out on the East Coast and moved to Nevada when he was in middle school. His father started the janitorial service shortly after moving, and he took it over after his father's death eight years ago. Rumors of the shift in business practices didn't start until after Dima took the helm. He's been listed as a witness on more than a hundred marriage licenses in the state of Nevada which should raise a million red flags if there was anyone watching for such a thing.
"What a way to honor your father's legacy," I mutter.
I make note of all the information on the man, including the places he's known to frequent. Rooster was very fucking thorough and so detailed that I know this man likes to eat Philly cheesesteaks, but only from one of the restaurants in the MGM.
I close the folder after drinking the last of my coffee, wondering what I should do with all this information. I can stand here and try to convince myself that I'll just sit on it, but I've never been one to lie to myself.
I rinse out my coffee cup and put it in the dishwasher before heading back upstairs.
I did forget a few things on my grocery list, and there's no harm in running by the store to grab them. If I see Kaylee, maybe the subject of why she's creeping around such a place will come up in conversation.
I huff a humorless laugh as I climb the stairs, knowing the woman didn't want to speak to me at all the last time I was there. There's very little chance she'll want to today either, but it never hurts to try.
***
Her driveway is void of her car when I drive by there first, so I head to the store, making note of the other vehicles in the small parking lot. Her car isn't here either, so I don't waste a second and pull back out onto the street.
There are a lot of reasons why she isn't home or at work. People often frequent more than one place, but there's a hint of something inside of me that warns that something isn't right. I've learned to always listen to that voice. It hasn't steered me wrong yet, although as I make my way toward the industrial park, I pray that it's wrong this time.
Nothing seems out of place as I drive closer to the building she slowed by last night. The camera above the door isn't surprising. There isn't a keyhole to look through in the door, so the people inside would need some way to see who might be on the other side before opening it, but it does happen to be the only visible camera on the long expanse of the building.
I look around, high and low for others, but technology has gotten so advanced that the tiniest of cameras would be impossible to see even though I'm looking for them.
I park the SUV right next to a car covered with a tarp, immediately bending between the two vehicles as if I need to tie my shoes. My gut sinks when I see the faded gold paint of Kaylee's car.
"Damnit, woman," I mutter. "What have you gotten yourself into?"
I stand, taking another look around, the argument in my head loud and impossible to fully ignore.
I was told not to do anything right away, and going straight from the house to here is the exact opposite of that, but there's no telling what she could be suffering inside.
My head fills with only a fraction of what I've seen working jobs with Cerberus, and it's enough to get my feet moving toward the massive door with the camera angled toward it.
I step up, not bothering to knock, because I know without a doubt that they clocked me the second I got within range of the building.
I stand, a look of annoyance on my face, as I glance up at the camera.
I stand there for a full minute before there's the buzz and crackle of an intercom.
"What do you want?" a disembodied voice says with a very heavy accent.
"I'm looking for love."
"You go look some other place," the voice demands. "No love here."
"I'm told that Dima knows exactly where to find love," I challenge.
Silence swarms around me, and as uncomfortable as I am, I stand completely still, lowering my eyes to the door as if I know my words are enough to get them to open it up. Sure enough, a minute later, the door swings open. I gauged the depth of the door correctly, and I count my lucky stars it doesn't hit me in the face when it sweeps open mere inches from my nose.
"You look like a man who can find love all on his own," a man says when he steps out of the shadows.
"I need love that knows her place," I argue. "Think you can help me with that?"
"Probably not." He huffs.
"Maybe this will help," I say, noting the way his hand twitches toward his side when I reach for my wallet.
He's definitely armed, and I left my gun in the SUV because I was certain if I made it inside, they'd pat me down.
I give him a smile, telling him I know he's more than just a guy who organizes cleaning services, as I pull my credit card from my wallet.
The gold metal flashes in the sun, and Edmon's face transforms.
"That always helps. Please, sir, come in."
The big burly motherfucker steps to the side, sweeping his arm toward the mouth of the hallway.
The second he closes the door and steps in behind me, I lift my arms, credit card pinched between two fingers, and just as I suspected he would, he pats me down.
"You cannot take pictures of the women," he says when he pulls my phone from my pocket before handing it back to me. "But if no one is to your liking, we have other groups that cycle in twice a day. I can guarantee you'll find the woman of your dreams today. Follow me."
"I was hoping to speak with Dima," I say, as I follow him down the hallway and to the left.
"He's not available," Edmon says succinctly, as if it's part of the company line.
I guess making yourself available during an illegal transaction isn't the best for the man in charge.
"If you wait right here, I'll have the first group of women come out."
I take a seat on the leather couch that he points to, making note of the small circles on the floor not ten feet in front of it. My guess is that this is where the women know to line up, and I suddenly feel like I'm at a fucking cattle auction, only these men are dealing in women rather than animals.
I have no clue what I'll do if Kaylee isn't in any of the groups I may see come out today.