Chapter 2 Underground #2
"When I got inside, it was empty, no crates or containers.
It was weird. I found an office, and it seemed like someone had been there recently.
There were food wrappers and water bottles in the trash can.
So I asked my friend Kenny to find out who the warehouse belonged to.
He's an amazing hacker, and he was able to dig around.
He traced several shell corporations and holding companies and crap, but earlier today, Kenny connected one of the companies to Wilson. "
"So that's why you broke into his house? To find information about your sister?"
Tristan notched his chin up in defiance. "Yeah. So what?"
"You could have gotten killed."
The truth of those words hit Tristan hard, reminding him of the feeling of cold metal against his temple.
He paused to shake the memory and to refocus on why he'd taken such a risk, and when he continued, his voice cracked.
"I know it was stupid, but I had to do something.
She's only sixteen, and she's all I have.
I was supposed to take care of her, and I failed. I …"
Emotion strangled him, blocking the rest of his words. Another wave of nausea swelled, familiar now after six days of guilt, worry and hopelessness.
He expected some derision from the killer next to him, but none came. Instead, the man simply said, "I'm sorry."
Tristan cleared his throat, but the words still felt like sandpaper in his mouth. "Anyway, I was careful. I waited till he left."
"But you took way too long. Why?"
Embarrassment rippled over Tristan at his inadequacy, and he quietly admitted, "I sort of had trouble picking the locks.
The back door took longer than I expected, and all the desk drawers and the file cabinet were locked too.
It looked much easier on YouTube." He grumbled the last part, feeling betrayed by his internet research.
The man's gaze darted to him. "You just learned to pick a lock today?"
"Yeah. So what?"
The stranger studied him for a moment but said nothing before facing forward again.
They were both quiet for a time before Tristan spoke again. "I don't know your name."
His companion glanced over at him, then back at the road. He didn't speak for so long that Tristan figured he wouldn't answer. He supposed it made sense, given that he'd witnessed him murder someone. In the prolonged silence, Tristan questioned his decision to seek help from this dangerous killer.
"Cade," he finally answered, piercing the silence and making Tristan's head snap in that direction.
"Oh. I'm Tristan Hines."
Cade only nodded in response.
"So, um, where are we going?" Tristan asked as he swallowed his rational fears and reminded himself why he'd decided to stick with this guy.
"To a motel until we can get a safe house."
"A safe house?"
"Yeah, you need to lay low until we can eliminate these pricks. They'll find Wilson and think you killed him. Whoever Wilson was talking to knows they're looking for a red-haired reporter, and they probably already know your name and what you look like."
Tristan internally cursed his job as an on-air reporter for the local television station. If not for his visibility, he might not have to hide from these people. He might be able to go home.
His empty home.
He swallowed hard, and his stomach clenched when he imagined how Natalie might be suffering.
"Oh, yeah, I guess that makes sense. Which motel?"
"There's one a ways out of town. Pretty run down, but they take cash and won't ask questions."
"How are we going to get info off this laptop?"
"I'll have my associate access it. Hopefully, she'll find intel on Wilson's partners and where the girls are being held."
"He has partners?"
"Evidence points to Wilson as the money man who lines up clients and conducts transactions. We think others procure and transport the girls."
"Do you …" Tristan began, gulped, and then tried again. "Do you know what they do to the girls they take?" His voice sounded small like a child's, and he shivered again.
Cade's eyes remained on the road, and he didn't speak for several heartbeats. "Do you really want to know?" he finally asked without the earlier edge to his voice.
Tristan peered into the darkness as shadows flew past. Did he want to know? He suspected, hoped he was wrong.
But he knew he wasn't.
And he wasn't a coward.
"Yes," he answered, proud that his voice didn't waver.
Cade paused before he confirmed Tristan's nightmare scenario. "We think they're kept locally as sex slaves and then sold after a while."
The words ripped a gasp from Tristan's mouth. Bile rose in his throat, and he started to hyperventilate. He dropped his head into his hands and tried to suck air into his paralyzed lungs.
"Gonna be sick," he mumbled, thankful when he felt the car jerk to the side. He clumsily unbuckled the seat belt, threw the door open and vomited. He crouched while his head throbbed, and his thoughts swirled like thunder clouds.
His sister. His baby sister.
Oh, god.
