Wanted: An Outlaw Anthology

by Lane Hart

  I could leave Myer here, buy myself more time. But he doesn’t deserve a proper burial. And I’m sending a message.

  As I head down the hall, face mask in place, I feel a sense of relief. It’s so foreign I almost don’t recognize the emotion. One way or another, this is almost over.

  At first, Makenna was an inconvenience, a problematic burden to be dealt with. Her arrival at the warehouse was just bad luck.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  She was a gift from the devil herself.

  There’s a coin in my pocket that’s itching to be flipped, a fifty-fifty chance the person I’ve been hunting all these years is just a stone’s throw away from the sound.

  Even if Makenna hasn’t realized why she was sent to Myer’s building yet, I have.

  Chapter Twelve

  Watchdog

  Makenna Davies

  I’m pressed against the cellar door, a document clutched in my tender hand. This is the one place in this dungeon that I feel like I can take an unobstructed breath. There’s a faint current of air that drifts in from the slimmest crack. And I need air.

  Pages of my research blanket the cellar floor.

  All it took was one uttered phrase that belonged to Hudson, and I became a wild, feral animal, tearing through witness statements and bank ledgers.

  Against my reasoning, I did what Easton said to do; I compared my notes to his outrageous theories. I tried to make sense of his board, but there are gaps. For one, he has Jack Keller as a shareholder for MK Enterprise. Keller is some kind of silent partner. Then, there’s the weak connection between Keller and Myer associated with an entertainment company. But there are no records. No money transactions. Just a signature. A shell company, presumably, and that’s not surprising. I traced illegal and shady dealings to Myer’s company beforehand.

  But what stopped me from digging any further was the discovery of one name.

  Laura Sanders.

  Easton has a copy of her medical record. It’s dated as the same night and time I interviewed her in the ER. But this record is different than the one I have on file. There’s a nurse statement attached that I’ve never seen.

  My hand shakes as I read the statement again. I’ve read each line twice already. I’m trying to imprint her statement into my brain, make the connection, make sense of it.

  Laura mentions the name “Phiser” in relation to where she was being kept during her disappearance. Why didn’t she mention this during my interview? Why wasn’t this document given to me?

  More disturbing: how did Luke Easton obtain it?

  I scoured the forms, searching for Phiser in relation to any transaction made through MK Enterprise, and my heart leapt as I came across the shell LLC. It’s the name of the entertainment company.

  Once I made this connection, I sprang to my feet despite every ache and pain, and pounded on the door, the bandage only muffling the discomfort some. I shouted for Easton. I screamed until my throat became raw, but he never came.

  So I slumped down along the door and pulled my knees to my chest. The storm died out at some point. I no longer feel vibrations of the distant rumble. They say lightning never strikes the same place twice.

  But Luke Easton struck my life twice.

  He swept in with the storms, then disappeared just as quickly. There’s a chance that he’s left me here to die. Gone with the storm…

  I tap the back of my head against the door in rhythmic beats. I try not to think about the reason Easton has Hudson’s name amid his research. It appears only in one reference, but that mention is repeated over and over in conjecture with four other names.

  Watchdog.

  What does that mean? What does it mean to Easton?

  I roll the back of my head along the door, straining to look at the board. A family tree of sorts takes up the center. Branches of names stemming outward. Except it’s not a family tree, it’s some sordid hierarchy.

  His board doesn’t work like the murder boards I use on the job. There’s always a crime middle and center. The crime, the crux, is missing from Easton’s board, but I’ve deduced what he believes—the crime he’s made himself judge, jury, and executioner over.

  Phiser is an underground trade company specializing in young women. Specifically, underage girls. Bought from other countries, and delivered to Phiser’s clients in the US.

  Which, I can believe. My own investigation circled heavily around Milton Myer and an illicit sex trafficking operation. I didn’t uncover Phiser. I didn’t connect Laura to Myer or any shell company. And I didn’t actually uncover any illegal activity.

