Identify

by Denise Wells

  She grabs the empty glass in front of me and refills it with Diet Coke.

  “Thanks.” I take a long sip. “I can’t believe that you think I can handle myself better as an assassin than as a bartender or waitress.”

  “I didn’t say you would make a good assassin.” She smiles.

  I twirl my glass in the condensation dripping from it onto the bar top. “So, how long do you think you’ll keep up this vigilante stuff, anyway?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “You can’t kill every bad guy, Dar.”

  “Of course, I can. Or at least I can try. Each trafficker we take out of commission saves countless lives in current and future victims. The man who took my sister, he had seventy-five women working for him. And that was just that day. Who knows how many he’d already gone through or how many more he’d plan to take? Seventy-five women, Quinn. It’s disgusting.

  “Think about it,” she continues. “I’ve been hunting these people for over five years. I’ve had the girls working with me for two years. We still take out at least one a month. And now, with the help of the girls, we are growing our list of informants, I could kill one man a week who victimizes women in this way and not run out for years.

  “Meanwhile, these scums just keep getting richer and kinkier. They are like those bugs in trash, always growing back, unless we kill them outright. And the Pacific Northwest is the worst in the nation for the greatest number of trafficking victims. Doesn’t it scare you that there are so many? That I never run out of targets?”

  She’s on a rant now, I hadn’t meant to get her worked up about it. Human trafficking and modern-day slavery are hot buttons for Daria. Her sister was kidnapped and sold into sexual slavery. It was by chance that Daria ran into her on the street one day about a year after she’d disappeared. Her sister, drugged out of her mind, was being dragged down the street by a guy. For some reason, that she’ll swear is fate, instead of saying anything Daria followed them all day, only to find her sister was living about thirty minutes away, held captive in a residential brothel as a sex slave.

  Daria came up with a plan on her own to rescue her sister. She went back a few days later to free the women and kill the men. She would have succeeded too, but her sister had OD’d the day before. To this day, Daria regrets not confronting her sister on the street, even though that would have gotten them both killed.

  That was the beginning that launched Daria’s side business/hobby: killing bad guys. Specifically, anyone involved in human sex trafficking.

  “So, what? You just keep killing bad guys indefinitely?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you aren’t worried about running out of money?”

  “Nope.”

  “I wish I had rich Russian relatives who left me a bunch of money.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Not only is Daria crazy wealthy, but she’s a total badass. I’m not. Rich or a badass. I’d like to be both, but I’ve got a few things working against me. She’s tall. I’m short. She’s thin. I’m curvy. She has eagle eyes. I wear contacts. She owns two successful businesses. I’m under-employed. She can take down a man twice her size with one hand. I can barely count on one hand.

  Okay, I’m totally exaggerating with that last one. But you get my drift. Daria is like an Olympic gold medalist at life and I didn’t even make it to the tryouts. What’s worse is she’s got a handsome ex who’s still madly in love with her and constantly trying to win her back. While I’m perpetually single, salivating after the one who got away.

  I say got away as though I once had him. But I didn’t. He, Reed Roberts, friend-zoned me a long-ass time ago after we first met, and I’ve never recovered.

  Technically, my boyfriend at the time introduced Reed and I—and the two of them are best friends—so back then being in the friend-zone made sense. Guy code and all that. But David, that’s the ex, he and I broke up a while ago and we only dated for a few months. So, I figure anytime now Reed will come to his senses and realize what a catch I am.

  I hope.

  Daria’s handsome ex, Mack, and Reed are partners in the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Sector (CIS). Which is how I still get to see Reed from time to time, when Mack visits Daria and I’m around. Unfortunately, it’s always with the same outcome. I try to catch Reed’s eye; he doesn’t notice I exist.

  I return my attention to Daria; she can be close-lipped about her life before she came to the US. But her story is fascinating. Making me want to be just like her. “What would I need to do to become one of your Darlings?”

  “Train.”

  “Okay.”

  “And train. And train.”

  “I’d have to know how to shoot, right?”

  “Shoot, stab, strangle, also self-defense, boxing, martial arts. My girls train three hours a day before they come to work.”

  Daria has four women she employs to work at the bar who also work for her as contract killers/vigilantes. The bar is really a cover for her Dirty Darlings, the name she uses to refer to her group of trained killers. It doesn’t hurt that they are all crazy attractive and in shape. It’s like Coyote Ugly met Charlie’s Angels and they morphed into Daria’s Dirty Darlings.

  “I’m not very interested in training three hours a day,” I admit to Daria.

  “I didn’t think you would be.” She continues to move around behind the bar, wiping the counter, checking and rechecking alcohol bottle levels, stacking glasses. The same things she’s been doing for the last hour.

  “This looks like a bunch of busy work, and I’ll bet you could better spend your time elsewhere. How about you train me right now to work at the bar?”

  “No way.”

  “Not as a bartender or anything. I’m talking behind the bar, like what you’re doing now, the little stuff that doesn’t require much talent. Or let me bus tables, sweep the floors, clean the bathrooms. Come on, D. There’s got to be something I can do.”

  “What if we don’t work well together, huh? What happens to the friendship?”

