Vice Enforcer

by S. A. Stovall

  Ward cocks an eyebrow. “You’re gonna call him?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Ward pulls out his cell phone and begins flipping through his contacts list.

  I snort. “You don’t know it by heart?”

  “Of course not. Who remembers phone numbers anymore, am I right? What’s the fuckin’ point?”

  I grab Ward’s phone and throw it to the cement, shattering the screen. For a moment he stands still, frozen with his mouth hanging open. I stomp on the device, turn on my heel, and head back for the car.

  “What the fuck was that for?” he shouts after me.

  I can’t have him calling Jeremy to warn him. And if he can’t remember the number, the only way he’ll warn the man is personally driving up to him. This is my last guarantee, basically, to remain incognito. It’s not 100 percent foolproof, but anything is better than nothing. At least Ward doesn’t know what we’re looking for. Jeremy would never suspect I was looking to save two little girls.

  As we walk to the car, I spot Miles rotating his arm.

  “Got a little physical back there,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he mutters.

  “You’re worried. You’ve been on the edge of losing it since you got home.”

  “I’ve been on the edge of losing it since Jayden called to tell me what happened.”

  Now it makes sense. His odd behavior goes back to his bizarre need to mother his siblings. I guess I can’t fault him for that trait. I knew about it going into this arrangement.

  We both get into the car, and I feel the need to say something to him.

  “Careful,” I say. “You don’t want to lose your head. It invites accidents.”

  Miles starts the car. “You’re right.”

  “I never thought I’d have to give you advice like that. A year ago you’d be flailing about, asking for my help.”

  “Well, I’ve taken everything you’ve said to heart.” He turns and stares at me, his dark eyes filled with a sort of energy I can’t muster at the moment. “I want to be more like you, Pierce. You’re… confident. And you know how to handle yourself.”

  Heh. It’s a good thing he can’t read minds. Self-doubt is like a fire—it’ll consume you if you stand in it too long—and I burned myself earlier tonight. Of course, none of my problems are resolved; I’ve just tabled them until I have all these emergencies taken care of. I still need to deal with reality.

  “Plus,” Miles adds as he pulls away from Copper Town. “Don’t you prefer men who are assertive? I mean, I know you liked me before, but you always seem to stare at men who are, well, forceful and gruff.”

  “You’re doing this for me?”

  “No, I just thought it was a nice benefit.”

  “Good. That’s how it should be.”

  RETIREMENT HOMES give me the creeps. Not haunted houses, not dark alleys. Retirement homes. I don’t know why—I’ve never been beaten in one and left for dead—but I’ve avoided them all my life until now. Something about the very concept of them gets under my skin. Men and women too old to live but not old enough to die…. It’s like a hellish limbo on Earth.

  This retirement home used to have a name, but not anymore. The sign sits in disrepair, the letters long gone and the lights dead. It’s not small, however. Two stories and in the shape of a U—from the outside it looks rather massive. Adjacent to the retirement home is an emergency dispatch center. Probably a good choice for one, what with the old folks right next door.

  There aren’t as many thugs as I thought there would be, but there’s enough to take note, and I can’t see inside. Pairs of bruisers circle around the perimeter, shootin’ the breeze. They must be moving bodies soon—why else have so many guys roaming the area? And that would explain why the crooked cops would opt out of the gala to work tonight’s shift. It would also explain why two cops in Joliet would go out of their way to drop off runaways. They want them gone fast.

  “How are we going to do this?” Miles asks.

  I shift behind our broken-fence hideaway. The neighborhood really is abandoned, and I suspect it was scheduled for demolition and urban improvement until Jeremy got his hands on a few parcels of property. Regardless, I lean against the busted property division and think over the problem.

  “I don’t know much about this place,” I say. “It’s not a haunt I stalked before I left the Vice family. We could try finding a guy I know—but there’s a good chance he won’t be happy to see me. Or we could go straight for the holdings and search for Lacy, but if we’re trapped in a corner with forty guns on us, we’re not leaving.”

