Chapter 9
Ajori
Idrove with the windows up, one hand on the wheel, the other in my lap. My GPS counted down the blocks like a heartbeat.
The road curved past a line of shuttered storefronts before opening into a small industrial strip—auto shops, a tire warehouse, and a couple of unmarked buildings with tinted windows. The address matched one of the latter.
I slowed my car as I pulled into the lot, my headlights sweeping across a building that looked more abandoned than operational.
The building wasn’t falling apart or anything, but it definitely gave the kind of vibe where people either made a lot of money…
or disappeared. Seriously, nothing about that place screamed legitimate employment.
There was no sign or name on the building; just a black-painted front and a single security light over the door.
There were only a few other cars—all black, all spotless.
The kind seen in rap videos or behind velvet ropes at a club.
I checked the address again on my phone.
Yup… this is the right address.
I cut the engine and sat there for a moment, staring. My hands were sweating against the steering wheel.
“What the hell am I doing?” I muttered under my breath.
My fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel.
“You still got time to turn around, Ajori,” I tried convincing myself.
For a second, I actually considered driving off.
Forget the card.
Forget Marcos.
Forget the whole crazy idea.
But then Kyrin’s face popped into my head.
You’re doing this for Kyrin.
And that thought alone was enough to keep me parked.
I grabbed my phone and pulled up Marcos’s number to send him a text.
Me: I’m outside.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Marcos: Come inside.
I took a deep breath. “Well… here goes nothing.”
But before I stepped out, I pulled up Lainey’s thread and sent her my location and a text.
Me: I’m here.
Lainey: Okay. Remember: pics, address, location ON, and if I don’t hear from you in 2 hours, I’m calling your mama… AND the news! Don’t argue with me!
Me: ?? You’re ridiculous. Lol.
Lainey: I’m alive… you’re alive… we can laugh later! Now go make that money… don’t let it make you! I love you! Call me when you leave!
I took pics of what I could, then I stepped out of the car, pulling my jacket tighter. The cold air didn’t help the creepy vibe. Each step toward the building made me question myself more.
The metal door creaked open before I even had a chance to knock.
Two men stepped out.
Both of them were big… both of them were serious… and neither of them smiled.
Before I could even say hello, they grabbed me.
“Hey!” I snapped.
The husky looking guy patted my sides; the other one ran his hands down my legs.
Too slow… too comfortable.
The serious looking one moved behind me, running his hands down my sides.
“Whoa! Hold on!” I demanded, jerking back. “What the hell are y’all doing?!”
Neither of them answered; they kept checking.
The frisky guy gently squeezed my thigh and brushed his hand over my breast.
“Okay, that’s enough!” I bellowed in anger, shoving his arm away. “Get the fuck off of me, pervert!”
That was when Marcos appeared around the corner.
“Marcos, what’s going on?!” I yelled, demanding a reasonable answer.
“My bad,” he apologized quickly, stepping forward, all calm, like what he witnessed was normal. “I meant to warn you. It’s protocol,” he explained. “We have to make sure you’re not wearing any wires, weapons… anything like that.”
“I get all that, but maybe you should hire men who know how to do their job without auditioning for prison!”
He frowned slightly, looking between the guards.
“Yeah… because your boy here, “I pointed dead at Friskobob, “got a little too comfortable. He grabbed my breast and squeezed my inner thigh like he was grocery shopping… and not in a “protocol” way!”
The room went silent.
Marcos’s expression changed so fast it was like someone flipped a switch.
He turned to the guard who touched me, jaw tight, and snapped in Spanish, “?En serio? ?Otra vez? Te he advertido demasiadas veces. Esta vez voy a darte un ejemplo!”
“I—”
The gun went off before Mr. Touchy could get another word out.
PHEW!
The man screamed, clutching his hand as blood poured between his fingers, splattering the floor.
I stumbled back, eyes wide. “Oh, my God!”
Marcos didn’t blink, didn’t flinch… he didn’t even look away.
He stepped closer, pointed the gun at the guy again, and warned in a low, lethal Spanish growl, “Hazlo de nuevo… y pierdes la otra mano también.”
Unbeknownst to them, I understood every word. Vanessa might’ve been a shitty ass mama in a lot of areas, but she made damn sure I learned other languages—Spanish preferably. I knew it just as well as English.
Marcos basically just said, “Really? Again? I’ve warned you too many damn times. This time, I’m making an example out of you.”
And then, when he pointed the gun at him the second time? “Do it again, and you’ll lose the other hand too.”