  “What are you talking about? We work fine together.”

  “I would be your boss, Quinn. You would have to listen to me.”

  “I can do that.”

  “And obey. Like a dog.” She smiles.

  I put my hands up like paws and pant with my tongue hanging out, always willing to show that I’m a team player.

  “Okay, come on back here and I’ll show you how to run the glass dishwasher.”

  “Is it different from a regular dishwasher?”

  “Not by much.”

  “Great!”

  She shows me that along with a few other things and then we head back to the bar so I can fill out the employment paperwork. I’m giddy with excitement over finally having a job which is clear to Daria.

  “You understand this is the shit job, right? The kind that no one wants?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, if one of the girls call in sick, can I cover for them as a bartender?”

  “Probably not.”

  “What about as a waitress?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Hired killer?”

  “Please stop talking.”

  “Well, I need some incentive to work hard. You know, like knowing there’s potential for growth and promotion.”

  “Working hard for the sake of working hard isn’t incentive enough?”

  “No. This is America, land of reward and external motivation. We need to know we’re getting something out of it.” I wink at her.

  She laughs in response. “How about a paycheck?”

  “That’s not enough. How about a cute uniform?”

  “You can wear jeans and a tank top like everyone else.”

  “Fine, you talked me into it.”

  “I’m so glad,” she says drily.

  “When can I start?”

  “What’s wrong with now?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. You are absol
utely the best, you know that?” I lean over the bar to hug her.

  “Great,” she says. “You can start by grabbing a tank from my office to change into, then clean the men’s restroom.”

  Gross.

  “Hmm, are you sure you want me to start right now?”

  She points a finger toward the rear of the building instead of responding.

  “Okay.” I hold my hands up in surrender and set off to do her dirty work. Pun intended.

  5

  Mack

  Reed steps outside to make a call and I continue talking to Paula’s mother, Mrs. Nelson. It’s clear by her lack of response that she doesn’t want to talk to us, or else she really knows nothing. I’m hoping to get more out of her daughter when she finally makes an appearance.

  I glance outside to see if I can gauge how much longer Reed will be. Something’s going on in pretty boy’s mind because he’s pacing back and forth along the front walk. His shiny black dress shoes glinting in the sun while his tie blows to the side of his chest from the slight breeze in the air.

  I can see why ladies sometimes feel more comfortable talking to him, especially in abduction or sex related cases. He’s a clean cut, lean muscled, suit-wearing, book-smart, too pretty for his own good, poster boy for the FBI. His fingernails are never dirty underneath and his hair never needs a trim.

  I’m about as opposite from that as you can get.

  So, when it’s a choice between the two of us, he’s the one they gravitate toward. He’s got the softer voice and better rapport. But just so we’re clear, I’m the better shot. And in the face of danger, it’s me they hide behind.

  I try to catch his eye as he comes back in the house. “Sorry about that,” he says, avoiding my gaze and directing his comment to Mrs. Nelson. He holds his tie to his stomach as he sits. Paula chooses that time to come downstairs.

  “Mom?” she asks about Reed’s and my presence as she reaches the bottom of the stairwell, dressed in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, her long hair still wet from her shower.

  “Paula, these gentlemen are from the FBI and want to ask you a few questions about your abduction. I haven’t told them anything.”

  Paula frowns at her. “Well, you could have. You know everything that happened.”

  “It’s not my story to tell,” Mrs. Nelson replies.

  Paula takes a seat on the couch next to her mom. “I already told the police everything that happened.”

  “Sometimes it helps to go over it again, little things can come back to you after time. Things you may not even realize you’d forgotten.” Reed smiles warmly as he talks to her and she visibly relaxes into the cushions of the couch.

  “Well, it was like I told the police before, I met this guy for drinks—”

  “How did you meet him?” Reed interrupts.

  “On that app, Honey Pot, it’s a real dating app, not one of those hookup sites just for sex.”

  Reed nods and makes some notes in his little pad of paper he always carries with him. “And what name did he go by on the app?”

  “Jacob.”

  “Any last name?”

  “They don’t list last names for privacy reasons.” She blushes slightly.

  “When you met in person, you called him Jacob and he answered to that name?” I confirm.

  She nods. “And I saw his credit card when he paid for drinks. It said Jacob, I’m fairly sure.”

  That he paid by credit card is new information to me. I make a mental note to track down the slip and any other information we may glean from that. Reed makes a notation in his notebook, I’m sure with a similar thought.

  “What happened next?” Reed asks.

  “The date was going really well,” Paula continues. “We decided to go somewhere else for dinner. He offered to drive, which I saw nothing wrong with, so I left my car at the bar. He said he knew of a restaurant just down the way. It all seemed normal and fine.”

  “What do you mean by normal?” I ask her.

  “He didn’t seem like a creepy kidnapper—no windowless white van—he wasn’t wearing high water pants and short-sleeved button down with a skinny tie under a Member’s Only jacket.”

  I laugh at her stereotypical description of a creepy kidnapper which sounds more like a child molester, but I keep that thought to myself.

