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I’m not surprised I haven’t heard of them. As long as there are people with money and the need for power in all its forms, there’ll be a new group to fill the void in depravity.
It’s a reason the Obsidian Knights, the elite, highly secretive society I am part of, exists.
Sometimes the only answer is to fight bad with a different kind of monster.
People like us.
The bad guys versus the worse guys.
“Not exactly.” Smith gestures at the iPad. “Read on.”
I twist one of my silver rings as I do, skipping over a few of the more detailed things they’ve done. I’ll read that later, but it’s not what he wants me to read now. He wants me tuned in to the where and how they run their operations.
Delicate infiltration of elite groups and long-term extractions would be best in this situation if you weren’t trying to rock boats.
That kind of approach isn’t in my wheelhouse, though. I’m heavy artillery. I’ll either keep someone alive against the odds, or make them very, very dead.
Quickly.
And while I can do that invisible or like a fucking fireworks display, I don’t do being seen long term; I don’t do undercover.
“I’m going to ask once, Smith. Why the fuck are you showing me? This kind of job looks like it needs someone like Malone running it.”
He cuts a look my way. “No.”
I take another pull on the rum. I’m too fucking sober for this shit. Way too sober for whatever game Smith’s playing.
“These people own a lot of properties,” he says. “And a lot of small private islands, places where they can do whatever the fuck they want. They have one off the Gulf. Rumor is they’re currently keeping people there for auctions that are scheduled to take place in the next week. Most of those people who end up there aren’t ever seen again.” He goes back to the window, waving a hand at the iPad. “And if they are, let’s say it’s not fucking good when they’re found.”
“Sex trade?” Because based on the reports in the file, the piano virtuoso and many of the other victims were found dead. Supposedly the reports weren’t given to the police.
“Something,” he says, sipping his gin, “like that. My client’s worried about a girl who’s fallen onto their radar. Her name is Dakota. Dakota Hunt. Orion, I need you to go undercover as a new Collector?—”
“This is more Malone, like I already said.” I rake a hand through my hair.
He turns away from the window to face me. “He’s already infiltrated them on a mission for another client, trying to identify the people in charge.”
I shake my head. “I’m not the rich-fuck type.” Anymore.
“There’s no type.” Smith downs the rest of his drink in an almost nervous move. “And having Malone close to the girl won’t work.”
“Because he’ll fuck her?”
The look on Smith’s face is beyond interesting.
“This is your cover.” He hands me a file folder that’s on the side table. “It’s close enough to you. Ex-military. This Jaxson made his billions playing all sides and selling cutting-edge, top secret hardware to governments and private groups.”
“Jaxson Carter?” I make a face at the top page. Jaxson was my name in a former life… one who died years ago. And one I don’t particularly care to resurrect.
“You’re already vetted.”
“I don’t give a shit. I never said I’m taking it.”
“The girl… She’s very pretty, innocent,” he says, a scratch to his voice, barely detectable except to someone like me. “She’s an influencer, an internet star, whatever the fuck that is. But she’s also an art student, and she was targeted for this cruise by a couple of big names in the Manhattan art world.”
“There’s a whole fucking group of Knights who can…” I stop talking and hold up a hand. “Wait. You want me in case things go to shit. Because you think things will. Getting her out isn’t a matter of just sending someone in to do the extraction; it’s having me there if you need someone to blow a hole in everything. So…” I let out a deep sigh and roll my eyes. “I’ll blow this shit up and get the girl.”
“It’s delicate. The client wants the best. There’s a yacht cruising around Miami. It’s been operating for the past two weeks, stopping every few days at a specific port for more guest pickups. There are groomers on board the yacht who’ve invited these targeted ‘guests.’ They either fly into Miami or drive there, then wait for the yacht at the port. The Collectors use the groomers to brainwash the sex slave targets once they get on board, making them vulnerable to all kinds of sick and twisted shit using drugs and alcohol.”
