20
BRANDON
“D o the dates match?” The thud of my feet through heavy foot traffic doesn’t drown out Grayson’s murmur of agreement. Dimitri’s disclosure Saturday morning was more helpful to Grayson’s personal campaign than my own, but one thread binds us all together, so any discoveries benefit us all.
Three days after Katie’s sale, Tobias’s team raided a Russian-strong sanction. Their operation was oddly similar to the one Dimitri mentioned. They imprisoned girls like the Sicilian operation we endeavored to dismantle when Tobias was killed, but they didn’t rape and torture their captives. The more pure they were, the higher their selling price.
Don’t get me wrong, the women who refused to follow orders at the drop of a hat were beaten into submission, and a handful were killed, but the head of that operation soon realized his virginal mail-order brides fetched double the price of his standard offerings. It meant the age of the girls taken got younger and younger as the years went on. They needed them to be pure in every sense of the word and young enough to be brainwashed into believing life as they knew it was over, which meant they typically sourced girls in the ten-to- thirteen-year age bracket.
Katie was a year, almost two older because she wasn’t procured in the normal way. She was picked up by a rival associate before being subsequently sold to the Bobrovs. From my understanding, that was the first time the Bobrovs had paid for someone. They usually kidnapped them. I don’t know if her uncommon purchase was the reason Kirill took an instant liking to her, but it’s not often you can find sense in the madness of the underworld.
With Grayson’s silence weighing heavily on my shoulders, I issue a plea I haven’t given him in a very long time. “We’ll find her, Grayson. It just takes time.”
“Time I don’t fucking have.” He breathes heavily before saying, “I’ve got to go, BJ. I’ll be in touch.”
Not giving me the chance to reply, he disconnects our call. That’s so unlike him. He usually hackles me about calling Melody, so for him to forget, he must have a lot on his mind.
Or perhaps he’s sick of reminding you how much of a fuckhead you are?
Ignoring the highly-accurate voice in my head, I enter Harlow’s bakery to grab a morning pick-me-up. Between Alex’s demanding work ethic and my private investigations, I’m lucky to get three to four hours of sleep a night. I’m zonked.
My eyes float up from the ground when my arrival in the almost dead-quiet bakery is greeted by a friendly voice. “Oh, good, you’ve arrived. I was getting worried I’d need to make them fresh again.”
I greet Harlow, the owner of Harlow’s Scrumptious Bakery with a smile before joining her near the coffee machine. “Make what again?”
“The coffees.” She cocks a brow before waving her hand over a dozen coffees in easy-to-carry cupholders. “Izzy usually picks them up by now, but I’ve not heard from her yet.” She raises her begging eyes to mine. “You work with her, right? Could you take them for me? I really don’t want them to go to waste. I can throw a handful of extra cookies in for you. Peanut butter and choc chip, right?” She takes a quick breather while moving to the section of the bakery where the cookies are stored. After stuffing half a dozen into a plain white paper bag, she stacks them on top of the coffees before handing them to me. “I really appreciate you doing this for me,” she murmurs like I had a choice. “I don’t want Izzy getting in trouble because her brains were banged out on the headboard if you know what I mean.”
When she waggles her brows, the truth smacks into me. Izzy didn’t spend her weekend knee-deep in old case files like me. She was being entertained by a man, and if the knot in my stomach is anything to go by, I know exactly which one.
Harlow stops busying herself with the coffee machine when I call her name. “If you see Izzy this morning, can you make out this was my idea?” When suspicion crosses her features, I quickly gabble out, “She got in the shit with the boss for a bad write-up she handed in on my behalf. I need to kiss ass to make it up to her.”
“There are better ways to get back in someone’s good graces than lying, Brandon,” Harlow retorts, her tone low.
“I know.” For the first time in years, my ability to lie on the spot shines brightly. “I’m just unsure what else I can do.” When the sternness in her eyes lessens, I mutter, “I’m up for any pointers you’re willing to give.”
Her facial expression switches from wary to friendly in a nanosecond when she takes pity on my stupidly boyish face. “All right. I’m willing to help you out… after you’ve delivered the coffees.”
Smiling, I lift my chin in thanks before making my way to the bakery door. The chime above the door has only just dinged when Harlow suggests for me to return with a notebook so I can jot down her ‘dating tips.’ Mercifully, the heavy flow of traffic that forever impedes the streets of Ravenshoe drowns out my disappointed groan.
I HAVE a new fondness for dictation when I leave Harlow’s bakery for the second time today. She was as serious about the notepad as she was about me writing down every syllable she uttered. Years ago, I liked having boyishly handsome features that made me appear weak to my competitors. Now, I fucking hate it.
The past three hours was pure torture. I know as well as the next man that I have a lot to learn about the female species, but tell me one time you’ve crammed a lifetime of lessons into one three-hour study session. Melody is practically a genius, but even she would need more than three hours to digest everything Harlow just shared.
If it weren’t for the little tidbits of Izzy’s weekend she disclosed unknowingly, I would have pulled the gay card two hours ago. Alas, I’ve been more an agent than a man the past six years.
I climb the stairs to work off the dozen or so cookies Harlow fed me to keep me awake during her lecture. After dumping my leather satchel and notepad onto my desk, I make a beeline for the supply room where key members of the Bureau conduct strategy meetings to deliver the lunch Harlow made for Izzy.
I’m taken back when I discover Izzy with her back braced against the shelves. Her face is colorless, and she looks like she’s been crying. I haven’t dealt with a crying girl for years. I don’t know if I have what’s needed for this job, but I have no choice but to suck it up. Izzy spotted my approach the instant the door creaked open.
“I heard you had to work through your lunch break.” I join her sitting on the floor before leaning in to bump my shoulder against hers like an A-grade fucking moron. I told you I’m not cut out for this shit.
She cleans away the blobs of mascara under her eyes while saying, “Yeah. I think Alex is more watchful than either of us perceived.”
I delivered the coffees to our office as per Harlow’s request. Since Izzy was on deck, I gave them to her to distribute with the hope Alex would fail to notice she had arrived late. Either annoyed his coffee was stone-cold, or smarter than he looks, Alex took his annoyance out on Isabelle by demanding she work through lunch for her tardiness.
Once the mess is cleared from Izzy’s face, I ask, “Why are you crying?”
She hands me a photograph that has scarcely chewed cookie dough racing up my food pipe. This is an image I anticipated seeing in Tobias’s files at some stage, but it shouldn’t be in the evidence Isabelle is scanning in the Bureau’s mainframes.
