Packing Heat(13)

“What’s happening now?”

“Ernesto got a lead he wants me to follow up on.”

“Worth doing?”

“Yeah. I need a number ran.”

“Fine.” I recited him the number.

“Got it.”

“That’s some journalist who gave the Spiders the location of our whorehouse, apparently.”

“All right. I’ll text you the name and address in a few minutes.”

“Got it.”

I hung up the phone and headed back out of the warehouse. Ryan stood tough as I walked passed, but I wasn’t in the mood for a pissing contest. I pushed out into the night and walked over to my car, leaning up against the hood.

That woman’s screams echoed in my mind. I was a violent thug. I killed men, I hurt men, I did things normal people wouldn’t be too happy about. This was my job, though. This was what I was. Violence and destruction was how I lived.

But torturing a fucking girl was not my idea of fun. I was glad to be out of there. I could have stood in there and toughed it out, because I wasn’t weak. Given the choice, though, I wouldn’t want to watch someone get their fingers cut off bit by bit.

Finally, my phone buzzed with an address. Cassidy Andrews lived downtown. I got into my car and headed over, speeding through the streets.

I shot Ernesto a message. “Got the address. Visiting the girl.” He answered a few minutes later. “Good. Spider is breaking. Dumb bitch.”

I frowned and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.

I had no clue what I was going to do with this journalist, but I had to check into it. I figured I’d be able to intimidate her into talking, and if she really knew too much, I was going to have to kill her.

Although I didn’t want to do that. I might be able to buy her silence, or maybe extort something out of her to use as blackmail. There were a lot of ways to keep someone in line, and killing wasn’t my preferred method.

I pulled up outside her apartment building and got out of my car. It was the kind of place where you needed to be buzzed up, so I just hung around and waited for someone to come in or out. Ten minutes dripped by until finally an older woman came toward the door, unlocking it. Acting as a polite, helpful gentleman, I pulled the door open for her, smiling, and followed her in.

I headed up the stairs. Cassidy lived on the third floor. I walked down her hall and stopped in front of her door.

I didn’t feel nervous. I never felt nervous. I felt excited, elated. I lived for this sort of thing. I didn’t feel great threatening women, but I liked doing my job and was fucking good at it.

I knocked. I knocked again. Finally, the door opened up, the chain still connected.

I nearly fell over when she looked out at me.

It was her. It was Jessica. I knew she’d been lying about some things, but holy fucking shit.

“Hey there, Cassidy,” I said, trying to mask my horror and shock.

She stared at me, clearly just as surprised as I was. I grinned, trying to play it cool, but inwardly I was fucked up.

It was really her, the girl I couldn’t keep my mind off of. I had known she was probably bad news, but a fucking journalist? I never would have guessed she’d be so fucking stupid as to go to that bar alone as a fucking journalist.

“Going to let me in, Cassidy, or are we doing this the hard way?” I asked.

She continued to stare at me before softly shutting the door. I heard the chain rattle, and then the door opened up again. She stepped aside, letting me into her apartment.

I stepped in, my heart hammering in my chest.

What the fuck was I going to do?

This whole situation had been fucked before, but now it had just reached a whole new level.





7





Cassidy





“What are you doing here?” I asked him.

He walked into my apartment like he owned the place, and I shut the door behind him. He looked around, not answering me right away. I crossed my arms, my nerves on fire. I felt like I should do something, maybe run out the front door screaming my head off, or maybe call the police. I knew this was bad if he knew my real name, but I had no clue how bad.

Maybe that was all he knew. Maybe he didn’t know I was involved with the human trafficking story. Maybe he had just figured out my real identity and was unhappy about it.

But he had mentioned “the hard way.”

He finally looked at me. “Why did you lie to me about your name?”

“I was afraid,” I said honestly.

“You should be afraid.” He sighed and sat down at my kitchen table. “Got a drink?”

I blinked, surprised. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“Whisky if you got it.”

I went into the kitchen and found an old bottle in the back of the cabinet. I grabbed two glasses, brought it all over to the table, and poured two drinks. He took his, smashed it back, and then poured himself another. I sipped mine, grateful and hoping that it would help calm my nerves a bit.