Chapter Four

Cliff

The rust-bucket truck in front of me drives past the cop, and I smile a little. Good thing the driver figured out that I was warning them about the cop and slowed down a bit.

From the back seat, Thomas is awake, trying to talk to me. We’ve reached the bargaining stage. He’s offering me everything from money to his friend’s thirteen-year-old daughter.

My lip curls in disgust. If the law doesn’t lock this piece of shit up, I think I’ll pay him a visit just to get him off the streets for good. He’s trash. A fucking bottom-of-the-barrel scumbag waste of oxygen.

“She’s real pretty too,” he says, his voice strained from the position he’s wedged into. “Skinny, tiny titties, real high and firm.”

“Sit the fuck up,” I bark, and he instantly straightens up, his eyes narrowed as they meet mine in the rearview.

“He’s got a boy, too, only six. I bet that’s more your speed,” he grinds out, and I want to pull over now and put a bullet in his brain.

But I don’t do that shit. I don’t lose control. Ever.

I tune the shitstain out, and my thoughts drift back to the woman in the elevator. What was she running from? I didn’t see any bruises. Her pulse was elevated, though.

That could have been something to do with me having Thomas shoved into the corner with his hands all zip-tied behind him. Maybe she thought I was a cop. People are generally nervous around cops even if they’ve no reason to be. But something tells me that whatever made her cry is also what she was running from.

Why the hell am I so fixated on this?

I continue driving through the day, stopping only when I have to. And each time I pull back onto the I-5, somehow I wind up near or behind the same truck. They almost feel like an old friend now. The kind of friend I like. A silent one.

It’s nearly night when I hit the bridge that connects Oregon to Washington. We’re on the last leg of the journey. The final stretch. I texted Zac to let him know I’ve got this dick waffle in the back seat, and we agreed on a time for me to turn him over.

Zac is the cop I turn offenders like this over to, but he’s also a friend. Unlike Dakin, he doesn’t bother to tell me to stay safe and be careful. He knows I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t do that shit. He’s a goddamned cop—he fucking gets it.

I could take the guy into the station, but I like to keep my contact with cops limited and private. Better for business if not everyone knows what I do and who I am.

In front of me, the truck is driving dutifully, keeping perfectly between the lines, and I breathe a sigh of relief that my driving buddy doesn’t seem to be falling asleep at the wheel. Maybe they changed drivers to someone more alert and able to make the drive.

Whatever makes it so I don’t have to watch brains spilled on the freeway is good for me. I’ve seen enough horrible things happen to good people—usually inflicted by evil people—that I’d like to not see more.

Only when I’m an exit away from our meeting spot do I allow myself to relax a little. And instantly, I tense back up. I can’t let my guard down. That’s how people die.

I pull off the freeway, saying a silent goodbye and happy travels to the rusty truck. The night is loud with the sound of crickets, and I roll down my window, wanting the chilly air to wake me up. The sensation overload is less appealing, but I’ll take it.

The scents of wet trees, damp pavement, rain, and dirt fill my senses, and I blink at the icy bite in the air. I love Washington. But damn that cold can really work deep into a man’s bones.

As my tires crunch over the gravel of the spot Zac and I agreed on, I park and see his cruiser. With careful motions and a gun at the ready, I open the back door and push the button to release the belt on Thomas. All the fight is gone out of him, as is usual when I’ve hauled people such long distances.

He lets me pull him out of the truck and walks on legs that are clearly asleep toward the waiting Zac. Only when Zac has the cuffs in place do I cut free my zip ties.

“Good job,” Zac says, and I nod.

He’s a good man. And his partner, Chase, isn’t bad either. He’s new to the force, and Zac’s complained about him more than he likely should. But he’s already saved Zac’s ass, so he’s all right in my book.

We part ways and I decide to go get some food. Generally on long drives like that with someone in the truck, I don’t stop for food and I only drink water. It was a long-ass drive.

My stomach is grumbling at me, and I’ve got a hankering for an omelet. Something with meat, mushrooms, cheese, onions, hell, the works sounds great. And some red potatoes fried up with rosemary and olive oil.

I get in my truck and drive toward the nearest twenty-four-hour store. Parking my truck, I make a list in my head, knowing my place is pretty light on groceries, as is typical when I’m on a job.

Inside, I blink in the blinding lights. The radios are blaring, and in the deli, there’s a huge flat-screen TV that encourages guests to sit and have a meal in the little sit-in area.

I walk past and pick up the items I need for my breakfast. With a little basket on my arm, I pick and choose, and remember a few other things I need. My basket is half-full when I almost slam into someone. A girl.

A woman. With sunny-blonde hair and brilliant yet sad green eyes. She looks up at me in shock, her pretty lips parting like she’s got something to say and no voice to say it with.

“Long day, huh?” I say, and she freezes, placing me too.

“Yeah. You?” she says, either playing along or answering honestly with my own vague words.

I keep it going, my mind working a million miles a minute. “You could say that.”

She flashes me a wavering smile, and I wonder again what the hell happened to break this girl. Suddenly, her eyes stray over my shoulder and her whole body stiffens.

On the TV, a Twitter feed pops up on the trash news feed. A new trending tag, #ModelMayhem, followed by images of a naked girl with pretty blonde hair and green eyes.

Twitter is blowing up with jokes about how all models are whores, that this girl should be ashamed of herself, but more disturbing are the most retweeted posts about how guys would or should rape her.

In the feed, a video opens with a dark-eyed guy with a huge bruise on his face saying this girl attacked him and to contact police if you see her. He then proceeds to give her last known address and personal information. Her cell phone number.

He fucking doxes her. Right here for the whole world to see.

The TV shuts off, and a voice blares overhead with an apology for the screens and a reminder that guests are not permitted to change the channels of the TV sets in store.

I turn around, but the blonde is gone.