Chapter 6 Kage
Kage
THE EXECUTIONER
The monitor in front of me glows in the dimly lit room, a blinking red dot creeping along the streets.
My little bird is driving to work. I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, watching as her car slows at an intersection before turning right, pulling into Pour Decisions, and parking near the front entrance.
Nox stands behind me, arms crossed, radiating with his usual impatience. “This is fucking stupid,” he mutters. “We have bigger shit to deal with. You shouldn't be holed up here wasting our time. We need to stay focused on our jobs and not on her.”
I ignore him. The tracker we planted on Wren's car last night as she was driving home was small and undetectable. It’s something we’ve used a dozen times before on targets, but never on someone like her.
She’s not a job. She’s something else entirely.
Of course I already knew where she lived from following her for so long.
Seeing the small restaurant confused me at first, until I realized she lived in the apartment upstairs.
But after that douchebag grabbed her last night, I wanted to make sure I had her exact location at all times.
Nox exhales sharply, pushing off the wall. “You’re not even being subtle about it.”
I glance over my shoulder. “And?”
His scowl deepens. “And, you’re acting like a fucking dumb ass.”
A slow smirk tugs at my lips. He’s annoyed, but it’s more than that. He's frustrated, and I know damn well it’s not just about me.
“So what? I’m just watching her,” I say evenly. “That’s all.”
His eyes narrow. “That’s not all, and you know it.”
I mean, I guess he’s right, but I don’t give a shit. We both work hard for the life that we have here, so I’m not fucking sure why he acts as if I spend all my time doing this shit. I do my part just as much as he does his. If I want to stalk my woman while I’m at it, who fucking cares.
I kind of understand where he’s coming from, though.
Nox and I have busted our asses over the years and the house around us is a testament to everything we’ve built.
It's sprawling, expensive, and designed specifically for comfort and control. The walls are lined with security monitors, displaying various angles of the property. The furniture is sleek and modern, all dark leather and glass, without a single hint of warmth. There’s a fully stocked bar, because Nox and I drink like it’s a fucking sport, and a long hallway that leads deeper into the house, where our bedrooms are.
Nox exhales through his nose, the sound short and sharp. “You keep watching her like this and it’s gonna turn into a problem.”
I finally lean back, forcing my gaze away from the monitor once I’m sure the little red dot will be staying in place.
“It’s been a problem for two weeks already.
” Glancing over in his direction, I see him standing there watching me, his scowl still deep as ever.
“And you’re acting as if we don’t track people for a living. ”
Walking over to the bar, he pours himself a neat glass of whiskey, and scoffs. “Not like this.”
The moment lingers, heavy and quiet, until my phone buzzes on the desk. Sighing, I check the screen. “Jimmy.”
He nods, walking back over to me. “Put him on speaker.”
Nox sits down opposite of me as I answer the phone. “Hey, Jimmy Crack Corn! Guess what? I still don’t care.”
Nox lets out a loud groan, “Not this shit again.” He always hates the nicknames and phrases I come up with. There’s been quite a few good ones over the years.
“I swear to god Kage, if you ever say some dumb shit like that again I’ll be cracking your skull.”
“Aw, Jim, don’t be like that. You gotta let loose a little, bud.What do you have for us?”
Jimmy’s voice comes through, all business now. “You boys busy tonight? I got a job for you. Needs to be done by midnight.”
I glance up at the clock. 7:42 p.m. Plenty of time.
Nox tilts his head, his mood shifting. “Who?”
I pause then, waiting for his answer.
“Name’s Frankie Lucero. He ran in the same circle as Castro.”
I straighten up, my jaw tightening as soon as I hear the name.
Knowing Lucero ran with Castro has me dreaming up the most delicious torture.
The moment these sick bastards have names, I start painting pictures of their brutal deaths in my mind, and what a pretty fucking picture it is.
The things I can do with a knife… It’s an art form, really, and we’ve both had quite the education.
“Tell me more.” Nox says, as he stands up, already beginning to prepare himself for the assignment.
I don’t really want to hear what they’ve done. The idea of anyone touching someone who didn’t asked to be fucking touched is enough for me to want to kill them. Nox, on the other hand, needs all the details.
