The doors were wide open, as if they had nothing to worry about and that only intrigued me more as I drew closer. Brendan Rhymer, Savannah’s older brother and second in command of The Crusaders, stood in front of the doors of the red container with a dark smile on his face. I heard him say, “Open it up. Let’s see the product.”
Drugs. The Crusaders sold any and everything, even the synthetic shit that came over from China. We didn’t sell that shit because it inevitably brought more law around and that was bad for Ashby business. But the fuckers that did? They had to pay a pretty Goddamn penny to the family just for having it around.
“Open the fucking doors!” His voice echoed throughout the hangar and everyone froze for a brief moment before they all returned to their assigned tasks.
The doors opened and Brendan stepped back, raking a hand through his curly blond hair. “Come on out. Don’t be afraid. Not yet anyway.” My stomach fell at his words, and I moved down a few windows to get a better look.
I fucking wished I hadn’t looked but it was my job to look, goddammit. One by one they stepped out of the first container, six Asian women, two Hispanic women, and then five boys and three girls, all of them had to be under ten and all from somewhere in Asia. “Motherfucker.”
Human trafficking. It was part of The Crusaders business model, but it was a fucking sore spot for me. This shit wouldn’t stand. I couldn’t let it.
And I wouldn’t.
I ran back to the car, hopped in, and started the engine, fuming as white-hot anger roared through my veins.
“You get what you need?” Cal asked question after question like an excited puppy and I just…couldn’t.
“You get anything on film?”
Cal nodded. “I used one of the drones to get inside and record but the footage is dark so I need to pretty it up in my lab before we show it to Ma and Jasper. What is it?”
“Fucking people. Women and kids. Fucking kids, Cal.” He knew, like all of us boys knew, what happened to little kids in the care of adults who did terrible things. Awful things that no kid could ever recover from.
Not ever.
“Fuck,” Cal groaned and smacked the dashboard. “I’ll clean this footage up fast. Meet you at Ma’s salon in the morning?”
I nodded and we made the rest of the drive in silence, thinking about a time when we were those little boys.
Scared.
Alone.
Abused.
Chapter Eight
Maisie
Was I really such a sucker for a pretty face and big hard muscles that I was willing to overlook some major red flags for a chance at a little fun? Abso-fucking-lutely, I was. Which probably explained why I was up early to talk to the man upstairs.
“Bless me, Father Eric, but I haven’t sinned.”
“Maisie,” he said from the other side of the whole privacy screen that did nothing to hide the smile in his voice. “We’ve been over this.”
“I know,” I sighed. “But I don’t think I’ve sinned. I haven’t stolen or killed or anything like that. But I wanted to talk.” His silence said he wasn’t convinced, but it was Father Eric along with Peaches who taught me to never be afraid of my own beliefs.
“If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine.”
“Sit down, Maisie.” The man might have no kids, but he had the dad voice down to perfection. “What brings you in?”
“Trouble. I think. Of the male variety.” I told him what I could about Virgil without revealing all the details. “Am I crazy?”
“No,” he assured me quickly. “God gave all of his children, animals and humans, instincts for a reason. Listen to them.”
That wasn’t helpful because my instincts said Virgil was hot. Really hot and that whole bad boy thing, but a real bad boy with tats and bruised knuckles to show for it, had a certain appeal that faux bad boys just couldn’t provide.
It didn’t matter to me that he was probably into some sketchy shit. Some people thought the same thing about Gunnar and the Bastards. Hell, there were people who thought the same about Uncle Max and the other Reckless Bastards. Those people were fucking idiots.
“So I should ignore that feeling that says things might blow up in my face and do what I want?”
“No. Listen to your instincts and decide for yourself if that’s fear you’re feeling or caution.”
“Great thanks. Any Hail Mary’s?”
“No,” he said with another smile in his voice. “You know we can always talk in my office, or in the church garden.”
“Yeah, I know, but confession makes me feel like a secret agent. Or a real Catholic.”
“Anytime you’re ready, Maisie, I’m here.”
“I’m not sure if I’m ready for that yet, Father. But thank you.” I slipped out of the confessional and made my way to school.