  “We’d been driving for a few minutes,” she continues, “when he stopped at an intersection, turned to me, and said here, let me fix that for you, but I didn’t know what he was referring to. Next thing I remember is waking up in that room with all those other women. They were all tied up, it was awful.” She shudders visibly.

  “And you said you thought someone drugged the other women? Do you know what kind of drug? Did you see anything on the ground, anything that might identify what they took?” Reed asks.

  Paula shakes her head. “No. They looked awake but not with it, you know? Their eyes were open, but no one was home.”

  “Got it.” He nods and makes more notes.

  “Can you tell us what he looked like? The man you went on the date with?” I ask.

  Paula turns to me before answering. Her face is pale, and her eyes are blinking faster than normal. She looks scared, just not of me. It’s like recalling what happened to her is affecting her feelings all over again. “I mean, just what I told that sketch artist. He was great, the picture he drew looked a lot like the guy.” She looks down at her hands, resting in her lap, then back up at Reed. “Jacob reminded me of you a bit.”

  “How so?” Reed asks.

  “Tall, thin, nicely dressed in a suit, styled hair, handsome.” Her cheeks redden as she says the last word.

  Reed smiles at her, his expression comforting and encouraging at the same time.

  “I’m sorry if I haven’t been helpful.”

  “You’ve been very helpful,” Reed says. “Sometimes the smallest things can help the most. You told the police he was driving a rental car, is that right?”

  “Yes, I mean I think it was. It had rental company license plate holders on it and one of those stickers inside. And it was black, like, maybe a Camry or an Altima, four-doors, definitely a sedan.”

  “Do you remember where the stop sign was that he stopped at?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “There was a tree on the corner closest to me, I remember that.”

  “What kind of tree?”

  “Small. Like it was planted a short time ago. There was a tall stick in the ground next to it with one of those bands attaching the tree to it, like it wouldn’t be able to stand up on its own without it. That’s the last thing I remember seeing.”

  We confirm a few more facts with Paula, but it isn’t until we stand to leave that Reed pulls his phone from his pocket and shows her something on it. “Is this the man who took you?”

  Paula studies it for a moment. “It looks a lot like him. He was older than this and his hair was different.”

  “How much older, would you say?”

  “Five years, maybe ten.”

  We thank the women for their time and show ourselves out. We didn’t get nearly as much as I thought we would out of her. She didn’t tell us much more than the police report already had.

  “What did you show her,” I ask Reed as we’re getting in the car.

  He sighs. “A picture of David Tremblay from college.”

  “So, you decided I was right?”

  “You’re usually right, you know that. But also, research and records ID’d the sketch as him.”

  “Shit. Sorry, man.”

  “I won’t assume the worst, not yet. I mean, I grew up with this guy. He’s my best friend. I’m the best man in his wedding; the engagement party is in a week for fuck’s sake.”

  “I get it, I’d be the same way.”

  “But Murph, if it turns out he’s involved in a sex trafficking ring, there won’t be anyone to convict because I’ll fucking kill him myself.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “Burger?” I ask Reed a
s I start the engine.

  “May as well. I’m getting a beer too; I don’t care what you say.”

  “Wow, a rule breaker and a risk taker, I like it.” I backhand him along the biceps, he makes an “oof” sound in response.

  Sometimes Reed can be a real pussy.

  I head across town toward Dirty Dar’s, a bar that also makes the best burgers around. I’m a huge fan of good burgers and I’ll drive the extra mile to get one. Literally. It just so happens my ex, Daria, owns the place, which doesn’t always make for a good lunchtime experience.

  She broke my heart—fucking shattered it—I’m not even close to being over it. Still, I drag Reed here at least once a week for lunch, partly to enjoy the burger, partly to torture myself being so close to what I can’t have. I still love her, but at the same time, I fucking hate her for leaving me.

  The closer we get to Daria’s, the faster my heart pounds at the prospect of seeing her. And it’s like this every fucking time. We were together for just over a year before she broke it off. I was this close to proposing. And she’s still it for me. No one else has ever compared and I can’t believe anyone ever will. That was nine months ago now and I’m no closer to being over it or getting her back.

  Daria is a contract killer, for lack of a better word. A lethal vigilante. Hired assassin. A total fucking badass by my standards. But I didn’t know that in the beginning. Just like she didn’t know I was a Fed. I’d told her I was in security, she let me believe all she did was to own a bar. It was only by accident that I found out.

  Total fucking dumb luck.

  I’d come back half a day early from a trip and thought I would surprise her. Since it was just past two in the morning, I stopped at the bar first, figuring that’s where she’d be. Just in time to see her get into a small, silent hybrid car idling at the curb and leave. Thinking she was seeing someone else—but hoping that wasn’t the case—I followed. Tailed the car she was in, parked when they did, shadowed her into the building, watched her pick the lock to the apartment, heard the muffled shots from just inside, stayed back as she retraced her steps, then let her carry on as normal.

  I watched her every night we didn’t spend together, let her believe I was out of town when I wasn’t just so I could continue to follow her. At first, I couldn’t wrap my head around what she was doing. She was good at it, that was for sure, clean and organized without ever leaving a trace.