Jimmy exhales. “Lucero is worse than I initially thought. He helped move girls. Arranged private ‘parties’ for high paying clients. Cleaned up messes when things got too out of hand. This man likes to get his hands dirty.”
My lip twitches in disgust as I stand, already grabbing my jacket. “Where?”
“The Dollhouse, off Fifth and Main. I already checked on security. It’s moderate, just a couple of bouncers. Nothing the two of you can’t handle. And boys,” he pauses. “Don’t let that fucker get away.”
I grin. “He won’t, Jimbone. They never do.”
The call ends and Nox meets my eyes, his previous irritation replaced with something sharper and more focused.
Six months ago, Jimmy caught wind of one of the biggest pedophile rings we’ve ever had the misfortune of stumbling upon.
Ever since then, Nox and I have been working relentlessly to dismantle it, piece by vile piece.
Jimmy’s been right there by our side, the unwavering force that drives us.
I don’t think the bastard ever sleeps. He calls at ungodly hours, always with a new list of names and locations.
We always answer.
Turns out when you set the nest ablaze, the rats will always scurry. Their problem is, they just aren’t fast enough.
Turns out, this isn't some back alley operation. It’s a fucking empire.
Nox and I have taken down rings before, but none of them have ever been like this.
There’s layers when it comes to these circles and this one seems to be the most structured.
Castro and Lucero are at the bottom of the totem pole, nothing but a bunch of fall guys, or what we like to call them, Masks.
The Masks are the face of the public, the cover ups and sacrificial lambs of their disgusting cause.
Their only job is to take the blame while the rest of the machine is able to keep the gears in motion.
Easy to find, quick to dispose of, and always replaceable.
There’s always men out there like Castro and Lucero who are willing to do whatever it takes to become a more important part of the machine. Even to their demise.
Then you have the clean up crew, also known as The Sweepers. The ones we’ve come across have all been ex-military and corrupt cops, but these guys can be anything. Congressmen, lawyers, computer nerds—people that can make things disappear with a flick of their wrist.
The Hounds are the real sick fucks. They’re the ones in charge of finding the kids and transporting them out to different locations.
These predators are most likely coaches, teachers, doctors.
Sometimes the people you would trust the most to keep your kids safe are the ones planning to groom them.
Hiding in plain sight, they know exactly how to execute an extraction without setting off warning bells.
And at the very top of The Order is someone they call The Wraith.
Nobody knows who he is, Jimmy hasn't been able to scrounge up a name or face yet. Right now he’s just a shadow pulling all the strings like a marionette.
Every trail we find leads us back to him and then vanishes.
This is who Jimmy spends most of his time trying to hunt down, going through every database he can find.
If we find the Wraith, we can dismantle the entire operation.
Until then, we’ll keep cutting through the ranks, one name at a time. Frankie Lucero is just another cog in the machine. A pig playing soldier in a war he knows nothing about. He thinks tonight is just like any other night, drinks, drugs, and blood money.
But tonight’s the night the devils collect another damned soul.
I grab my keys and check the monitors one last time. Wren is still at work; I shouldn’t have to worry about my little bird tonight. I can check on her later.
Tonight's the night Frankie Lucero takes his last breath.
The air inside The Dollhouse is thick and suffocating.
It reeks of sweat, perfume, alcohol, and something rotten underneath it all.
It’s the kind of place that looks flashy under all the dim lighting, but once the lights are turned on, you see the filth that’s hiding in plain sight.
The bass of the sultry music pulses through the floors, rattling in my ribs, but it’s the laughter that sends a chill up my spine the most. The kind that's clearly forced and dripping with discomfort. It leads us straight to him.
Frankie Lucero is sprawled out in a corner booth, drowning in cheap velvet cushions and straight delusions.
He’s dressed as if he actually gives a shit.
Expensive suit, gold watch flashing under the dim club lights, but there’s no hiding what he really is.
A bloated pig, reeking of sweat and cigar smoke, slouched back as though the whole fucking place exists for his entertainment.
In his lap is a dancer. She couldn’t be older than twenty; tiny, barely filling out the lace lingerie they put her in. Her arms are stiff at her sides as Frankie runs his hand up her thigh, his fingers digging hard into her flesh. She flinches, he grins.
Sick fucking bastard. How does he even get enjoyment out of this?