8
Patrena
A week later…
A smile came easy at the thought of the news update Mecca had texted me hours ago. I’d had to miss Arjen and Desiree’s wedding because of a mission I was currently in the process of carrying out. When Mecca texted that Arjen had dragged Khane to the altar so Khane could marry Desiree, I screamed.
“Talk about things working out for the better,” I mumbled to myself, my smile uncontained at the wonderful turn of events.
When I wasn’t thinking about work or my friend’s safety, Tywin resided in my mind like he lived there, disturbing my normal vibe. I missed and craved him like he had been my man. How could someone make such an impact in one damn day? You would’ve thought I had known the man for months versus less than a day.
However, I was woman enough to deal with the loss and move on with my life. A deep sigh helped me concentrate on the dangerous undertaking I was about to be engaged in.
I parked the gray soccer-mom-style Caravan I was driving three streets away from the house I was about to break into. My plan: rescue a mother and child from a monster that held them captive. Margo was the wife of a big-time business mogul who was also a dedicated member to the syndicate.
The woman had been too shaken and on such a tight schedule she had never been able to meet me at my office. On the days when she was allowed out of the house for her mandated bi-weekly beauty appointments, she met with me in the bathroom of the salon we visited.
The stories she divulged and the heart-wrenching emotions that flowed naturally while telling them translated to her and her three-year-old-son living in a prison. She had gone to the authorities only to have them thwart her efforts to make a case against her tyrant of a husband.
Whenever he injured her, a doctor on his payroll who made house calls, would patch her up. She told me he would lock them inside his fortress every night, knowing he was the only one with the codes and keys. The only way to help Margo and her son escape was to break in and get them out.
During the daylight hours, I worked with women to inspire strength and coach them on safe ways to leave the men who hurt them. When a child was involved and the woman had no avenues of escape through legal channels, I was willing to risk it all to save them during the night hours.
“Lady D, Lady E, Lady A, are you all in place?” I called out after exiting the van and jetting out of the light to cling to the shadows until I reached my target.
“All clear here,” Lady D called back into the earpiece I wore.
“Things are looking lovely,” Lady E sang.
“The door will be open in about five seconds,” Lady A informed me, and I could picture her typing codes that would allow her to break through the state-of-the-art security system the asshole had set up to keep his wife and son prisoner.
I was a member of a small group we called the LoC, Ladies of Chaos, founded, funded, and headed up by none other than Mecca Evans. There were seven of us and when any one of us needed a hand in matters that weren’t necessarily legal and involved a high dose of danger, we all jumped into the fray without batting an eyelash.
Zelda was Lady Z. She was also known as ‘The Undertaker’ and was an assistant medical examiner. She had the ability to find out more information from a dead body than a cop during an interrogation. She could also wave her magic wand over a body and make it disappear. Lady B, Desiree was also known as the Bookkeeper. She was our little sneaky fly on the wall who could find out all manner of secrets and dig up the kind of information that got people killed.
Shana was Lady A. She was our tech specialist and resident hacker. We had given her the name Alexa because she was so good with the tech stuff that you could call in almost any type of task and she had the ability to break into it, manipulate it, or duplicate it.
Lady D was our death specialist. She also had special training in demolition and explosives. Lady M, Mecca, was our founder and you-name-it specialist. Lady E was our eyes and skilled sharpshooter. She was also a bit of a voyeur who enjoyed spying on people and was able to plant and set up a camera almost anywhere. I was Lady P, following in our founder’s footsteps and becoming an all-around Jack-of-all-trades kind of lady.
Were we a gang? I didn’t think so. I liked to think of us as more of a social club with activities that involved, but were not limited to hacking, body disposal, spying, eavesdropping, evidence tampering, breaking and entering, thievery, and the occasional death if it couldn’t be avoided. Mecca had accepted me into the group four years ago after I had fully earned her trust.
In an all-black jumpsuit and black ski mask, I was more like a burglar than the trusted counselor people knew me to be. The night pressed down on my shoulders like heavy hands, the clouds eerily thick in the sky. My heart hammered and my nerves hummed with tension, but I ignored my internal alarm systems and focused on the mission. Defensive training from the past along with the tactical training I underwent in the LoC gave me the courage I needed to face whatever I was supposed to fear.
The sensible part of my brain, my trusted advisor, always yelled for me to stop the madness before I got myself killed, but I was the living manifestation of “a hard head making a soft ass” and unable to stomach the idea of blameless victims being trapped in hopeless situations.
Tonight, and like times before, I ignored my natural instincts to avoid danger and ran my ass towards the large brick house like a moving shadow. I had no choice. The rescue of this twenty-three-year-old mother and her three-year-old son was paramount. To help those who believed their situation was helpless. That was my driving motivation.
In checking into the husband’s background, I’d found that Trevor Livingston was a fifty-year-old who’d had two previous younger wives die in so-called accidents. I was convinced the asshole had dished out the cash to make it all disappear after he’d killed them just so he could move on to his next unsuspecting victim.
I hadn’t hesitated to put a rescue plan together after Margo, the wife, had sneaked me a video from the home security footage of the mental, physical, and verbal abuse she and her son suffered daily. It had taken me a few weeks to get her and her son new identities, a place to go, and connected to someone who could help them once they arrived at their final destination.
She had met me in the salon bathroom four times, sneaking me information, pictures, and anything I needed to help her and her son. She had told me that I’d been recommended to her from another woman I had helped escape the year prior. Then she’d gone on to explain that the reason she hadn’t run already was that the husband kept possession of their son each time he let her out of the house. Now, I was creeping along their well-manicured lawn with the ladies watching my back.
Sunday night was the only night when there was one guard on duty at the well-appointed estate. The guard was making his rounds and headed to the back of the property while I was trekking to the front door.
“Lady A,” I called.
“Alarm taken care of. The door is open,” her sweet voice pinged in my ear.