by Denise Wells
I grab my laptop to look at wigs online, but somehow end up streaming White Christmas, and sing along with Bing Crosby as he glides (yes, glides) through the snow. I fall asleep on the couch before the movie is over. Laptop perched against my knees, empty mug resting on the coffee table, and soft snores flowing from my lips. Like a vigilante baller.
24
Daria
I get a second message from Roxie as I’m dropping Quinn off in front of her house. I know Quinn wants me to come in and spend the evening with her because that’s what we do at Christmas time, but Roxie has a lead on a guy she’s been following for a while and she wants my help to take him out. If I tell Quinn, she’ll want to come with us, and this is not a job I want her on.
The guy, a serial rapist, has been recently released because the evidence against him was deemed “insufficient.” Evidence from all five cases against him. Supposedly the chain of custody was broken, and the defense made a claim about tampering. And, since my Dirty Darlings and I are open to ridding the world of anyone who gets away with committing crimes against women, he won’t be free for long. The Dirty Darlings’ primary focus is still putting a stop to the human trafficking and sex slave trade in our area and I’m still intent on finding the men who took Katya. But I have no problem also taking care of the guilty who slip through the justice system without penalty.
I turn onto the street where Roxie lives, an older area made up of a blend of commercial and residential, where the streets are narrow and the lots are small, but the older craftsman style houses have a ton of character. She bought a fixer upper that she’s slowly renovating herself. Roxie likes to stay busy. And by busy, I mean physically active. She jumps out of the shadows as I pull up to her house and is in the car before I’ve come to a complete stop.
“Nice ride,” she says buckling her seatbelt.
“It’s Mack’s. I was helping him with Tremblay earlier.”
“I can’t wait until we get rid of that asshole.”
“You and me both,” I agree. “How was the rest of the night at the bar?”
“Slow. We closed early like you suggested. Tips were shit, people were dicks; so much for the holiday spirit,” Roxie sighs. “I’ll be happy to work some aggression out on this guy.”
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
“I think the faster we are in and out of this place the better. We still don’t know much about his habits despite how long you’ve been watching him. I don’t want to risk exposure if we hang around just so you can torture him a bit.”
“How about I just bust a kneecap and maybe his nose, so he’s in some pain when I kill him?”
“You said he’s in a condo?”
She nods.
“Neighbors?”
“One side is out of town for the holiday and an older woman lives on the other side. No one below him or above. And I’m not worried about the people across the way. It’s a big complex. You’ll see when we get there.”
Roxie’s intel is usually solid. But I feel like she’s moving too fast with this one and that worries me a bit. The rush from the kill can be addictive, similar I’m sure to what a serial killer feels after doing the deed. I want to make sure that’s not what’s happening here. I figure if it can happen to me, which it has, it can happen to anyone. And that’s usually when things are missed.
The road leading up to his complex is dark and quiet. It’s easy to find parking on the street a block away. I remove my red wig, replacing it with a black ski cap, before exiting the car. Roxie is dressed similarly in all black with her auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. She stands on the sidewalk bouncing on her toes a few times waiting for me to join her. Once I do I suggest, “How about a quick snap of the neck and be done with it?”
“That’s so fast,” she complains. “He’ll barely feel a thing. Can I at least cut off his dick?” She looks at me as we cross the street, sticking in the shadows as much as we can.
“I guess after he’s dead won’t hurt.”
“Kinda defeats the point.”
“The point is to rid the world of these guys, not necessarily to make them suffer.” I smile at her, but it’s weak.
“It should be both,” she complains. But then to my relief, she drops it.
Even though I’m in charge of my girls, I make sure that all our decisions are joint and that they don’t feel as though I’m pushing things on them. Or that it’s my way or no way at all. Roxie’s feelings on making the guys feel pain beforehand would be discussed at length, with pros and cons and the such. But tonight, after everything that’s happened with Mack and Quinn, I’m just not in the mood to open that discussion. I’m tired.
The enclosed community has an imposing looking black wrought iron fence all the way around it with one way in and one way out. The gate at the front entry is propped open and looks like it has been for a while.
“It’s always like this,” Roxie whispers, confirming my suspicions. “I don’t even know why they have a gate when it’s never closed.”
We make our way quickly and quietly through the complex—a nice family-oriented area with a playground, a pool, and lots of shared green space. Makes me wonder what it would be like to live in a place such as this, where your neighbors are practically on top of you and everyone is sure to know everyone else’s business. Though hopefully not tonight otherwise Roxie and I are fucked.
We finally reach his unit and I can see why Roxie is not concerned about the one across from his. His unit is comprised of the two stories above his garage. Both the front door and the garage door face out, so the private road leading to it separates him from his neighbors across the way.
I make quick work of picking the lock and secure the mask over my face, handing Roxie shoe covers and latex gloves to don before we silently head up the first flight of stairs to the main floor. Both pausing with every creak of the steps to make sure we haven’t been heard. Once inside a place, the girls and I use a variation of hand signals to communicate instead of talking. I motion for Roxie to go ahead of me on the stairwell as this is her operation and she’s more familiar with the layout of the place.