  “How long do you think we have?”

  “What? I have no idea.”

  Miles motions to a cavalcade of semitrucks rolling down the far road, the roar of their engines dominating the area once they near. The three monstrous vehicles have grocery store advertisements across their trailers. Anyone with half a brain could see they aren’t here to pick up cabbage, but I guess no one is around to see anything at all.

  “I guess we don’t have much choice in terms of action,” I murmur as I watch the semitrucks come to a stop in front of the emergency center and retirement home. They really are moving bodies tonight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE SEMITRUCKS maneuver with the grace of a drunken bull. One by one they angle and turn around, forcing the back ends of their trailers to face the buildings. Only one semitruck can fit in the parking lot in front of the emergency dispatch center. The other two park in front of the retirement home. Once situated, the drivers jump out and open the trailers.

  Another parade of three vehicles pulls up to the party. They’re all black and sleek, one fancier than the rest and clearly a short limo. The other two are SUVs, and four men exit each one. The compact limo, on the other hand, has the one person I had hoped to avoid.

  Jeremy Vice.

  It’s not hard to tell. He’s shorter than the rest, wearing a much fancier charcoal suit, and his ears angle straight out. Miles spots him too, and his whole demeanor hardens in an instant. He pulls his gun and holds it at the ready. I place my hand on his arm and shake my head.

  “We’re not fighting all of them,” I say.

  “I know.”

  “Then don’t act like we are.”

  Miles keeps his handgun out, but he relaxes his stance and takes a deep breath.

  I sit and observe Jeremy and his men enter the retirement home. The bruisers outside, along with the truck drivers, open the trailers and prep the insides, like they’re making room for the cargo, or perhaps making cubbies among legitimate goods.

  “I’ll handle Jeremy when the time comes,” I mutter. “You focus on finding the girls.”

  Miles grits his teeth. “No. I’ll handle Jeremy.”

  I give him a one-sided smile. “I think I owe him for a couple months of my life.”

  “He shot my brother,” Miles states, venom in his voice. “He threatened to kill me. He took you away. Now he has my sister. I don’t think his harm is exclusive to you.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way. “He’ll have muscle with him at all times,” I say, hoping to cast doubt. “We shouldn’t go out of our way for a vendetta.” Maybe I would go out of my way, but I’ve run on the streets for twenty years and know how vicious some people can get. Miles shouldn’t face down Jeremy. I’m afraid he’ll learn a lesson the hard way if he does.

  Miles shifts his weight from one foot to the other, muttering things to himself. I look over, and he shakes his head. “Pierce, what’re we going to do? Should we call the cops and hope we get some of the good ones? What if we call Rhett?”

  They might not make it in time, even if we did call the cops. “Send Rhett a message. Tell him we’re trespassing on private property.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s a crime, he’ll have to do something, and he’ll know what we mean without outright stating our activities.”

  “All right. But that doesn’t solve this problem.” Miles types away
on his phone, one-handed, and gets a small paragraph out before I gather my thoughts. Tsk. He sure knows his way around a cell phone.

  “We’ll steal a truck,” I say. “We’ll get in the cab, take out the driver, pretend we’re following their group, and then break off. They won’t fight us once we reach public areas, and by then Rhett will have officers ready.”

  I hope.

  “Do you know how to drive a truck?” Miles asks.

  I open my mouth and then close it. Fuck. Are they really more difficult to drive? I don’t want to find out in the middle of a getaway. I shake my head. “We’ll force the driver to cooperate. A gun to the back of the head is a great motivator.”

  “We can’t bullshit around anymore. We need to find Lacy before they load anything.”

  I motion to the paramedic station. Since everyone is busy inside the run-down retirement home, we should be able to investigate without much hassle. Miles picks up on my gesture and scouts ahead, darting from one shadowy location to the next as he heads to the emergency dispatch center.

