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Dying pure becomes Plan B.
She can’t be caught. She’s programmed to destroy the evidence.
Sick, right? That’s how cults work. Everything wrong is right, and everything right is whatever the leaders say. There is no objective truth. No morality outside of what you’re told is ethical.
You’re being mindfucked.
And the thought of Paigelynn being fucked in any way other than by me fills me with unspeakable rage.
Then there’s a whole different issue.
What if I’m wrong?
What if Paigelynn isn’t the woman we’re searching for?
Sending in a rescue team for a woman who’s just some rich, pampered heiress sets back our entire operation for, well...
Forever.
A mistake like that shuts us down hard.
There’s so much at stake here. I can’t fuck it up.
Can’t reveal what I know.
Have to do this solo.
Be there shortly. Ran too far. On my way back. Out of shape, I lie to Newman with a few finger strokes, my eyes on Paigelynn as I send the message back to the team.
Am I being surveilled? If so, they saw me talk to her. Need a cover story.
The lady’s cat was missing. I ran past and she asked if I’d seen it.
Newman will make a pussy joke.
I will try not to punch him in the face.
This should work.
Paigelynn picks up Winnie and kisses the dog over and over, giggles floating on the wind. She is so sweet and naive, hand-tailored by men who plan to do nothing but take from her.
Drain her.
Turn her into a commodity to be harvested.
And then throw her away.
All with her unwitting consent.
Turning her over to Debbie means she’ll get protection, but the feds don’t always know what they’re doing. Witness protection isn’t as good as it used to be, and the fact that I hacked into the US Marshals Service computer system and barely broke a sweat gives me zero confidence in them.
No.
Paigelynn needs something more.
Way more.
More like me.