He didn't know how long he sat there fighting the nausea, but when the need to throw up passed, he returned to the car.
"Sorry," he murmured, not even sure Cade could hear him over the purr of the engine.
"Don't be. I'm sorry, but you asked."
"I know. It's not your fault."
Cade studied him for a moment, then pulled onto the road.
Tristan nervously wrung his hands in his lap as he tried to process the revelation.
The night's events and distressing news had twisted him in knots.
He needed to think, to come up with a plan.
He would find her. He had no experience or expertise in this area, but he would figure it out, would do whatever it took, with or without help.
Lost in his thoughts, Tristan jerked back to the present when Cade parked in a darkened lot under a neon 'Motel' sign with a broken "O" and reached into the glove box to pull out a wad of cash.
"When we go in there, we're a couple, okay?"
Tristan balked. "What?"
"Until we get to the safe house, that's our story. We're together. Got it?"
"Is that really necessary?"
"Yes. We don't want anyone to remember us."
"They won't remember a gay couple?"
"They're less likely to remember a couple than two men traveling together in the middle of the night who aren't a couple."
"But why can't I stay here?"
"I don't want to leave you alone in the car."
"I'm sure I'll be fine for a few minutes."
"Look," Cade clipped, "If I'm going to keep you safe, you need to listen and do what I say."
"You're bossy."
"And you're argumentative."
They stared at each other for a few heartbeats, tension bouncing between them like a ping-pong ball. Tristan could make out the lines of Cade's face in the harsh neon lights. He looked stern and unrelenting.
Tristan broke first. "Fine," he hissed, getting out of the car and storming toward the motel's office.
When they were just outside the door, Cade grabbed his hand, and Tristan's brain stuttered. Cade's hands were big and warm and clenched his tightly, as if ensuring he wouldn't run.
Which Tristan had half a mind to do.
The smell of smoke assaulted them as soon as they breached the doorway. There was a skinny old guy behind the desk, taking a long drag from a cigarette. He sat on a stool, fixated on the television as talking heads ranted about taxes.
When they approached, his wary eyes slanted towards them, then flicked down to their joined hands, then back to their faces before his lip ticked up in disgust.
Oh, great. A homophobe.
"Hi," Cade said casually, "We were hoping to get a room for the night."
The old man stared at them for a moment, and Tristan could almost see the gears churning as he debated if he wanted their money more than he loathed their sexuality. He slowly slid off the stool.
"Seventy-nine fifty after tax."
"That's fine," Cade said, unclasping their hands to pull cash out of his pocket. He tossed four twenties onto the counter, and when he was done, put his arm around Tristan's shoulder and pulled him close. His body was rock solid, and the closeness did strange things to Tristan's insides.
The clerk pointedly avoided looking at them as he took out an ancient paper registry and pen. "Name?"
"Tommy John."
Tristan's head snapped to Cade, but he was watching the old man, who looked up suspiciously.
"Like the baseball player?"
"Yep."
The guy shook his head but entered the name in the book.
"Only open rooms have one bed. That okay?"
"Yes, that's fine."
Eyes bulging, Tristan looked up at Cade again, but he just squeezed his shoulder tighter, warning him to stay silent.
The man hmphed and made another entry in the book, then shuffled to the key rack and snatched a key. He returned and placed it on the counter, deliberately not handing it to Cade.
Jerk.
"Room Five. Out the door and to your left. Checkout is eleven."
"Thanks. Do you have any toothbrushes and toothpaste?"
The clerk practically sneered back, "What does this look like? The Four Seasons?"
"No problem. Have a good night," Cade said politely.
When they walked back outside, Tristan immediately twisted free of Cade's grip.
"Did you really need to touch me so much in there?" he blurted.
Cade answered without any emotion. "Public displays of affection make people uncomfortable, so they avert their eyes. I didn't want him to look too closely at us."
Tristan conceded that it made sense, but was still reeling from his body's reaction to the unexpected embrace.
And now he'd be sleeping beside Cade. In the same bed.
He recognized that the choice was necessary to uphold their deception, but he was not at all sure he was comfortable with the situation.
He was about to climb into bed — literally — with a stranger he met barely an hour ago.
One who just killed a man, oh, and incidentally, not for the first time.
There were so many red flags, he may as well have been at a Chinese Communist Party rally.