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Spectre
The address I’d been given was on a winding road that would eventually meander through the Smoky Mountain National Park. It was dotted with a mix of residential homes and rental cabins. Some of the homes looked like a stiff wind might blow them off, while others likely cost in the high six figures, minimum.
All he’d provided was an address with instructions to text once I’d arrived.
His secrecy wasn’t helping his case. I’d been there nearly an hour, waiting, going through the information packet he’d finally uploaded to a secure account. The taste in my mouth had gone from bad to worse with every passing minute.
Even before she came out of the cabin, I’d already made my decision, but the sight of her kept me locked in place. Or...well, it kept me from leaving.
I’d been doing this too long to be caught doing something so obvious as staring. I’d brought out a camera and set up like I was taking pictures of an empty stretch of land at the end of the road, using that cover to get in various angles of the entire area.
Through the lens of the camera, I was able to get the occasional look at her face and something about her features kept tugging my attention back to her. She was pretty, of course. But I’d had my share of women, ranging from homely to plain to attractive to beautiful. It wasn’t her looks, or rather, it wasn’t just her looks.
She had a jaw that was both strong and elegant and it was set in a firm line as she moved down the driveway to speak to a big, broad man who stood there yelling and gesticulating.
Other than a faint flicker of her eyes, which I caught through the high-powered camera lens, there was no reaction.
I frowned as the overweight tourist from town pulled up, both him and his wife climbing out of their car. The round guy went to the side of my would-be target, while his wife headed up to the house. I looked away, shooting a few more shots of the land and the neighboring trees, before casually looking back to see the woman sitting down next to a girl with hair the same rich, dark brown. There were other kids, too. I had noticed the unhappy one sitting on the ground by the vehicles in the large, double-wide driveway and two more had left since the woman had come out, urging the unhappy kid along in front of her.
When she put her phone to her ear, I grimaced because there was only one logical explanation. She’d called the cops. After packing up my equipment, I’d sat in my car under the pretense of taking notes, although I still watched her and the men with her, one clearly angry, the other hovering nearby protectively. Mr. Tourist from Gatlinburg played a nice white knight.
Still, my gaze went back to her. For a few moments, I forgot entirely why I was there. Human interaction, the play of emotions I could see over a person’s face, had always intrigued me. Emotions, and my lack of ability to fully understand them, were so intriguing. But her face, serene and remote even as she faced a man who would likely inspire rage in others, never changed.
Another woman came into view. I’d caught glimpses of her as she shifted and moved, but mostly, she’d been hidden by the angry, aggressive man. Now she spoke to him and his obvious anger grew until I wondered if he might strike her.
As I scanned the area once more, a car turned onto the road.
A rare flicker of irritation roused, dying as fast as it formed. The cops had arrived quickly. Seconds later, the prick noticed and backed down.
I found myself wondering what I would have done if he’d raised a fist to her, or even grabbed her. Would I have stayed here and watched?
That flicker of irritation returned and burned hotter, flaring into anger before I could snuff it out.
I was familiar with anger. It fueled the beast that lived deep inside me, one I had to keep tightly leashed. The violent emotion no longer filled me with fear as it once had, because I’d mastered it and knew how and when to let it out.
But I hadn’t given it permission to slip its leash now, nor had I expected it to happen. A tremor racked me before I could stop it and I wrested the reins of control back from the enraged creature panting and straining for freedom, just under the surface.
Still, the hot spear lingered as I watched the driver do a three-point turn and whip his truck around. No. I wouldn’t have watched.
By the time the cop reached the home of logs and sparkling glass windows, the prick was almost to the end of the block. Shifting my camera to his rear bumper, I took a picture of his license plate, then lowered the camera, calmly disassembling it before packing it away.
As I drove past the house, I allowed myself one last look.
Tommy texted me via the secure app but I didn’t bother to pick it up.
I needed to be somewhere private before I spoke to him. And I needed to find out more about the woman...Tia Jenkins.
* * * * *
THE CONNECTION WAS buried deep enough that it wasn’t obvious at first glance, but within two hours, I had my answer.
Tia’s brother was a cop. Not just any cop, either. He was the cop who had broken open the case that had put Tommy O’Halloran’s little brother, Brian, in prison. I read through the various articles and even obtained court documents, reading witness testimonies, and making note of certain details. Brian hadn’t been running the operation. He was too green. But several of the victims had given testimony that he’d been the one to bring them in, promising high-paying jobs, help with school, modeling prospects. One testified about a friend who’d come into the US with her. They’d traveled from Russia on work visas after being promised jobs at a modeling agency via a website. Her friend had already been getting nervous on the plane, and when she started having doubts, her friend mentioned it on a text. When they were picked up at the airport, the friend had hesitated and suggested getting a hotel to think about it for a few days.
The driver agreed to drive her to a hotel, but first took the witness to the agency. The girl saw her friend three days later, after her body was discovered by a couple of kids twenty miles south of New York City. An artist’s rendering of her had been featured on the news. The only reason the witness had seen it was because she’d been out on her first date with an older man who had raped her six times in their two days together.
Brian had been the one to photograph her for the agency’s website, which turned out to be a pseudo-escort site that pimped out virgins to the highest bidder. Her name was Inessa.
After Inessa’s virginity was sold off for the sum of five hundred twenty thousand, her profile was transferred to a different escort site. Inessa had lost track of all her dates over the four years she’d been held captive. She’d stopped counting at four hundred twenty-three, a little over a year after she’d been kidnapped and forced into the life.
Her story stood out mostly because she’d escaped. Her last, and final, date had been driving drunk on their way from dinner to the hotel, and when he’d wrecked, she’d crawled from the vehicle, bleeding, and flagged down a car, which happened to be the cop. The half-brother of the woman they wanted me to kill.
Curious, I looked up Inessa, wondering if the O’Hallorans had put out a contract on her.
The first internet search result had me pinching the bridge of my nose.
Internet Icon, Sex-Trafficking Awareness Activist Commits Suicide
One more mark against the O’Hallorans.
My phone rang.
The number had a Boston area code but it wasn’t the same number Tommy had been calling from. Memorizing it, I looked at the second laptop screen and opened a second tab on the secure browser and entered the number. As it got to work tracing it, I went back to reading about Brian O’Halloran.
The phone stopped ringing.
A message popped up on the secure app and I opened it, reading it with little interest.
You’ve had time to consider the job. We should talk.
I debated answering. I’d rather never talk to the man again, but decided it would be wiser to keep him on the hook for a bit longer.
Spent some time observing her today, but had to leave early because LEOs came out. Will return tomorrow for additional surveillance.
I smirked, thinking about how that might burn Tommy’s ass. When a text popped up a minute later, I congratulated myself for knowing him so well.
Why the fuck were cops out there? You were supposed to be good.
“Idiot.”
They weren’t there because of me. I’ll finish background research and resume tomorrow, as I’ve said. Good night.
He texted again.
When I didn’t answer, he called.
When I didn’t answer, he texted.
After three rounds of this, he finally sent a tersely worded acknowledgment.
Probably best not to be in the area if cops are sniffing around. But I expect to hear from you by tomorrow or I’m pulling other people in. You’re not the only game in town, Spectre.
I didn’t answer. I saved each of his messages to a secure cloud account then deleted them from the phone.
Instead of going over any more of the court case, I started a search on Mackenzie Bailey, Tia’s brother.
I’d had limited dealings with law enforcement officers, and for good reason, but with the plan I had forming in the back of my head, it would be a good idea to know more about him.