Chapter 34
Zeus
"Something wrong?" one of the guys asks me.
I don't even know which one, because I don't waste energy looking in his direction.
"Fuck off," I mutter, leaning on my shovel.
I was fucking joking when I told Zayne this is what we're probably doing today. It seems to have been a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Digging fucking drainage pipes is the very last thing that will help us gather information on the organization.
I can't help but question the regression in my duties, not that making drop-in visits to fucking trap houses is very high in the order of things.
What happened this morning keeps flashing in my mind. There was no tension in the room when Bobby entered, despite Scott trailing so closely behind him. When he was challenging Billy, he never looked in my direction any longer than he did anyone else's, but something is off.
Zayne and I have been split up today, and although that's been the case for the last two weeks, it feels different. I can't work out whether it's because I'm being paranoid or if there's a different reason.
Scott told us both to wear clothes we didn't mind ruining. It wasn't directed only at me, and without looking at that fucking board, I have no idea what Zayne is tasked with today.
Hell, at this point, the board wouldn't even fucking matter. The men who attend those meetings don't have their names on the board. Only the lowest men in the organization have their names written there.
I keep getting glances from the other guys, and at first, it’s weird until I realize that they were looking to me to understand exactly how they were supposed to complete this task. It's like these men have never had to dig a fucking hole before.
Now that we've been working our asses off for the last couple of hours, the looks should've stopped, but they haven't. It's feeding the whisper in my brain that tells me I made the wrong call this morning, that I underestimated my ability to lie under pressure.
I can't get over the idea that I read Scott's reaction this morning all wrong, that he wasn't sympathetic to the lie, just disgusted at what he saw, but too much of a coward to confront us immediately.
It's not like making a run for it was an option. With the armed patrols people make around the compound and that massive fucking gate at the front, there was a better chance that we'd end up with a bullet in our backs than scaling it and getting away.
I know there's also no bravery in sitting around and letting shit fall apart either.
It was expected that I would follow the crew I was assigned to work with today to the work truck.
I didn't have a chance to go back to the cabin to get the burner phone.
Asking the favor of using one of the guys' phones here would be suspicious because I don't even speak to any of these motherfuckers unless it's to tell them to leave me the fuck alone.
I look around, finding another guy looking in my direction.
I narrow my eyes, leaning on my shovel as I glare at him.
"What?" I snap.
"Don't you ever get tired of this shit?" he asks.
I know how I want to respond, but with how my Spidey senses are tingling, telling me that shit has gone south, attempting to build camaraderie with these motherfuckers would be pointless.
"What shit?" I challenge.
He points around him to the work we've accomplished today.
I shrug, the best I can manage. "I like being outside. It's normally fucking relaxing when people are bitching and complaining about getting a little sweaty."
He frowns. "Do you even know what we're doing?"
"Drainage, dumbass," one of the other guys answers, pulling off his ball cap and wiping sweat from his face with his forearm.
"Fucking idiot," the first guy grumbles as he points to the building we've been digging the drainage lines away from. "Do you know what that place is?"
"A business," another guy says, all too quick to join the conversation if it means avoiding the work.
"It's a fucking strip club," the first guy explains.
I frown when the other guys grow excited.
Strip clubs are one of the leading places where women go missing.
With as many women as there are who brag about where they work and the money they make, there are twice as many who are filled with shame at their line of work.
It increases the likelihood that they will lead a double life, and when they vanish, no one knows where to start looking.
Many of these places don't ask many questions during the hiring process.
Hell, some might not even require age verification.
Some consider the girls subcontractors, meaning they aren't worried about gathering tax information until January.
And with those who come and go, they don't waste their time even filing the paperwork.
More often than not, the women aren’t paid to dance and work for tips only, leaving no sort of fucking trail because that money is paid in cash nightly and stuffed in a pocket rather than being counted as revenue and put in the till.
"Why are you so fucking happy?" the first idiot snaps at his friends. "When have we ever been allowed to go to a strip club?"
He says the word "allowed" as if it's the foulest thing he's ever had in his mouth, and considering the condition of his teeth, that has to be some nasty shit.
Smiles slide right off the other two idiots' faces.
"So this isn't a League club?" I ask.
Idiot one shakes his head.
"Word is that Bobby got in trouble with the new owner, and he's using us to work off whatever debt is owed," the guy explains. "Our labor, our sweat, his fucking reward."
