Cheyenne McCray - [Lexi Steele 01]

by The First Sin

  My throat worked as I swallowed. I couldn’t completely act the cool, detached Team Supervisor. I was so angry I still almost couldn’t see straight.

  “Agent Stacy Randolph . . .” I swallowed hard again. “. . . was murdered while undercover.”

  The stunned silence in the CC lasted all of five seconds. Then it was like the entire CC burned with a hot wave of fury. Voices filled the center, voices filled with anger and promises of retribution.

  Everyone would be out for blood to take down Randolph’s killers.

  All agents were professionals, but some of my people couldn’t help the tears they wiped from their eyes and off of their cheeks, even as they tried to maintain composed expressions.

  When my team calmed down a bit, I said, “We’ve been given as many resources from as many teams as we can use on this op to find Randolph’s murderers. And to bring the slavers down at the same time.”

  I rubbed my hand over my head, no doubt making my dark hair a mess.

  “Okay. Best thing to do is go at this with both barrels,” I said. “Tear this thing apart.”

  The agents on comms went back to work and I sensed a new fervor to their work. The agents each utilized computer systems while monitoring activity on Internet chat rooms and message boards, e-mail, and phone lines.

  Key words were programmed into servers, and as soon as a match popped up we’d get a copy, a recording, video, or a snapshot to review. Any combination of certain words, especially those with “sex” and “slave,” would send the alert.

  Slave. Sex slave. Auction. Boston. Nightclubs. Those were just a few of the words that we’d keyed in. We’d included specific nightclubs, and the first and last names of girls who’d been taken while at those establishments.

  Usually it turned up nothing because most bad guys were smart enough not to use such obvious lingo, but sometimes we’d get a hit.

  We already had Randolph’s undercover name in the database, as well as Deseronto’s, so we’d know if we got a hit there, too.

  Takamoto caught my attention as he said, “We screwed up, Steele. The girls are gone.”

  “What?” The room nearly echoed with my shout. “They got away?”

  Goddamnit! How the hell had we screwed up enough to miss the movement of the girls and not catch the bastards who were holding them?

  A new burst of heat burned through me at the thought that we’d let the bastards slip away with the auctioned girls. We would have done anything to stop them if we’d just found their location fast enough. We’d been so damned close to nailing their positions.

  Maybe we could even have saved Randolph.

  I swore I would blow away every sonofabitch who kidnapped and auctioned off young girls as sex slaves. I glanced to the screen with the dozen or so monitors. “We had solid information. How could the slavers have just gotten away with over a dozen girls while under our watch?”

  Smithe rubbed the back of his blond GQ haircut with an uncomfortable expression on his face. “Apparently our intel was bad. They were feeding Randolph the wrong info from the start, which ties in to what happened to her. Looks like she jumped in too fast.”

  Probably because she was ready to get out.

  “Christ.” I braced my hands on my hips and looked up for a moment at the white ceiling panels before I turned my gaze back to Takamoto, Jensen, and Smithe.

  “I want you three to gather what information you can from your snitches.” I turned to Takamoto. “Chancy Yeager is our best source. By this evening I want everything Yeager can give, and I want it on my desk no later than six.”

  Yeager was the one who’d gotten us two passes into the exclusive club where I was going undercover Saturday with Agent Perry.

  Takamoto was good at schooling his expressions and his emotions. He gave a brief nod. “You’ve got it, Steele.”

  Takamoto headed out of the CC as I turned to Smithe. Of course, since I was six to seven inches shorter than him, I had to look up to give him orders. Smithe was a jerk sometimes and I don’t think he liked taking orders from me. But I had to admit he was a good agent.

  I gestured to the agents on comms and computers. “Smithe, I want you and your team to expand your searches. Pull as many resources from other teams as you need.”

  Before I continued, I took a good look at the vid cams. “Photograph and video everyone coming and going from the clubs Randolph worked. Identify every single one of the patrons. I don’t care if they have a criminal background or not. We’re going deep.”

  I hardened my gaze. “I want financial records for the clubs. Find out who owns every damn one of them, annual income, tax records. Just get someone in each club. We’ve got our blanket warrant, so get me all of the info on their hard drives. Whatever it takes.”

  Other agencies had to get warrants for every damn thing. Like I said, we could get away with a hell of a lot.

  Smithe nodded and turned away without a word.

  Jensen was only a couple of inches taller than me when she wasn’t wearing heels. I told her, “I’m going to need help reviewing all of Randolph’s reports, taped conversations, photographs, videos she made while undercover. Get me the intel on who Randolph suspected and what the hierarchy was that Randolph was investigating. Pull whatever resources you need.”

  Jensen gave a brief nod. “Done.”

  I blew out my breath. “I’ll be in my office.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Exit Hell

  March 27

  Wednesday late morning

  I barely kept from slamming my office door shut behind me. The blue lighting from the CC poured into the room through the glass wall.

  The blinds were opened all the way now, but I needed privacy. I pressed a button on my desk and the blinds whirred as they ran along the track, until they closed and blocked out everything.

