Chapter 61
Phoenix
Roni's stream pulsed with a different energy tonight.
Simon, the arrogant prick, had no clue she'd flipped a digital switch, broadcasting their private chat to the masses.
The viewer count ticked up, and more than three thousand pairs of hungry eyes watched in secret.
The chat sidebar exploded with fire emojis and crude comments as Roni leaned into the camera and described in graphic detail exactly what she'd like to do to the men who hurt her.
The viewers ate it up like starving wolves, their digital howls of approval flooding the chat.
My stomach twisted with a sickening mixture of horror and arousal as she pantomimed slitting a throat, her delicate fingers tracing an invisible line across her neck.
And when he offered to help her achieve it, the comments were pure mayhem.
OMG, do it!
No way. He just wants to fuck you.
He’s a psycho.
I’ll be your sugar baby, Simon.
You two should meet and fuck.
YES. AND FILM IT.
God fucking dammit. This has to stop.
Before logging off, she promised her audience something special next time, holding up a small leather case and unzipping it just enough to reveal the blade of my reciprocating saw inside.
Now for the real work. I crack my knuckles and initiate the connection to Clark's computer.
My gateway into The Sect's mainframe. The screen fills with code as I bypass my own security protocols.
Within seconds, I'm swimming in the digital cesspool where all the sleazy clients conduct their business.
Financial spreadsheets from money launderers, encrypted messages from sex traffickers, inventory lists from drug dealers, and shipping manifests from weapons dealers are all laid bare by the backdoor I installed.
I start in the outer circle. With Trent.
I figure I'll find a bunch of dirty shit when I go looking, but, crazy enough, he's just laundering money.
He doesn't seem to question where the funds come from.
Just takes it in, cleans it, sends it back out through his coffee business, and no one's the wiser.
As far as piece of shit criminals go, he's about as clean as they can be.
There are some low-level peons, snatch-and-grab groupies, the kind who love to haul in their finds.
One guy’s been arrested three times for theft, which is odd.
The Sect doesn’t like to work with anyone who has a record.
But there’s nothing explaining what makes him so special.
The few others in this folder are literal nobodies.
Hired muscle, who, based on the listed payments, have no idea what they’re actually worth.
Deeper in the system lurk the true traffickers' files. They’re broken down into two categories: those who refer targets, and those who arrange for transportation.
Each has their own digital auction block where human beings are tagged, coded and merchandised.
The database glows sickly green on my screen, each entry a person catalogued like livestock.
Female. 5'4. 20 years old. 110 lbs. Pale. Natural blonde. Blue eyes. Tiny breasts. Sexual inexperience verified.
Female. 5'6. 23 years old. 120 lbs. Olive skin. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Full lips. Muscular. Documented jogging routine. Anal virgin.
Male. 5’10”. Age unverified. 170lbs. Slightly tanned. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Some cosmetic work on face. Asthma. Big dick.
Female. 4’10”. 27 years old. 130lbs. Blue hair (likely blonde). Hazel eyes. Big tits. Fucks like a thoroughbred.
My stomach twists into a cold, hard knot as I scroll through over a thousand similar entries.
Each thumbnail is a frozen moment of someone's daughter, sister, son, friend, always with eyes either vacant or terrified or drugged.
Some are already captives awaiting delivery to the Abbey.
Others, targets with red digital crosshairs hovering over their morning commute photos?
That's not what I'm hunting for. I need him.
Simon. The motherfucker with the silver-tongued messages trying to lure my wife into a face-to-face meeting.
My eyes feel sandpapered raw from hours of scrolling through dossiers.
Dealers tracking human products in Excel spreadsheets with color-coded cells.
Lowlifes whose depravity hides behind corporate-style accounting, complete with quarterly projections and ROI calculations.
I work my way inward, past the foot soldiers to the boss' trusted anonymous partners.
The Sect's equivalent of a board of directors lounging in penthouses and private islands.
The richest of the rich across the globe, each with manicured hands in as many blood-soaked pies as possible.
Blue-chip stocks. Government officials on payroll.
Foreign trade routes greased with bribes.
If there's a vice to be squeezed, they tighten their diamond-studded grip and watch what money falls out.
But Simon's ghost remains elusive, his digital fingerprints wiped clean. His tracks are non-existent, like footprints in water. His lack of online presence feels familiar. As if he’s someone I work to keep hidden.
Wait… No. It can’t be. It’s…
I comb through the file on Clark’s computer. His financial records are meticulously organized. Offshore accounts color-coded by country. But even they don’t have a name listed. I should be impressed. It’s my work that keeps him so secure. But at the moment I’m ready to punch myself in the face.
He has an infinite number of useless files filled with nonsense. Each of which I have to review to exclude. Then I hit one labeled “Entertainment” and hope. But it’s mostly scoring sheets dating back three years.
When that turns up nothing, I sort through his temporary internet files.
The ones I always tell him to wipe, but he consistently leaves for me to clean up.
I scour each cookie and cached bit of data, diving deep into his browser history, when my heart sinks to my asshole.
It’s a digital diary of obsession. MostlyFools tabs open day and night.
Timestamps showing he barely sleeps. I look through login data, and there it is, buried in a string of alphanumerics.
“@SIMPleSimon.” The username stares back at me and rage pulses in my eyes.
I snag the cached password, go back to the home screen, and enter his credentials.
And sure as shit, it's him. The boss’s right hand man—the lieutenant who took me in—is the mad man messaging my wife.
This sick bastard has to know exactly who she is.
Not some random streamer, but the girl who escaped his organization.
The same girl he once auctioned. And now he's what?
Getting off watching her talk about killing the men who hurt her?
SHE'S TALKING ABOUT HIM? My hands shake so hard I can barely type.
I'm going to tear his throat out with my teeth.
I'm going to make him beg for death long before I grant it.