One of the guys swats the man in the arm as if to tell him to shut up, that he's talking about shit in front of someone who isn't supposed to know.
I shrug as if the news doesn't bother me.
"Still gonna go back home and eat tonight. Still gonna sit by the fire and drink beer I didn't have to pay for," I say. "We're getting paid, just not the way you may be used to."
One guy tilts his head to the side as if he's never considered the benefits the compound provides.
As shitty a place as it is, they don't have bills there.
Granted, we gave up everything we owned when we stepped inside the gate, but maybe the reasoning is sound enough to calm these motherfuckers down.
The last thing I need is for them to go rogue and refuse to go back. Zayne is there, and there's no way I'm going to leave him behind, even if it means we burn this fucking case.
I have no idea what Cerberus will do when they find out exactly how we fucked this up. I won't lie to them, even though the explanation is enough to make me want to run as far as my legs will take me to avoid the confrontation.
I know it'll end with one or both of us being released from the club, and as quickly as I want to blame anyone but myself for letting that happen, I was the one who reached for Zayne this morning, guilt eating me up for letting myself believe he was further victimizing that girl.
Despite the way he looked at me when I lifted my arms over my head, he probably would've continued to ignore me for several more weeks if I had let it happen.
I know now that the silence was out of anger, not shame for what he had gotten caught doing.
"Can we get this shit done so we can go home?" I ask, getting back to work.
It takes them longer to start digging again, but even as they bitch among themselves about every rule they hate and how unfair their lives are, they work.
I dig faster, the urge to get back to the compound and make sure that Zayne is okay fueling my actions despite my exhaustion.
We finish up, having dug lines from each of the downspouts out to twenty feet toward the ditch. I don't know if the shit is going to be up to code, but that's not my issue to worry about.
"Can we get the fuck out of here?" I ask when I find the three fucking idiots standing near the small stream at the back of the building.
I smell what they're doing before I close the distance. These guys are part of what Bobby considers his inner circle, and just like Billy and Scott, they celebrate a half-assed day's work with a meth pipe.
No wonder every man in the conference room earlier fidgeted and looked guilty when Bobby was demanding a confession from one of them.
They're all breaking the rules, but I know better.
Even with all the complaining and the long list of shit they hate, they're still loyal to that piece of shit.
Taking him out themselves doesn't solve the problem, and if it were one of these fuckups rather than Bobby, it could be even worse, and that's saying some shit.
Some of the rules are about control, but the rule about leaving your stash at home makes fucking sense.
You're no help to the organization if you get pulled over and sent to jail for fucking possession of narcotics.
These dipshits see it as the very first rule to break, but it's more likely they can't go a handful of hours without getting high.
"Fucking, Billy, man," one of them says as he passes the pipe to the left.
"He fucking knows better," another responds. "Bobby won't tolerate that shit, and he fucking knows it. He’ll be gone for this."
"He should've been gone when he brought Ruby back without permission," the third mutters.
"At least she got to stay," idiot number one adds.
"That poor fucking girl," the guy standing directly in front of me whispers.
These fuckwads are so stoned they don't even know I'm overhearing this shit.
"What do you think will happen to her?"
They all jerk their heads in my direction, the one holding the pipe sliding it behind his back as if a plume of rancid smoke isn't surrounding them.
"Nothing good," Idiot One answers. "Nothing good."
"Can we go home?" I ask. "I'm ready for a fucking beer."
"We'll catch up," the one with the hidden pipe says, using his free hand to shoo me away.
I turn my back on them and walk back toward the truck.
I know I have to smell like damp earth and sweat, but I don't give a shit how much mud I track into the vehicle. When they come walking up, they climb inside, unconcerned about the debris and mud on their clothes as well.
"How about some lunch?" the one in the passenger seat asks as we get on the road.
"The Garage would be perfect," the one beside me in the back seat says.
"No," I growl. "Back to the fucking wrecking yard."
I meet the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror.
"It's fucking macaroni salad day," I growl. "I don't want to fucking miss it."
"Oh, yeah," the passenger says. "I forgot."
"I hate that shit. My mom made it all the time when I was growing up," the one beside me says. "A cheeseburger sounds better."
The driver holds my eyes as if he can't decide who he wants to piss off.
"You really think it's a good idea to go to The Garage right now?" I ask.
He blinks, decision made.