7. Sniper #2
The call came in just after five, when the light coming through the front windows of the clubhouse had gone thin and mean. I was at the map, still working the grid, when Blaze stuck his head in and said, “You got a minute. It’s one of ours.”
I nodded. He closed the door, and the rest of the world faded out for a second. I picked up the phone. “Go.”
The voice on the other end was clipped, urgent: “There’s a house on Eucalyptus, edge of town. They’re moving new girls in, quick. Looks wrong.”
“How many?” I asked.
“Six, maybe more. All fresh. Asian and Mexican mostly. No locals. No sign of Jasmine, but—” He paused, breathing hard, “—they’re keeping ‘em locked down. Not letting anyone out. Run by a guy named Terrell. You know him.”
I did. Shithead, but too cautious to run anything like this without backing.
“Address?” I said.
He gave it to me. I wrote it on the back of my hand, hung up, and called Bruiser. “Meet me at the bike in five. Bring Buck and Fang.”
“Copy.”
By the time I got out front, Bruiser and the others were already there, Buck strapping a short pump shotgun under his jacket, Fang wiping his nose with the back of a gloved hand. I told them the plan—straight in, no talking, grab anyone who looked like they belonged—and got four quick nods.
We rolled out in formation, two bikes and Bruiser’s Charger trailing behind.
The Road King felt like it had been waiting all day for this, the engine warm and eager.
I led, keeping to the side streets, watching for tails, but the only company was the long shadows thrown by power poles and the occasional dog that sprinted out, then veered away when it saw us.
The house was at the end of a dead-end street, squat and ugly, roof patched with three colors of shingle and the yard nothing but dirt and sunburnt weeds.
The fence was chain-link, six feet, topped with a limp strand of barbed wire someone had put up as a joke.
I killed the engine a block away and coasted up the rest, boots scraping the pavement as I brought the bike to a stop.
Bruiser was out of the car before I was off the bike. “Plan?” he asked.
I pointed at the side gate. “We cut it, go straight in. Fang covers the back. We sweep the place, top to bottom. No bystanders.”
He nodded and pulled a pair of bolt cutters from the trunk. “Buck, with me.” Fang was already jogging down the side of the street, moving fast for a guy his size.
I felt the old coldness, the click in my head that said we were at work and nothing else mattered. I followed Bruiser to the gate. He bit through the chain in one squeeze, and we went in, quiet as possible for three men walking through a junkyard.
The first thing I noticed was the sound—a TV blaring inside, some reality show where everyone screamed and no one listened. Under it, muffled voices, maybe laughter, or maybe just the echo of women who’d learned not to make noise unless it was expected.
The front door was a thin slab of plywood, painted red but chipped down to the gray in half a dozen places. I put my boot against it, and it gave with a wet crunch. We went in, guns drawn, Bruiser at my shoulder.
Inside was worse than I’d imagined: a short hall leading into a main room filled with cigarette smoke, a battered sofa, a coffee table covered with beer cans and fast-food wrappers. There were two men on the couch, both of them mid-twenties, both already scrambling to their feet.
I leveled the SIG at the first one. “Down,” I said, and he went flat, hands over his head. The second hesitated a split second too long, so Bruiser swept his legs out from under him and put a knee in his back.
“Stay,” Bruiser growled.
I moved past, down the hall, toward the sound of voices. A closed door sat to the right, another to the left, and a third straight ahead. I signaled Buck to cover the right, then kicked in the left.
Inside, a bedroom with three twin beds, every inch of floor covered in sleeping bags, cheap blankets, and women. They all flinched back when I entered, but none screamed. None even moved until I holstered my weapon.
“It’s okay,” I said, not sure if it was or not. “We’re not here for you.” One of them, a tiny woman with dyed-blonde hair and a purple eye, stared at me like I was the next trick. I shook my head and pulled the door shut.
Buck had already kicked the other door. I heard a shout, then a thud, then silence. He poked his head out, blood on his lip but eyes bright. “Clear.”
