Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
An insistent vibration nudges my attention in my pocket like a warning.
As we stop at an intersection, I fish my phone out.
Ice slides through my veins.
I tap out a quick message to the rescue crew, add the coordinates at the end and hit send.
Be in position. Van Ready.
We know about one victim, but it’s never just one.
Every job we take on is structured to erase itself.
The vehicles that we use are always fitted with counterfeit plates. We take new routes to ensure that if anyone starts asking questions afterwards, the trail dies with the job.
We always choose the drop site ahead of time.
Clothes get stripped, bagged, and tossed into the car with anything that could tie back to us. Then the whole thing goes up in flames. Fire eradicates everything while our cleaner handles the rest.
No name. No face. Just results, and the results we need come with a substantial price.
I found our cleaner in the dark corners of the web, and I pay more than the job costs to keep it strictly business and anonymous.
More than anything, I want to go after my brothers in Alpha Chi.
Not the newly initiated ones, the ones more intertwined with the brotherhood that believe they are untouchable.
The ones ingrained in human trafficking and are moving ‘product’ across state lines and even borders.
The ones who treat people like inventory, and they are nothing more than something that affects their income statement.
I know their names.
I’ve seen their threads.
I’ve lived inside their plans, their trades, and their arrogance.
And I’ve memorized more than they would ever be comfortable with.
But now is not the time to make a move.
You don’t start dismantling something that big without someone noticing the pattern. Bodies stack, and connections get made, then the hunt for the person responsible takes shape.
Right now, Cassidy and I are ghosts, and I intend to keep it that way.
No consistency to the way we do things, no signature, no trace or anything that can tie us to the next job.
The people we’re hunting aren’t victims, they are the reason there are victims.
Meanwhile, I keep a close eye on the big players back in Florida. Their forums are a cesspool that is tiered, enciphered, and incessantly relocating. I’ve only figured out where to look and how to decipher their codes, as they dissolve instantaneously.
I’ve invested hundreds of hours into mapping it out. Their usernames will materialize under different aliases. IP arrangements that lapse for half a second too long, and deals that repeat the same structure but include the same people.
The extra steps they make have allowed them to form a false sense of security, believing they have designed an impregnable business that can’t be taken down.
The photos and videos are the worst part, proof of what they do, and they archive them like trophies.
I shove my humanity to the back of my mind to go through all of it. Frame by frame. Not because I want to, but because eventually something is always overlooked. A reflection, a location marker, or a detail someone didn’t think mattered.
That’s how we stay ahead.
When Cassidy is ready to go to Florida and start going down her list, we won’t be guessing, and I’ll know what lies on the other side of those doors.
What we are doing right now, taking down the traffickers here, serves a purpose beyond revenge.
It stabilizes her.
This gives her something tangible to focus on instead of letting everything spiral, and her inner demons consume her.
I’m continuously monitoring her, the traffickers keep changing and Cassidy keeps adapting.
All they did was rebuild her, and now she’s coming for them.
Every time one of these men is taken off the board, it’s not just a win; it’s progress to the ones who are the final target, the endgame.
Tonight’s car is a champagne-colored Camry. It’s about five years old. The windows are tinted dark enough to obscure but not enough to draw attention.
Forgettable.
Nothing ever gets reused, so it can never be linked back to us. Loose ends become leads, and leads get people caught.
Cassidy is silent on the drive to jackinthebox149’s house.
She’s not distant, she’s concentrating. Her eyes don’t stop moving, absorbing everything in sight: the landscape, houses, sidewalks, passing cars. Her hand comes up, and her teeth catch on a hangnail, completely unaware she’s doing it.
It’s her tell.
I know she’s running through outcomes. Best case, worst case, and every link in the chain.
I never interrupt it. It's her process and it keeps her alive.
Typically, we run surveillance for weeks before we touch a potential target.
We dive into their life and monitor their schedules first, and identify any kind of blind spots, wherever they may be.
But tonight is different, she needs it.
Unpredictable situations require faster adaptation than anything else we could stage.
We stay put in the car for just over two hours, establishing a baseline before making a move.
Lights turning on and off inside with no visible movement outside, and no additional vehicles entering the driveway or unexpected traffic in this area.