  I like the night, but the stillness isn’t my ally. I hobble along, my injured leg and ripped-up calf preventing me from perfect stealth. The hard click of my shoes gets my heart rate up. All it will take is one thug to spot me and we’ll lose any semblance of an advantage.

  For a moment, I wonder why everyone is inside the retirement home. If the bodies are kept in the medical areas of the paramedic dispatch building, what is Jeremy doing one building over? I grind my teeth as I duck behind an overgrown tree on the opposite side of the parking lot—I know what they’re doing. They’re fuckin’ around with the merchandise before it’s shipped out. One last hurrah before it’s no longer theirs. They aren’t taking organs, obviously, not like some of the buyers, but I’m sure they’re not keeping their hands to themselves.

  Miles runs across the street and slams his back against the dispatch building. He glances around before motioning me to join him. I follow after, taking twice as long, and stop only once I reach his side.

  “Where has everyone gone?” Miles whispers.

  “Inside.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, keeping my deductions to myself. He doesn’t need to hear any of my thoughts. It’s best not to think of Shannon and Lacy in the hands of men like Jeremy and his goons.

  I hope to God they’re in the dispatch building, drugged and awaiting shipment or something. That’s better than every other scenario I can think of.

  “One of us should go around to the back,” I say. “We enter both ways, get as much information as possible. If you think you’ll get caught, leave and we’ll meet up across the street.”

  “All right,” he replies, an unsteadiness to his voice that betrays his fear. Still, he doesn’t show it. He has his gun, he holds himself ready, and he takes off around the building. I guess I get the front.

  I move over to the glass front door and see the name of the dispatch unit, along with the address, has been scraped from the building. The inside is dark. Nothing to see and no movement. I try the door and find it open. I’d say I’m lucky, but I know that’s not the case. People are inside.

  I enter.

  Dust hangs on the air. I wrinkle my nose to stop a sneeze and continue forward. I didn’t bring a flashlight, and I wouldn’t use one, considering the situation, but I’d love to have the light. The reception desk is cast in shadow, the doors leading deeper standing ajar. I amble around and open the first one I come across, listening to the long creak as the door swings inward.

  It’s impossible to see more than two feet down the darkened hallway at any point. I scoot along, hesitant, and keep my back close to the wall. Twice I crunch down on what I think is glass. Bottles, maybe? I try to avoid them.

  I come to a T intersection at the end of the hallway, and I only know that thanks to the light emanating from under some of the doors.

  A loud bang—metal on metal, not a gunshot—echoes throughout the building. Adrenaline dumps into my system. I grab my gun, hold my breath, and continue to listen, my heart beating so hard it’s difficult to distinguish the other sounds.

  Men laughing.

  I take a deep breath. Then exhale.

  “Another, another!” someone yells.

  One of the lit rooms erupts in a round of cheering. They’re playing a game? I don’t fucking know, and I don’t want to think about it. Instead I glance down the opposite end of the hall. There are some other doors, but it’s hard to make anything out.

  The “party room” door opens, casting light into the hallway and destroying my dark-vision. I scoot back, hiding around the corner.

  “One sec,” a man says with a grunt.

  The door closes, taking the light with it, and some lowlife wearing tough reinforced clothing staggers down the hallway at an uneven pace. He passes by me—right by me—and I remain unmoving. He never turns to acknowledge me, and I suspect his vision is impaired, even if it’s not as bad as mine.

  The thug bangs on a few doors down the other hall.

  “Finish up,” he says. “Boss called. It’ll be time to move out in thirty minutes.”

  He repeats this process three times more. I get my gun ready, half tempted to shoot him right now, but what would I do then? Instead I wait as he stumbles back into the party room. The people tell him to take a seat, and I imagine most of them aren’t drunk off their asses; it’s just him.

  I take the hallway opposite the party room and trace the man’s steps. I have a choice of four doors—one secured shut with a chair posted under the handle. Keeping my handgun close, I shuffle over to the chair and push it aside. People stir behind the other three doors. They’re “finishing up” whatever it is they’re doing, and I know I need to hustle.

