A warm, slightly metallic voice comes across the intercom. “Thank you for joining us today. Pull up to the portico and leave your car in the drive. We’ll be there to greet you.”
Anders snorts. “Human traffickers really are the very best at customer service.”
A grumble of agreement goes around the enormous vehicle and my lip curls in anticipation of making the world one pit of despair lighter.
The house is stunning, a sort of effortless California-style white adobe with dark wood accents. We follow the instructions and are approached by three behemoth men, who escort us inside.
As soon as the door closes, Abigail turns on the guy closest to her, dealing him a vicious groin blow that bends him in half, giving her the opportunity to palm strike his nose before pulling her weapon and delivering a silenced double-tap to the head. Thane makes quick work of the other ogre-like guard in a similar fashion, but it’s not as impressive.
The third guy holds up his hands. “I don’t know anything.”
I smile, raise my weapon, and put two in his skull.
Fuck, that feels good.
These guys knew what was being done and were often in charge of transporting unwilling victims, so my sympathy is at zero for the motherfuckers. Anders isn’t the only Bash who takes pleasure in killing child predators. I’m just more discreet about it.
I never bother with the names. While Anders has memorized the name of every person he’s killed, I’m the opposite. They forfeited their humanity when they chose to hurt people. They don’t get a fucking name.
The Berts, our local body disposal duo, are excited to be getting larger bodies since they slow down the decomposition process, making for richer compost. Or something like that. I tend to tune out when Bert Jr. starts talking about putrefaction cycles.
God, I miss Millie and Dave.
We specifically brought Abigail and Rafi with us since children seem to respond to them better. We split off. Abigail and Rafi head toward the children’s quarters while Thane and I move in on the lead asshole. Anders is keeping tabs in the living room. According to our corroborated data, there should only be one more guard between us and the dickhead in charge.
We follow Jake’s map to the back and find our man-of-the-hour dressed in a white silk robe and napping on a very expensive-looking lounge under a cabana. We anticipated staff, who we planned on taking out as well, but it’s Sunday, and there’s only a young woman standing by at this jack-wagon’s beck and call. I realize with a sinking in my belly that this dead-eyed girl looks like an older teen, one who’s likely aged out of his service.
She sees us and goes absolutely still. She doesn’t utter a peep as Thane makes quick work of the remaining guard. I point at the napping dishrag and make a slashing motion at my neck. I then point to her, directing her to go to the living room. She quietly follows my direction, stepping over the dead guard to stand by Anders.
I send my brother a look and he picks up his phone. Protocol is to relay a message to Parker so she can make arrangements at SAFE, a local center for rape and sexual abuse that also specializes in people who’ve been enslaved and trafficked.
Meanwhile, Naps McDouchebag is still lights out, completely unaware of the fact that we’re going to ruin his day. Working quickly, Thane, who is lighter on his feet than you’d think, sneaks up on him and administers the paralytic. I take some of my favorite rope, nicer than he deserves, and give him a beautifully tied noose, which I attach to the back of the sturdy chase lounge. I lean his pliant body forward, putting him in a classic auto-asphyxiation pose.
It’ll look like personal erotica gone bad.
Thane and I make our way back into the living room with Anders and the young woman and, seconds later, we’re joined by Abigail, Rafi, and a preteen boy.
I stand in front of the kid, trying to block his view of the tableau I’ve left of What’s-His-Britches. “Are you okay?”
His lips remain pressed together, his shoulders drawn in and up, but he goes with us willingly. I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. We try to cover his eyes as we head toward the front door, but he drops his shoulders and pushes our hands away. He lifts his chin, looking down his nose at the dead bodies.
He can’t be more than ten fucking years old.
We’re stopped in our tracks by a familiar-looking rat bastard coming in from a hallway bathroom.
“Hey, where’s that sweet piece of meat you were saving for me?” The skeevy politician greases his way into the living room, fiddling with his matching white silk robe. Color me shocked that he’s a child predator. The kid in question steps behind Abigail; Rafi covers him from the back and they quietly make their way out the door.
The lying senator finally looks up from his robe fiddling. “What the—”
Not nearly as stupid as his slack-jawed expression would indicate, he holds his hands up. “I’m a powerful man. You can ask for anything, and I’ll get it for you.”
Thane steps forward to, I don’t know, rip the man’s head from his body? I stop him with a hand on his arm. “I’ve got a better idea. There’s an extra length of rope in the car.”
The senator’s eyes go round as Thane grips him while Abigail confirms the request and brings in the rope a few seconds later.
Anders taps his chin. “Rope, yes. But before then, may I suggest seeing if the senator has any information that might be useful to us?”
Thane nods and hands him over to us before walking up to one of the dead guards and flipping him over his shoulder.
