Daemon’s Mark by Caitlin Kittredge (web ebook reader .TXT) 📕

camera with the telephoto lens. It was digital, night shots nearly as clear as day. I snapped the four heavies and Goatee Guy, and looked back at Will. “They saying anything?”

“Chatting in Russian,” he said. “Two of the fatties are from St. Petersburg, sounds like, and the bearded one sounds almost Chechen. Definitely from down south.”

Everyone in the van turned to look at Will and I gave him the eye. The fact that he’d lived long enough to learn every major language several times over if he wanted wasn’t exactly broadcast news among my squad.

“I did an exchange program during college,” Will said, a little too quickly. Lane still looked at him askance.

“They’re complaining that the container crane is late. Their port employee is lying down on the job.”

Goatee yelled something at one of his heavies. “What do I pay him for?” Will translated. “Only without all the cussing. They have a crane operator paid off to come in here and move their containers?”

“Gotta be,” I said. I snapped more pictures, watching one of the thugs grab a ring of keys and start trying them against the U.S. Customs lock on one of the two shipping containers resting on the pier. He got it open and to my great relief, it was empty. I wasn’t looking forward to busting five Russian mob tough guys with only myself and Batista, Bryson, Lane and Will.

“If that thing is empty,” Lane said, “what the hell are they doing here? They should be moving the girls who come in from here to their brothels around the city.”

“Maybe they’re loading the crate to send back? Pick up another shipment?” Batista said. “Lieutenant Wilder said all of the bills were for outgoing cargo.”

“More arguing,” said Will. “Apparently no one in the mob is punctual. They’re waiting on a truck.”

“A truck of what?” Lane said.

“A truck of unicorns and pink ice cream for all I know,” Will snapped. “I’m just translating here.”

“It’s fine, Will,” I said. “They’re waiting, we can wait.”

I watched the five Russians mill around, light cigarettes, check their phones for text messages. “Come on, comrades,” I muttered. “I haven’t got all freaking night.”

An engine rumbled, and a panel truck pulled up to the pier. I snapped a picture of the logo on the side, ameatpacking warehouse. “Subtle,” I said. Bryson chuckled.

“No one accused the mob of having a sense of irony,” he said. “What’s going on out there?”

“They’re unloading the truck,” Lane said. I stared through the lens of the camera.

A thug stamped out his cigarette and opened the back of the truck, illuminating the contents, and I let out a small gasp. Will muttered something under his breath and Lane exhaled sharply. “Is that what I think it is?”

I put the camera back to my eye and twisted the focus. The back of the van revealed rows of sitting figures, some of them slumped over, some clutching their knees to their chests.

Goatee clapped his hands and shouted in English with a heavy accent that would have done a cheap extra from an eighties action movie proud. “Everybody out! Don’t make me move your skinny asses!”

The women stumbled up, alone or in pairs, and practically fell out of the back of the truck. I’ve had enough experience with people who are fucked up on one substance or another to recognize the gait of a person stoned out of her mind. Maybe fifteen of them, all in rumpled clothes, some in pajamas, all with the vacant, dopey expressions of trusting livestock walking into a slaughterhouse.

The Russians herded the girls into the container, shoving them when they didn’t move quickly enough. One girl, a small redhead who looked like she taught school, nursed sick animals or something equally wholesome, fell, twisting her ankle. Goatee grabbed her up and slapped her. “You think this is a joke?” he snarled. She fought him, feebly, and he slapped her again. “Move, bitch!”

I stopped snapping frame-by-frame shots of the encounter and tossed the camera into the passenger seat. “I’m going out there.”

“No, you’re not,” said Will.

I shot him a look, my eyes flickering to gold. “Excuse me?”

“It’s my op,” he said coolly. “And they haven’t done anything illegal yet.”

“Um … they’re loading women into a cargo container,” said Lane. “He’s hurting her!”

“It’s a simple assault at best,” said Will. “The girls aren’t restrained. None of them are protesting. What we’ve got here is a large case of trespassing and a whole lot of circumstantial evidence.”

“He’s right,” Bryson said.

My face heated up and before I could exercise my cop judgment, my were spoke for me. “Are you fucking kidding me? They’re doing something to these women and if we don’t work fast, they’ll be gone.”

“There’s no ship docked here,” Batista said, in what sounded like infuriating logic. “We’ve got a couple of hours before they can move them, at least, if that’s even what they’re doing.”

I put my hand on the door. I had to do something. Had to stop more Lilys … I swore she was staring back at me against my pale reflection in the glass, her milky eyes accusing me of something I couldn’t undo.

“Luna.” Bryson was the one to hold me back. “I can’t believe I’m the one sayin’ this, but don’t you think we should have some hard evidence before we go rushing in there?”

I snarled at him, lips pulling back over my teeth. My gums stung and I tasted blood as my were fangs grew.

“Don’t touch me. They’re moving girls out, not in, don’t you get it? Something worse is going on here than sex slaves and mob money.”

“They’re just going to walk straight back out on our arrest once their mob lawyer comes into the mix,” Will said quietly. “I know this isn’t ideal but we need to take what we’ve gotten here and use it to build a real case, one the FBI and the U.S. attorney can’t step on.”

“And we still don’t know which one of them killed Lily,” Lane put in.