  I enter the blocked room and find an unmoving body atop a medical table, though the silhouettes of shapes make it impossible to see detail. I flip the light switch, but nothing happens. Of course not. This place probably doesn’t have power—any light I’ve seen is emanating from outside stuff brought in. Flashlights and lanterns, perhaps.

  Whoever is on the table isn’t Lacy or Shannon; that much I’m sure of, considering they’re an adult. I do spot paperwork, however, and I’m reminded of what Miles said about gathering evidence. Perhaps this is information from Worldwide Decurion. I don’t truly know, but I don’t mind taking that risk. It’s the least I can do for Shelby at this point. I should make sure these assholes are brought to justice, for him and his kid.

  I fold up some of the paperwork and jam it down into my pants pocket.

  Doors in the hall open and close, and I shuffle back to catch the shadowy shapes of individuals heading for the party room. Leaving the poor schmoe on the table, I return to the hallway and try another door. It’s locked from my side with a chain, and I know it’s a fixture added to the building long after it was closed down.

  I unlock the door and step in.

  “Get back!”

  I catch my breath, caught off guard by the sudden command, and I lift my gun to answer. There’s a portable lamp at the back of the room, shining bright behind the speaker. It doesn’t take me long to piece together their identity, however, and I thank whatever God above is watching.

  Lacy stands in front of Shannon, a syringe in her hand like a knife. She’s dressed in a long white T-shirt—a man’s shirt, hanging far enough to act as a short dress—and nothing else. No shoes, no socks. She glares at me with a determined passion I’ve seen in a few rare men, like she’s ready to kill me if needed. Shannon, on the other hand, huddles near the wall, her long brown hair draped over her face as she hugs her knees to her chest. She too wears a long men’s T-shirt.

  “I said, get back!” Lacy says, holding the syringe high, her fingers tight around the glass and her thumb on the plunger.

  I guess she doesn’t recognize me in the shadows of the doorframe. I step up into the light and lower my weapon.

  “Lacy, keep quiet.”

  Her eyes
go wide, and her mouth hangs open. “Pierce?” she whispers. “How did you—”

  “Shh,” I hiss.

  I walk over to her, and she hesitates. After fidgeting with her long black hair, she hands over the medical instrument. I pocket the thing in my jacket, keeping the needle tucked into the corner, unsure of where she got it. I flinch as Lacy throws her arms around my torso in a tight hug.

  I don’t think she’s ever touched me before, let alone embraced me. I pat her shoulder, awkward about the whole situation. I feel her hands twist into my jacket, like she doesn’t want to let go.

  My gut hurts. I’d push her away, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead I wait.

  Finally Lacy releases me, her expression one of mixed emotions, unlike a few seconds ago. I kneel down and rest my weight on one knee.

  “Are you hurt?” I ask in a hushed voice, glancing from Lacy to Shannon. “Can you both… walk?”

  I don’t know what to ask them, or even say. I swear I’ll kill the son of a bitch who hurt them, but that won’t change whatever’s happened.

  Lacy grabs my jacket sleeve, her grip tight. “There were police officers. They got in their car. They took us here, all the way from Joliet. They wouldn’t talk to us. I thought we were in trouble.”

  She speaks fast and takes quick breaths between short sentences. I listen, keeping my attention on her, but she won’t meet my gaze. She stares off to the side.

  “They said we had to wait here,” Lacy continues. “And then other people came to see us. They had guns. They told us to take off our clothes. I told them no. Shannon did too. But they didn’t listen. They had guns. We didn’t want to. We told them no.”

  “I understand.”

  “We didn’t want to,” Lacy repeats, this time staring at me with glassy eyes.

  “I believe you,” I say.

  “Shannon cried, and… and then they gave us shirts. And then a man asked us a bunch of questions. He had so many needles. He took our blood.”

  I grit my teeth. At least these assholes had some humanity. When two little girls started crying, they handed over shirts.