The main floor is dark with only the light of the microwave clock to guide us and the sound of the refrigerator motor to cover our steps. Roxie lets me know her guy is on the upper floor and that she’ll be right back. I remind her with a look that this is quick and quiet. She rolls her eyes at me but nods anyway. I walk around the main floor taking in the neutral decor and lack of personal items. Looks more like a sparse model home than someone’s actual one.
Large furniture encompasses the room as well as a TV that spans the width of a half-length wall. I’ve yet to hear anything from Roxie upstairs, not that I wish her to be loud, just that I want to make sure we stay on track. I lean back against the breakfast bar and cross my feet at the ankles in front of me. My stance seems relaxed, though I am anything but. Roxie wanted to do this on her own, which leaves me superfluous, but for safety reasons, I like having two girls at every job whenever possible.
I turn to head upstairs to check on Roxie when a door opposite the stairs opens and a man shuffles out. It’s not dark enough for me to be hidden from view. All he has to do is look up and we’ll meet eye to eye. He turns and heads into the kitchen, reaching into the cupboard for a glass, then fills it with water from the automatic dispenser in the door of the fridge.
I glance at the stairs but see and hear nothing.
Where’s Roxie? Is this her guy or someone else? If it’s someone else, did she know two people would be here?
I crouch, temporarily hiding myself behind the cabinetry. If Roxie comes downstairs now, he’ll discover us. But, unless I chance being seen, I have no way of warning her.
The guy drinks the water, refills his glass, and drinks it down again. He drops his glass into the sink, and I hear him dragging his feet as he exits the kitchen.
At the same time Roxie begins to rapidly descend the stairs
loudly whispering, “Piece of cake, boss.”
“What the fuck?” The man looks up at Roxie, then down at me. “Hey!” His voice echoes through the living space, bouncing off the walls as though nothing is there to buffer it.
I stand slowly, holding my hands out in front of me in a surrender pose as the man twists his head back and forth from me to Roxie and back again. Roxie halts all movement and freezes midway down the stairwell. Time stands still as I try to figure out what to do. Roxie looks shocked that he’s here at all. When he finally looks back to her, I make my move, the only one I can see working.
Grabbing my knife from my hip holster, I plunge it into the back of his neck between the cervical vertebrae, swiftly slicing his spinal cord. Then watch, void of emotion, as he falls dead at my feet.
I step over him and use my fingertip to push open the door he came out of, thankfully the room is empty with the exception of a bed with tousled sheets and blanket. A small closet with no door on the left, and no frame under the bed means there’s nowhere for someone else to be hiding.
Roxie reaches the bottom of the stairs. “Where’d he come from?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” I cock my head and face her, my eyes narrowed and gaze hard, relaying my dissatisfaction with only my expression. She knows I’m pissed, but she has no way around it. “Are you sure there’s no one else here?” I ignore her original question and ask my own.
“Positive.”
A slip like this, not knowing there was someone else in the house, it’s inexcusable. I’ll be forced to call in a favor from my father, who has men on the inside of the Seattle City Police Force, to make sure this man and his identity, along with any investigation into him, do not go any further. I hate calling in favors from my father. For every single favor called in, three are expected in return. And they never, ever even out in expectation or effort.
“I’m sorry,” Roxie whispers.
I crouch down and snap a photo of the man’s face so we can run facial recognition back at the bar and figure out who he is. Then I nod toward the front door and leave, not waiting to see if she follows. We take off our shoe covers and gloves, I take hers and pocket all. Nothing is left at a scene. Ever. I don’t say another word to her until we are in the SUV and heading out of the community.
“What the fuck, Rox?”
“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know who that guy was or what he was doing there.”
“You just don’t make mistakes like this.” I run my hand over my face, scrubbing at my forehead. “And by you, I mean everyone. That’s flat out sloppy.” I toss my phone into her lap. “Send the pic to Alyssa and have her figure out who I had to unnecessarily kill tonight.” I slam the heel of my hand against the steering wheel relishing the pain that results. Sometimes there’s no better way to clear your head and release frustration than by making yourself feel pain. Or at least that’s how it is for me.
Now I just need to figure out how to fix this and make sure it never happens again.
25
Mack
After dropping Reed off, I have to stop myself from calling Daria. It felt so natural working with her today. We’d never done something like that before. Making it seem like with no effort at all she could just be back in my life.
Which begs the question: why couldn’t we just work together to bring down the bad guys? She could easily be an agency consultant. She has the resources and certainly knows enough. It would help to insulate her further from Reed or anyone else finding out what she’s done. Of course, she’d have to stop what she’s doing and I’m not so certain she’s willing to.
I know it’s important to her to take the guys down who hurt her sister. Not only did they get her hooked on drugs, but they forced her into porn and sexual slavery. In some ways her sister is lucky she didn’t get shipped off to some third world country in the process. I can only hope that with enough drugs, women in those situations don’t realize what’s going on. Otherwise, it’s a horrific existence.