  I didn’t have access.

  She was a local girl with a business card. She could’ve picked that card up anywhere. As Hudson pointed out many times.

  I was going on a feeling. A hunch. Gut instinct.

  That’s why I had to find a legal way inside Myer’s company. I needed to be closer to the man himself.

  If I take a step back and look at the case as a whole, I can see the fissures. The flaws. The weak areas that need to be sealed to make a solid case. Easton was not hired by Myer or anyone associated with him to put a stop to my investigation as I first theorized. He’s acting alone, going after these people as part of his own agenda. Revenge for a murdered sister.

  If stared at too closely under a microscope, that sounds ludicrous. But pull back far enough, and I can see how Easton found his way to that theory. And he’s hurt. Angry. Full of hate for these people. After reading Jules Easton’s autopsy report on his board, I can sympathize and understand.

  But he’s made a grave, grave error in targeting Hudson. He has no definitive proof that my partner was involved with these men other than a picture of Hudson and Myer together, and a confession from a man named Delmarko. Who, I have to surmise, gave this confession under extreme duress.

  I hear the hollow echo of footsteps from behind the door. Languidly, I move aside, so I’m not blocking it this time.

  When Easton enters, he shuts the door quickly and goes straight to the plate he brought in earlier. I ate as much as I could, despite my reservations that it was probably poisoned. I reasoned that if Easton is going to kill me in the end, he’ll do so with his hands. Poison is more a woman’s choice for a murder weapon.

  “You made a mistake in your research,” I say.

  He picks up the plate. He hasn’t looked at me yet. “You ate. Good. You’ll need your energy.”

  I ball the document I’m still holding and toss it at him. It bounces off his backside like a dry spit ball. “We both made a mistake.”

  He sets the plate back down. I thought about breaking it. Using a sharp piece to stick in his jugular. I still could…later. But right now, I want to hear him admit he made a mistake. I want to see the moment he realizes he killed an innocent man in his fucking ice-blue eyes.

  “Tell me,” he says.

  I point to the board. “I was hunting down a lead from a girl named Laura Sanders. You were following a similar lead from your sister. Two girls in Seattle who went missing, and who ended up either disappeared or dead.”

  He crosses his arms. Waiting.

  “The dark web trade company specializes in importing girls,” I say, “as disgusting as that is. It’s the truth.”

  “What’s your point, Mak.”

  “My point is, it should be obvious. To anyone who doesn’t have a personal stake in this investigation. Laura and Jules were local girls. They weren’t kidnapped and traded. Neither one of us can link them to Phiser. There’s no evidence. There’s no trail. It’s an unfortunate coincidence.”

  “Except for the Watchdog,” he says, observing me closely.

  I lift my chin. “I know where you want to go with that, and don’t. You’re wrong. That’s where you’re dead fucking wrong.”

  “Phiser brings in an ungodly amount of money. That alone should be enough of a sickening revelation to end the perverts who operate it.” He stalks slowly toward me. “But you’ve worked Major
Crimes. You’ve profiled sadistic perps. You tell me if there’s a chance their interests fall outside the line of profit only. What would they need a watchdog for? Someone inside the system who could warn them, protect them. Make evidence go missing.”

  I shake my head. “No. Nothing you can say or show me will ever make be believe that.” I get to my feet. “I made the connection. Now let me go.”

  Easton moves to stand before me, his intimidating height towering over me like an imposing force. But I won’t feel threatened. I’m weak and exhausted and drained, but I won’t back down.

  “Grab a jacket,” he says.

  My eyebrows draw together. He’s letting me go…with a jacket? “What?”

  “It’s either a jacket or a leash.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a dog collar with retractable cord. “We can flip a coin for it.”

  “You’re not letting me go…”

  “I said when you made the connection, you could leave this cellar. I’m a man of my word. So grab your fucking jacket, and let’s go. If you try to run—”

  “I won’t.”

