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“Well, that’s a shame,” said the man. “I like the tattoo. See, it says that you’re my property, and since you’re my property, that means I get to do what I want with you. Anything I want with you.”
Panicked, she kicked out, hitting his shin with her cowboy boot. She took off toward the well-traveled street and heard the footsteps behind her. She got turned around, searching for the club where she’d left her friends. Ducking inside another bar, she then ran toward the back to the ladies’ room.
Pushing ahead of the line of women, she went into the open stall, locking the door.
“Hey! There’s a line, you know,” said a girl.
“Please, please be quiet. Someone is chasing me.” The girl in the line looked behind her but didn’t see anyone.
“I’ll go get the manager,” she said. “You stay right here.”
Lifting her feet, she prayed that the manager would return and help her, or better yet, call the police. The crowd of people outside was loud, and she hoped that meant that nothing was different. Hearing footsteps, she waited a moment, then spoke.
“Is that you? Did you find the manager?” A large hand gripped the top of the door, jerking it forward, and she screamed. It didn’t matter. It was completely drowned out by the loud music. Her menace was standing before her.
“I am the manager, baby. The only manager you’re ever going to have.”
CHAPTER TWO
“I’ve got another one,” whispered Callan into his comms piece.
He busied himself at the table while the young woman looked around, trying to find another tattoo to cover her own with. Sending out the signal, he knew that others would come into the shop soon and question the ninth young person in the last few weeks about their tattoo.
Having owned one of the most successful tattoo parlors in the Quarter, Callan was thrilled to be working with his old teammates on their property. Crescent City Tattoos was known throughout the southeast and beyond. Connected to Steel Patriots Cycles, he and the artistic team with SP Cycles often shared their artistic ideas and images, making them doubly successful.
Sometimes, a guy would see a tattoo that Callan did and request it on the gas tank of his motorcycle. Or the reverse. They would see a photo of one of the SP bikes and request it to be a tattoo. It benefited them both.
When they first contacted Callan when his shop was in New Orleans, he was originally assigned to help with a case about strange tattoos. With an Army background, they knew he was more than capable of helping them beyond just tattoos.
It was then that they offered him a permanent position with the team and where he met his wife and love.
Juliette Rose English was the only child of MARSOC legend Wade ‘Whiskey’ English and his wife, Katarina.
Much younger than Callan, she’d come on hard to him. But the older man knew that she was playing a game she didn’t understand. Slowly, she got wise and realized she needed to be friends before she became a girlfriend. While she was in law school, she asked him to accompany her on a study cruise, which led to more shit than he cared to remember.
But it also led to them falling in love and Callan giving her that first tattoo she’d always wanted. In a very special location. Although technically not part of the Gray Wolf team, his father-in-law was, and this seemed like a mystery they could handle.
“Alright, let’s see the tattoo you want covered,” he said, wheeling his chair back to the table.
“It’s on my left shoulder,” said the young girl. “I wanted something really pretty, like a flower, and this is what the guy gave me. I have no idea what it means.”
“You didn’t look it up?” he asked.
“No, I was too worried to look it up. Do you speak or read Chinese? I mean, I think it’s Chinese,” she asked.
“I do. I speak and read it,” said Whiskey, walking into the shop.
He’d been working next door at the bike shop when Callan sent the message. Nine was coming in the back door from the property entrance, also wanting to learn more about the strange random tattoos.
“Cool. What does it mean?” she asked.
“Possession or property. Someone was putting a property tag on you,” he said, staring at the characters.
“Wh-what?” she whispered.
“My guess is that someone, sooner or later, would have picked you up, claiming that they owned you,” he said. “We’ve seen things like this before, especially with child trafficking and gangs. Someone is labeling people.”
“Oh, shit. Please, please get that off of me,” she said, panicked.