I could help Daria in her quest, during my off hours, to track the guys down. Of course, the agency’s resources aren’t as vast as Daria’s, but they are legit. And so when we find something on someone, it will stick and we can bring them in. Unlike some of the things that Daria comes up with that I can never find legal justification for using.
I grab my burner phone, my thumb hovering over her name.
If she answers, what would I say? How would I ask? What rationale could I possibly give that would work?
I find myself turning the car in the direction of her house. But when I pull up across the street, all her windows are dark. And I don’t see the SUV anywhere. Not that it would necessarily be out in plain sight.
Like many other nights before, I hunker down into my seat and settle in for a long night of watching out for Daria and making sure she arrives home safely.
I wake early and head to the boxing gym. The only gym open on Christmas Day. The sun is barely starting to peek above the horizon as I round the final corner and sprint down the street. I jog to the entrance as a warm-up, then I can tape up and immediately hit the speed bag when I get there.
My breath is hot against the crisp morning air, leaving trails of smoke in its wake. Even though I barely slept a couple hours last night, it feels good to stretch out my muscles today. Invigorating, even. Daria didn’t come in until after three in the morning. And when she did, she looked agitated. I can often decipher her mood by the way she walks. She would hate to know that she’s so transparent. But I’m also probably one of very few people in her life so observant of her mannerisms.
The parking lot for the gym is empty so I’m sure there won’t be a lot of people here. I enter through the front doors and the familiar smell of sweaty socks and rubber mats greets me full force as I make my way to the locker room.
“Mack!” one of the coaches calls out in greeting. I return the acknowledgment with a chin nod, unzipping my hoodie as I go. Having worn shorts and a tank underneath my sweats, all I have to do is step out of them and stuff them in a locker along with my hoodie, and I’m ready to start wrapping my hands.
Do I suffer for the vigilance of Daria? Sure. Depending on my schedule, my watching out for Daria either involves trailing her to a site and making sure she makes it out okay or parking in front of her house to ensure she comes home. Hours spent cramped in the driver’s seat of a car, loss of sleep, increased worry, and stress. Is it worth it the daily validation that she’s okay? Abso-fucking-lutely.
Most days I agree with the two of us being apart. Intellectually speaking, at least. Emotionally speaking? Hell no. I want my girl. I want a life with her. I want my happy ever after.
I finish wrapping my hands, flexing my fingers to ensure a tight fit, then head over to my preferred speed bag. My sneakers squeak on the freshly mopped linoleum floor. My fist raised and at the ready as I reach the bag, starting with a slow and steady rhythm.
Right. Left.
Right. Left.
Right. Left
And when I need a bit more I work up to:
Right. Right. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Left. Left.
And finally:
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Which is my preferred rhythm—the sounds of the bag rapidly hitting the board, my fist, the board, and my fist acting as a meditative mantra for my movements. Because what I need more than anything after time with Daria is a physical release and mental meditation. It’s exhausting spending time with someone you can’t have but still want. She’s all I think about. I’m borderline obsessed. Fuck, maybe it’s not borderline and I’m just obsessed. I watch her house by night, keep her at the forefront of my mind by day.
Why can’t I just find a normal girl to fall in love with? Someone who’s not a killer. A girl who will stay at home, raise my babies
, have dinner waiting for me at six o’clock, and be content with that. Not that I’m against female empowerment and equality. I’m all for it. But I’m also all for having a woman take care of me.
Sexist?
Probably. Not gonna apologize for it though.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
Right. Right. Right. Left. Left. Left.
I push through at the same pace for over half an hour before stopping. My arms aching between the rigorous workout I’ve just given them and the cramped muscles from having spent the night sitting up in my car. I move through the rest of my workout, ignoring the other guys who come in. Most are disgruntled single guys like me anyway.
Later today, I’ll hit my sister’s house for Christmas dinner and to bring my twin nieces their gifts. My sister is that girl I’m looking for. She stays at home and cares for the twins while her husband works, she cleans the house, cooks the food, keeps a smile on her face, and, if you ask, she’ll tell you she’s satisfied and fulfilled. Her husband is a college professor though, so his hours are regular and he takes summers off. He’s never sent to parts unknown with a moment’s notice and never gets beaten up or shot at. But he can’t bench three hundred and fifty pounds either, so there’s that.
Ninety minutes later, I’m spent. I’ve done all that I can do for today. The jog home will be grueling, but once there I can shower and take a nap. Sleeping never feels as good as after I’ve been awake thirty-six hours and pushed my body to the brink for the final two of those. I grab my shit from my locker, glancing at my phone as I pocket it. I have a message from Reed but decide not to check it until I get home.
We committed to taking today off, regardless. And I don’t have the energy to listen to him whine about how his best friend is a douche bag of the worst kind. So, unless he’s calling about a new case, which I would have also heard about, I don’t want to deal right now.