The injured man nodded quickly, clutching his hand.
Marcos sighed and waved the other guard over. “Take him to the back.”
The guard grabbed the injured man and dragged him away.
I just stood there staring at him, heart racing. “You… you just shot him.”
Marcos slid the gun back into his waistband like it was nothing. “Unfortunately.” He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry you had to see that. This is not the official greeting I wanted for you… but always expect the unexpected in this business. Dude has a hand problem when it comes to women.”
I folded my arms. “Well, congratulations… you solved it.”
He smirked. “That won’t happen again. I promise.”
Clearly.
He gestured toward the hallway. “Follow me.”
I hesitated for a second, but eventually I picked up my pace.
The inside of the warehouse looked completely different than the outside. It was clean, organized, and quiet.
We walked into a smaller office space in the back where two chairs sat across from a metal desk.
Marcos motioned for me to sit.
I did.
He sat across from me and pulled out a tablet. “Let’s get started.”
Straight to business.
“But first…,” he said, a small smirk on his lips. “I gotta say… I’m surprised that you came. I know I said I expected you to call, but to see you actually here? I’m a bit shocked.”
I shrugged, trying to keep my voice steady. “Well, you talked like it was worth it.”
“It will be.”
Marcos reached over to the side table and lifted a short glass of amber liquor—rich, dark, the kind that looked expensive just by the way it clung to the sides.
He swirled it once. “Drink?”
I shook my head. “I’m good.”
“More for me,” he shrugged, bringing it to his lips.
Marcos took a slow sip, eyes still on me over the rim, then another quick one before setting the glass down with a soft clink.
His whole demeanor shifted back to less casual and more businesslike.
He moved to the chair across from me and sat, posture relaxed but focused.
I folded my hands in my lap, waiting, trying not to look nervous.
Marcos leaned back slightly. “Alright,” he started, tone smooth, sliding into whatever this meeting really was. “What’s your full name?”
I tilted my head. “Is that important for this job?”
Marcos didn’t even look up. “When you apply for a real job, don’t you put your full name down?”
I smirked a little. “Fair point.”
I leaned back in the chair. “Ajori Kensington.”
He nodded and typed. “Date of birth?”
I told him, and he typed again.
“Social?”
I paused, eyebrows lifted. “Can you at least tell me what I’m signing up for before I start handing over my identity? I don’t know if I’m about to accidentally join the Illuminati or involuntarily sell my kidneys on the internet!”
Marcos laughed quietly. “Relax. None of that type of shit is going on.”
I sighed in a breath of relief.
Something about the way he said it made me believe him, so I told him.
Marcos typed for a few seconds, then his eyes skimmed across the screen like he’d just found the ending to my whole life story.
“Twenty-nine years old… clean driving record… no tickets… no court appearances… grocery store cashier… Uber driver.”
My stomach tightened. “How do you—”
He kept going, unfazed. “You live with your mother and younger brother at Apartment 3B on West Haven Court.”
My jaw clenched. “What the—”
He looked up at me briefly. “Daddy not in the picture?”
“No,” I confirmed, keeping it short.
I wasn’t about to unpack childhood trauma in front of a man who talked like he knew my blood type.
That probably was listed somewhere on there, too.
“But how do you know all that?”
I leaned forward, trying to sneak another look at the tablet.
Marcos immediately closed it with a quiet, final click. “Protocol.”
There it was again—that damn word.
“You think we just take anybody around here? People lie. People slip up. People run their mouths. If something goes left, I need to already know everything about you—where you sleep, who you answer to, who might come looking, who might crack under pressure. Backgrounds keep our people safe. They let us know what kind of mess you could drag to our doorstep.”
His eyes locked on mine, unreadable.
“And now that I know your whole picture, I’ll know immediately who to go after if you ever switch up.”
A chill rolled down my spine.
“Relax. It’s not personal, it’s necessary.”
Then he leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Good thing is, you passed the screening, which means, the job is yours if you want it.”
My heart thumped. “Okay… so what exactly is the job?”
Marcos folded his hands on the table. “I won’t go into too much detail today. I will say that the work’s simple, though. You pick something up… you drop it off. No opening it, no asking what’s inside. So yes, it involves traveling… lots of traveling.”
I hesitated. “T-That might be a problem.”
“How so?”
“My brother.” I swallowed. “He’s sick.”
Marcos studied my face carefully. “Still? From the other day?”
“It’s an ongoing condition,” I divulged.