  I’d brought my punching bag to HQ and into my office when I was promoted to Senior Agent and Team Supervisor six months ago. Everyone knew I worked off my stress with the punching bag, and many times other agents had used it.

  Now was a good time to let the bag have it.

  I jerked off my overshirt and tossed it in a corner, leaving me only in my T-shirt. Bare-handed, I slammed my fist into the bag.

  I hit the bag harder and harder, faster and faster. I felt no ache, no pain, just numbness and anger.

  Had Randolph stumbled across something vital? It was common for a RED agent to encounter critical evidence that could easily disappear if not seized immediately. She could have been trying to download information from a hard drive or take pictures of important documents.

  Sweat started beading on my forehead as I continued to hit the bag.

  When RED agents were in we couldn’t just extract ourselves from a location and get back in after obtaining a warrant. I wondered if that’s what had happened to Randolph. If she’d been caught grabbing evidence.

  I slammed my fist into the bag again, feeling the blow burn all the way to my shoulder.

  Fist to the bag. Again. Again.

  For a second I could see the faces of the men who’d beaten the shit out of me in that Cuban jail, unusually corrupt members of the Policía Nacional Revolucionaria, PNR, while they tried to get me to tell them who I worked for when I’d assassinated their leader.

  I speak nine languages and I understood every word when they told me rape was next.

  One of the four men had said I would bring good money, an American on the sex slave market. The man laughed and left the cell, after telling the other three men he’d be back soon.

  Harder, harder, I hit the bag so hard pain started to shoot through my arms.

  I could still smell the sweat of the three men, the stench of piss in the cell. I could still feel the hardness of the chair they’d shoved me onto before they’d started slamming their fists into my face and body. They’d bound my wrists behind me and hadn’t let me catch my breath between each punch they landed.

  For a moment I let myself absorb every b
urn and pain, holding onto it and putting every screaming ache into that place where I almost turned it into a perverse pleasure. A way to cope with it until I could find my break and get out of this mess.

  The stink of the first man’s breath was hot on my face as he leaned close to me and started to unzip his pants as he told the other three men to cut off my clothes. He grasped the top of the seat back, released his penis, and slowly stroked it while leering at me as the other men started toward me.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  I gripped the bottom edge of the seat with my bound hands.

  The moment the bastard leaned close enough, I gripped the seat with my fingers for leverage. I swung my legs up and clenched his neck with my thighs. One quick squeeze and jerk, and the sonofabitch’s neck snapped.

  I twisted out of the chair, avoiding the now dead man’s body as he collapsed onto the wood so hard the chair shattered beneath his weight.

  Before the other men had even realized what had happened, I was on the floor next to the body and jerking the dead man’s gun out of his holster with my bound hands as I rolled away.

  Shouts filled the cell. Shots echoed in the small space as I pulled the trigger and shot in the direction of the men, with my hands still bound behind me.

  If I could create enough commotion to send them scattering, I’d have a chance to make a break for it.

  I kept rolling, moving, shooting.

  One of my wild shots made contact. It was the fattest man who screamed and dropped. Blood was already soaking his chest as I looked over my shoulder while scrambling to get to my feet.

  A chilling clicking sound next to my head. I went completely still. The one remaining man in the cell pressed the barrel of a handgun just over my ear.

  “You fucking bitch,” the man said in English.

  “Not in your lifetime,” I growled right before I ducked and shot one of my feet out between his. He didn’t have a chance to make a startled sound before I jerked his foot out from under him and he went down. Flat on his back.

  My spine chilled as a bullet grazed my left ear when he shot at me from his position on the floor. His face was flushed dark red, sweat dripping down his face, and he raised his gun again.

  I swung my leg out and kicked the gun from his hand. He shouted and grabbed for my ankle. I almost lost my balance because of the way my wrists were still bound behind me. I managed to square off on both feet on the concrete floor.

  I raised one of my boots and jammed it with everything I had onto the man’s larynx.

  His cry rose up with a gurgle of blood and he looked at me as if staring death in the face.

  He had been. One more smash of my boot and he instantly went quiet, his head twisted to an odd angle.

  The man I’d shot was gasping and wheezing as the other two lay dead on the cell floor. I kept my eye on him as I knelt by the man I’d just killed. The gun clattered on the floor as I released it to use both hands to try to draw the dead man’s knife sheathed on his belt.

  I moved my gaze to the cell door. The fourth man—had he really left the jail like he said he would? I sure as hell hoped so.

  My fingers fumbled and I became aware of the tremors in my limbs from the adrenaline rushing through me.

  I kept part of my attention on the dying man across the room as I finally jerked the knife free. I watched him for any sign that he was going for a weapon at the same time I cut through my wrist bonds.

  The rope fell away. I lunged to my feet and brought the weapon up with my now free arm. I flicked my wrist and released the knife. It flipped end over end exactly three times before the blade buried itself into the dying man’s forehead.

  He went slack, his glazed eyes staring at me, the knife protruding from just above his eyes.

  Would the PNR officer who’d left be back soon?

  Backpack. Where had they put my backpack? Everything I needed was in it, if it hadn’t been looted.

  My bid for freedom had amounted to maybe ten minutes, but with all the gunshots, shouts, screams and other noise, if anyone else had been in that small jail they would’ve been on me already.

