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“Well?” I ask them, gripping the photos tightly.
“These are not our doing. Three bodies, at least, and now a fourth. We’ve got no images of the most recent killing yet,” the guy with the glasses says. “But our source on the inside said there was a token left behind on that body. One of the Syndicate’s. Yet none of these are ours.”
A token?
Shit, the lighter. The token that indicates a warning to others that a death is linked back to us. But if these kills aren’t ours, then someone must be posing as a copycat, which means they aren’t hits at all but a message.
A chill slivers up my spine and buries itself between my shoulder blades.
Also…source insidewhere?
These guys must be another team working under Broderick now, one I’ve never interacted with before. One withsources.
I flip through the photos again, noting details and names and dates typed on the backside of each. “I’m guessing this killer is the first on my list?” I ask.
“The killer is already dead,” Horn-Rimmed Glasses says. “Broderick himself took the pleasure.”
I can stand a lot of things, but thinking about the devil himself slaughtering someone makes me realize this may be bigger, much bigger, than my initial impression. Thinking about these men working under Broderick, all the secrets and lies, it makes me sick.
My mask fits firmly over my features to keep them apathetic, indifferent, and distant. I contain my surprise the way I always do.
“Why do you need me, then?” It’s a simple, straightforward question.
The men glance at each other once and the exchanged look tells me more than they want me to know.
No one is going to tell me shit if I’m not careful. These types don’t reveal more than they think I’m allowed to know. I stay quiet and wait for them to continue.
“You’ve hunted trash for the ring before. We want to know who is really behind the killings. The killer is only a piece at the bottom of a pyramid. We’re interested in the man at the top who poses a threat to Broderick. Who sent the man out? And why was he told to make it look like your style?” Horn-Rimmed replies.
My headache grows from a dull throb to a full-out icepick in my temples. “That shouldn’t be too hard for anyone to find out. But why me?” I hold up the photographs. “You can put anyone on this. It’s menial.”
There’s a world of intrigue and connections lurking beneath the surface of the Black Market Syndicate. The more I do, the less likely it is I’ll lose a piece of me or two along the way, and that’s the way it’s always been.
Now I’m being taken from contract killer to some kind of tracker and I don’t like it.
“We were told you wouldn’t ask questions,” the other man grumbles.
“I don’t normally have a fucking rogue in my game messing things up,” I retort. “I’m entitled to a little curiosity.”
“Broderick says you’ll work with us, at our discretion, which puts you on a need to know basis going forward,” Horn-Rimmed says with dull finality. “You’re lucky you’re good at what you do. You’ve taken more of my time than I blocked out for this meeting with your hesitation. Find our real mastermind. That’s all.”
Just like that, my leash has been handed off to someone else and they’re tugging hard, exerting their dominance.
Horn-Rimmed and his buddy walk away, giving me their backs, and I know better than to call after him. To demand answers I’ll never get. Not even if I push my gun into his mouth and cock it. Instead, I wait until they’re both out of sight before I leave the gas station and head back to the car.
What I do, the rules I break, puts me in danger. I accept the terms. I knew them all when I got into this gig. But it makes me wary.
I’m careful.
So fucking careful that no one will ever find out how I do things. It doesn’t make the feeling of eyes on me any easier.
And now these women…
I’ve never had a problem following blindly before. And a part of me wants justice for those poor victims of circumstance. The other part rages against the disgust of having to act like a detective.
Like Layla.
I sprawl in the driver’s seat of my car with the folder on my lap. According to the notes on the back, these women were all hookers who wound up dead in some kind of connection to our cocaine ring. Supposedly. Someone took a lot of time to make sure these deaths led back to the Black Market Syndicate. They all wound up dead and mutilated and for some reasonI’msupposed to find out who ordered the hits?