I’m parked across the street, angled to give us a direct line of sight without looking suspicious. There are no trees blocking the view and no streetlights reflecting off the windshield.
From here, I can clock the front door, two large windows, and part of the side yard.
Mentally outlining the area.
The house seems relatively normal, and that’s the lie.
It’s meant to be the kind of place no one would look twice at.
Another advantage, these monsters survive by acting harmless.
Men like this blend in. They rely on routine. On neighbors who mind their own business and the assumption that no one is paying attention.
But I am.
We’re in the suburbs, and this neighborhood is one of the wealthier ones, with bigger lots, detached guest houses, and the added space between homes offers plenty of privacy.
I inspect the other houses and see a child’s bike casually lying in the grass at one house and toys in the driveway of another.
Families are inside with their lights off and doors locked.
They think it shields them. It doesn’t. You don’t know your neighbors. You don’t know what they do or what they are capable of when the doors close. In some cases, like my own, even blood isn’t what it seems.
I recognize the rescue crew van parked a few houses down on the other side of the street, turned off. Good.
I rake over us, black tactical gear molded to our bodies like a second skin, no excess.
I’m armed with two Glocks, suppressors already fitted, one in my waistband and one in my chest holster in my vest. I also carry a blade, but it’s not my preferred weapon.
Cassidy’s blades are strapped near her vest, positioned just right for an easy pull.
I offer her the infrared binoculars without a word.
She lifts them to her eyes in one smooth motion, her elbows tucked in.
She sweeps the property in methodical passes so that nothing is missed.
“One body,” she reports. “Stationary. Office, maybe. No visual on the guest house.”
I pinpoint the target, staring at the wall that conceals him, and huff a laugh under my breath. Let him have it, these last few minutes of ignorance.
Time stretches as the monotony of surveillance settles in.
“I’m ready when you are, Little Reaper,” I propose, winking at her.
She brings the binoculars to her lap, tilting her head in my direction since I called her by her code name, “I’m taking the lead, Ghost.”
A smirk tugs at my mouth before I can stop it at her using mine. “When don’t you?”
She scoffs, though the usual bite is missing.
A chuckle works its way out of my throat as I prop my elbow on the console and edge close enough for my lips to skim her jawline, while the words come out in a husky rasp, “And I’d follow that sweet ass of yours anywhere.”
My cock jumps as I savor the effect I have on her as her chest rises and falls rapidly.
“Burning building, no questions asked.” Then I press my nose against the side of her head and inhale deeply, “Careful, I might enjoy this too much.”
I slink back in my seat watching lust ignite in her eyes,
“That’s the point,” she breathes.
Then she refocuses, the coyness in her eyes gone, replaced with cold indifference.
It’s time.
“Let’s go,” she proclaims. “Time to cleanse the Earth of this piece of shit.”
I insert my earpiece and hold hers out to her.
“After you.”
She turns her hand over, palm open, and I drop it in.
She fits it into place and then opens the car door cautiously, and she’s out.
Her head moves first, left then right, clearing the area.
I mirror her on my side, easing my door open and stepping out, keeping a firm grip on it as I guide it shut to ensure the overhead light goes off.
Darkness folds back over the car.
We drop low immediately, bodies instinctively sinking into disciplined movement as we cross the yard.
Every step is calculated.
Closing in on the house, Cassidy veers right automatically, and I drift left, our movements splitting neatly, practiced.
As she passes me, her voice floats by my ear, “Meet you at the graveyard.”
It settles in my chest the same way it always does. Our thing.
If this goes sideways or one of us doesn’t make it.
“I’ll be there,” I promise.
She glimpses at me one last time over her shoulder, a grin forming on her face full of mischief, violence, and something more vulnerable beneath the armor.
Everything we don’t say.
I grin back at her.
Then she’s gone.
Breaking into a house without being noticed isn’t a skill anymore; it’s natural from hours of Leo hounding it into us, studying YouTube videos and practicing on kits.
I circle to the side, spotting the side door adjoining the garage, and test the handle.
Locked.
Not a surprise, and it’s what I predicted.
I drop to a crouch, already assembling the tools from my vest. The metal feels polished and cool between my fingers as I place them into the lock cylinder.
Tension followed by pressure, then release, click.
The lock gives effortlessly, and I pause listening for anything on the other side.