  His blue gaze narrows. “I know you won’t. Because you’re curious. Because you’ve made it this far into the bowels of hell, and now you have to see the devil.”

  He walks toward the cellar door, swinging the leash.

  I toss my clothes aside until I unearth a hunter-green jacket. I slip my arms inside the sleeves, swearing that he’s wrong. I’ve looked into the devil’s eyes already, and he’s right here in this cellar.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Born to Ash

  Luke Easton

  We’re born with receptors. Not unlike a computer network, we’re molded off a similar grid. Physical cells within our body respond to outside stimuli and transmit a signal to the central nervous system. Hot, cold. Pain, pleasure. We’re a sensitive network of feeling.

  When a receptor becomes desensitized, it goes numb. Unfeeling.

  There’s only so much pain the human body can sustain before receptors misfire and shut down. This is done to protect the brain—to protect us.

  But what about the casualties of this desensitization process? Repeated exposure to something that used to cause pain becomes less harmful, less averse. We stop responding to it in the same way.

  I’m leading Makenna to the garage, and she’s taking in everything. She’s stimulated, almost on overload, by her surroundings. She’s been locked in a dark room for nearly three days, her senses deprived. Now her mind is mapping a way out.

  The Luke Easton prior to three years ago wouldn’t be able to fathom having a woman locked in a cellar. He wouldn’t be able to imagine a time when he’d lead that woman out into the early morning to dispose of dead bodies.

  It’s taken me three years to desensitize myself. Years of wading through the absolute darkest natures on the Internet, the heinous acts they’ve committed. Images and videos of the sickest abuse…abhorrent acts that made me ill, made me vomit.

  I’ve become another version of myself. I know the moment when Makenna reaches the outside, she’ll try to run, to escape. And I know that when she does, I’ll do something terrible to prevent that. Because it’s what I have to do.

  Is that how the devils became devils?

  Was there a spark of something unnatural, and they fed that flame until it roared into an unstoppable fire? My sister the casualty of men who became desensitized to the extreme? Is Makenna a victim of this same process, and I find ways to justify it?

  It’s a disturbing thought. Comparing myself to the fiends who harmed Jules. They weren’t even human, and yet…all Makenna sees me as is a monster.

  I adapted my skin to mimic the devils I hunt, so I can move around in their world. It’s a necessary evil. I still believe this. As long as I give Makenna her own revenge in the end.

  She’s staring at the bare, white walls. “This isn’t your house,” she finally says.

  “It is mine.” I found it half complete and abandoned. The owner ran out of money and couldn’t afford to finish his dream home. It had a frame and builder plans. I bought them both. Cash. An easy transaction for a man wanting to get out of debt.

  I threw up drywall and put a chair in the living room and a computer. No pictures. No TV. No personal effects.

  “An empty house with a cellar full of sadistic torture artifacts.” She walks behind me. “You really are insane.”

  I stop before the door that leads to the garage. “I suppose you’re qualified to make that deduction. Sane people don’t jump on people’s backs in the middle of fights.”

  I glance at her to catch her reaction, and her slender face is pursed in thought. I thought so. I open the door. I leave the light off and click the garage door button. I have four cars I trade out. It’s probably time to purchase a new one, but again, time. I’m running out of it.

  I choose the black Charger, because that’s the vehicle where I stuck Myer in the trunk.

  Makenna’s fingers wriggle around her bandages to grip the sleeves of her jacket, her teeth sink into her bottom lip. Her gaze flits from the car to the open garage door.

  Don’t do it.

  She reaches for the door handle.

  I walk around the car and, as I’m seating myself behind the wheel, she takes off.

  I sigh out a long, defeated breath before I climb out. “There’s nowhere to run,” I shout.

  Makenna has made it as far as the fencing. Luckily, captivity hasn’t completely killed her detecting senses. A six-foot fence wraps the perimeter of the house, and it’s got a bright red voltage sticker adhered to the front.