I kept moving, found the last door at the end of the hall. It was locked. I kicked it, harder this time, and the cheap wood splintered. The bathroom was empty, but the window was up and a man was halfway through it, legs dangling, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the outside gutter.
I grabbed his ankle, yanked him back. He hit the tile hard, rolled over, and when he tried to stand, I put him down with a punch to the side of the head. He dropped, limp. Terrell. Skinny, coked-up, but I recognized the eyes: terrified and furious.
I dragged him by the collar back into the main room, dropped him in front of the couch, and stood over him. “Talk,” I said. “Who brought the girls in?”
He spat blood and shook his head. “Man, I don’t know shit—”
I hit him again, this time open-handed, just to let the message settle. “Try again.”
He coughed, tried to crawl away. I put a boot on his wrist, leaned in with my weight. “Who?” I said.
“Some fucking trucker, man. They dropped ‘em off two nights ago. Big white van, no windows, California plates—” He wheezed, “—they paid cash, said there’d be more coming.”
I looked at Bruiser. He looked at me. We both thought the same thing: this was bigger than a local crew. Someone was moving product through Kingman, and they didn’t give a shit who noticed.
I knelt, got my face right in Terrell’s. “You see her?” I pulled out Jasmine’s photo, shoved it at him. “You see her?”
He squinted, then shook his head, fast. “No. Swear. Just these, man, just these—” He gestured at the women.
I believed him. He was too scared to lie.
Bruiser grabbed him, turned him over, and zip-tied his hands behind his back. “You wanna do the honors?” he said.
I shook my head. “Call Briggs. Let him clean up the mess.”
Bruiser grinned, like it was the funniest thing in the world.
I walked out back, took a breath of fresh air that felt like drinking ice water. I closed my eyes for one second. Then another. The girls were safe, at least for tonight, but Jasmine was nowhere closer.
I heard the first cop cars a block away—sirens muted, but the lights already flickering blue and red on the stucco.
I went back inside, found Bruiser and the others standing in a line, arms folded, like we were waiting for a family photo.
The women were huddled in the bedroom, doors locked.
I knocked once, then again, softer. “You’re safe,” I said. “Don’t open until you hear a cop.”
No answer, but I heard them moving, whispering. That would have to be enough.
Kingman PD made their entrance with all the finesse of a SWAT team on a bender. Three uniforms in the front, a fourth circling the back. I put my hands out, open, and waited.
Chief Briggs was with them, wearing his “disappointed dad” face, which was funny since he was only five years older than me.
He came up, sized up the room, then looked at Terrell, who was bleeding all over the vinyl. “Jesus Christ, Marcus.”
I shrugged. “He ran.”
Briggs pinched the bridge of his nose. “You couldn’t just call?”
I shook my head. “No time.”
He looked at Bruiser, who said nothing, then at Buck, who gave the world’s smallest smile. “You know this is a crime scene, right?” Briggs said.
I shrugged again. “So’s the whole fucking town.”
He nodded to his guys, who cuffed us anyway. Bruiser and Buck submitted, silent. I let them zip my wrists, the plastic biting in. It felt right.
Briggs leaned in, voice low. “You make a mess like this again, you better bring a mop.”
I almost laughed. “Copy.”
He led us out, into the evening air. It was cold now, the kind of cold that cut straight through your vest and set your teeth on edge.
They put us in the back of the cruiser, Bruiser on one side, me on the other, the wire grill between us. I caught his eye in the mirror. He winked, like it was all part of the game.
We sat that way for a while, not talking, just watching the lights play over the hood of the car.
I remembered the way Jasmine would yell at me for getting arrested—how she’d say, “Every time you make bail, you owe me one week of foot rubs.” I remembered her laugh, the way it always came out in a snort, even when she tried to hold it back.
I closed my eyes and saw the grid. The pins. The lines. The endless desert, empty but for the promise that somewhere, she was waiting.
And I swore, right then and there, I would burn every mile of highway between here and hell before I let her vanish for good.
The cruiser started moving, and the world rolled away behind us. I didn’t look back.