  I grabbed the last dead man’s pistol and tucked it into the waistband of my cargo pants and pulled my shirt over it to hide it. In moments I’d jogged through the jail and in a crappy office found my backpack on the desk—the backpack intact, thank God, and it looked like the contents were secure. They probably hadn’t had enough time to look. Apparently they’d been too busy with me.

  I peeked out the front entrance and made sure everything was clear. No sign of the first man or any others in uniform. Then I stepped out of the stinking jail and into the welcome sunshine of that Cuban town.

  Men and women, and even children stared at me as I dodged through a crowded street. I felt warmth on my face and I dragged the back of my hand over my cheek. Blood coated my skin when I looked at my hand.

  Shit. I needed to get cleaned up and get the hell out of this town. I had a rental car waiting, but I’d be stopped for sure if anyone got a good look at me. Not to mention I’d be a bit conspicuous trying to get on a plane looking like this.

  My jaw felt bruised and swollen, and it hurt when I clenched my teeth. My white shirt was ripped in places and filthy, my taupe cargo pants not a whole lot better. Just by being seen by civilians I was leaving a trail.

  I ducked down one side street to another until I found a run-down hotel and checked in. The short man with graying black hair said nothing as I handed him what was probably double the usual rate. The suspicion in his eyes was keen as he reached for a key before handing it to me.

  This wasn’t going to work. He’d probably be notifying the PNR as soon as I walked away.

  Still I took the key but hurried straight through the hotel, out the back, and into another side street.

  It took two more hotels until I hit one with a kid manning the desk. Again I paid double the rate, only this time I went to the room I’d been given and rushed to clean up.

  I kept a few first aid supplies in my backpack and I used them to clean up the gash above my eyebrow and the cut along the cheek. As fast as I could, I used antiseptic wipes to clean all of the cuts to keep them from becoming infected.

  I’d just stripped out of my torn clothing when I heard my cell phone ring from inside from backpack. I froze. When I car ried a phone on an assignment I kept it on silent or vibrate. This time it was ringing and I hadn’t been the one to set it on ring.

  For a moment I just stared at my backpack. The only people who had that number were my FAS handlers.

  It stopped ringing. I hurried to my back and snatched the phone out and looked at the incoming caller display. Unknown. That’s what it always said when a FAS tried to get a hold of me. One of the Cubans must have screwed with my phone.

  It rang again. And I stared at the display as it lit up. I didn’t want to answer it. I didn’t want to know what they were going to ask me to do next. I gritted my teeth and instantly regretted it as pain shot from my jaw to my temple.

  FAS bastards.

  I grabbed the phone. “Redbird,” I said in a harsh snap.

  “Alexi Steele,” a female voice said, immediately sending a shock through me. None of my handlers were female, and no one ever called me by my real name. The woman continued, “If you don’t want to be killed in that motel room, I suggest you leave within the next three minutes.”

  My bare skinned chilled. “Who is this?”

  “If you make it out of there alive, I have a proposition for you.”

  “What—”

  The woman gave me an address on Portland Street in Boston, not far from my Southie home. “I believe you have a minimum of two minutes left before you’ll have company.” She hung up before I had a chance to respond.

  The part about “two minutes” clicked first as I snapped my cell phone closed.

  I swore and tossed the phone into my backpack, jerked on a clean pair of cargo pants and a tank top, and jammed the “borrowed” pistol
into my pack with my own weapons. I left my discarded clothing and the rest of my mess. No time to clean up.

  After I hitched my backpack on my shoulders, I slipped out of my motel room. I headed out the rear then made my way around the side of the building where I could see the road. Still some distance away two PNR jeeps barreled down the dirt road.

  “Shit.” Must have been the fourth dickhead who’d tracked me down.

  Being dark-haired like the locals—as well as too short to tower above anyone, even if I wore stilts—made it easier to slip into a crowd and avoid being spotted. Not being covered with blood was a big help.

  As I walked through the crowded street, I kept myself on full alert, my senses automatically cataloguing everything including possible escape routes.

  Who was that woman and how the hell had she known about what was going down, and how did she know anything about me?

  The next day I walked into the building on Portland Street and was introduced to the world of RED by Karen Oxford.

  My whole body was sweating now and my arms were like rubber. I leaned my head against the bag on my forearm.

  Oxford had been just as stern and imposing then as she was now. Something about her made me feel as if I should come to attention. Like facing a superior when I was Special Forces in the Army. Before I’d fucked up.

  I grabbed a towel from a shelf in a closet in the back of my office, near the corner where my shirt was lying. I always kept spare clothing in my office—casual and dressy, in case I needed either for undercover work, so I had plenty of extra things to wear.

  I started dabbing my face, my neck, and beneath the hair at my nape with the towel.

  The moment I met Oxford, every single nuance of it, was burned into my mind. “I’ve been observing you for some time now, always a RED agent following your trail,” she’d said, and my skin had gone cold.

  She tapped a folder that was lying on the table in front of her with her forefinger. “Sniper in Special Forces before you made one hell of a mistake and you were court-martialed.