  She moves along the fence, searching for an opening. “Please…” She begs, as I approach. “I don’t want to die like this. Without knowing… Without seeing him one last time. You can’t bury me in the woods.”

  Christ. I scrub my hands down my face. I’m tired. Too tired after stealing a body from the morgue to deal with her level of frantic crazy. “Just get in the fucking car.”

  She tries to run again. This time, I give chase, catching her by the waist before she makes it another few feet across the yard. “There are no neighbors, Mak. No one. There’s no way out.”

  I carry her, thrashing and shrieking, to the Charger where I heave her into the passenger seat. I manage to wrangle the seatbelt across her chest, click it into place. I have one Zip Tie left, and I use that to cinch her wrists together around the strap.

  Not the best restraint, but… “If you try to throw yourself from the car, that would be stupid. You’ll just end up being dragged by the belt.”

  With stubborn effort, she yanks on the belt a few times before giving in. She deflates against the seat. “What’s my other option? The cellar?”

  I slap the leash on the dashboard in answer.

  I can’t see her eyes, and I need to. The delicate way in which I push her hair aside feels odd. My muscle memory of that action out of practice. I can tell by the way her eyes spear me. Those dark pools alight with abhorrence.

  She moves her head aside, and I grip her jaw, forcing her to see me. “Do you want to kill me, or run away? You can’t have both, Mak. Make your lunatic mind up.”

  She spits in my face.

  I don’t react. I hold still where I am, staring into her eyes, my hand latched to her face. Then I lick her spittle from my lips with a depravity that stirs embers of lust long ago doused.

  “Keep provoking the monster, and I’ll give him to you.”

  I slam the door closed. No more toying with her. I have only a few hours, and I want to get there before daybreak.

  The clearing is just how I left it, with a scattering of newly fallen limbs from the storm. I parked farther back and left Makenna in the car while I clear away the tarp.

  The putrid aroma of a dead body is nauseating and distinctive. It greets me with a hard slap as I peel the thick plastic back. I’ve set up animal traps around the border; the scent drawing anything from bears to cougars.

  Fortunately, it seems the
rare downpour drove the larger animals farther into the forest. It helps with the smell some, too.

  I track my way back to the Charger and pop the trunk. From across the front seat, I eye Makenna. “You’re helping me. And it would be exceedingly stupid for you to try to escape out here. If you don’t die from exposure, then you’ll certainly be mauled to death by a bear.”

  I unlock her door and draw my hunting knife. I give her one long, calculating stare as I slide the blade between her wrists.

  “I’m not helping,” she says.

  I cut the tie. “You are.”

  As she climbs out of the car, she checks her surroundings. She seems more calm, stable. The ride must have chilled her out. I admit, I get stir-crazy in the cellar, needing to be outdoors to ground myself in reality.

  But my reality is very different than hers. Maybe it really only took a few days to make her lose her mind.

  I grab ahold of Myer’s corpse and look at her from over the roof of the car. “Get his feet.”

  I don’t need the help. Myer was a slight, waif of a man when alive. Dead, he’s a bit more of a pain to lug around, but it’s like I’m built for this shit. I was in the wrong career before. I should’ve majored in homicidal revenge in college.

  To my surprise, Makenna takes a hold of his ankles, nothing squeamish about her. She’s a cop, I remind myself. She’s seen dead bodies. Thing is, I honestly don’t know enough about her. I was so invested in Royce Hudson, I overlooked his partner. She wasn’t on my radar.

  Once I get Myer situated at the edge of the pit, I jump down inside and remove the lid from the barrel. Makenna covers her nose with her jacket.

  “You left Keller here all this time.” It’s an accusation. Like I was supposed to bury the piece of shit.

  I exhume the gas can from the dirt and douse Keller. As I climb out of the hole, I say, “You can’t torch a fresh body.” I take a place beside her slight form, digging a book of matches from my pocket. I strike one and watch the small flame dance in the open air before I toss it into the barrel.