Page 13 of Dark & Deceitful

Sunshine laughs, deep and rumbly. It settles something in me as it always has. “Well, alrighty then.”

With a final pat on the back of his hand, I grab my purse from the floor and exit the truck. As I descend the basement steps, Sunshine enters through the rear of the shop, no doubt to be greeted by his biggest fans.

Pausing at the steel door, the camera does its standard scan. Recognizing me, the lock disengages, and I pull the handle to go inside.

The warmth from the heater, steeped with the scent of vanilla and baked goods, wafts in my face, drawing a smile to the surface as I wade into our base—the safe house, ground zero for our operations. I set my purse on the metal console table by the entrance of the great room that unfurls into an old-school office space like the ones you see in those noir detective films—wainscoting, cream walls, and sectioned-off rooms with brass-handled doors that have windows, some of them frosted for privacy. The wood accents and well-preserved brick exterior walls add a rich layer of coziness to the entire space.

There’s a wall of whiteboards and a wall of newspaper clippings pinned to cork—trophies for the women of a job well done. In the center of the main living space is a family-sized table, large enough to seat twelve and up to sixteen if you squeeze in like sardines. Two familiar faces look up from eating as I approach, each of them smiling.

“Hey, boss.” Dina waves her spoon in hello before diving back into her bowl of cereal.

Sam, the quiet one, two-finger waves.

I scan the room, looking for what I came down here for—to meet and greet. That is my job, after all. This is my place.

When Dina notices me linger, she points her spoon to the far side of the room, where Cell works her computer hacker magic in a deep alcove once used as a hallway.

Standing behind our resident smarty pants are two heads I don’t recognize, watching one of Cell’s five screens lit up with a shit load of information about various groups and people we keep tabs on around the country.

They say nothing as she points animatedly to a set of six black-and-white photos she throws up on the screen. One of them is the infamous sex trafficker, Remy Whitaker. He’s the reason almost all of these women are here today, apart from myself.

“That’s him.” She gestures to the tatted-out male in the center—full beard, big muscles, screwed-up expression. The other photos are of his top dogs. The men who are just as bad as him—if not worse. He runs his enterprise from an ivory tower, swimming in money from the sale of humans. While those assholes are on the ground, running auctions, or worse, baby factories, where they sedate pregnant women at the end of their third trimester, deliver the babies, and dispose of the mother’s corpses like they were yesterday’s trash. Vile doesn’t even beginto put a name to what they do. Those newborns are part of an underground adoption system for sickos and rich pricks alike.

When Cell gets through with her colorful explanation of the douchiest of douchebags, her words, not mine, I clear my throat to let them know I’m present.

“Oh, shit.” Cell giggles and blushes ten shades of pink as she shoots up from her chair and sends it flying into the wall. “H-hey, Boss Lady, how long you been standing there?” She retrieves the runaway seat and throws herself into it, sending it and herself back under the edge of her desk.

“Long enough.” I wink in her direction as the two women Sunshine delivered turn to face me.

These are the gift gifts I was going on about.

His presents to me.

The one not much taller than me, at my below-average five foot four, is curvy, with long blonde hair and a heart-shaped cherub face. She smiles much like Cell does, full of life.

The other woman, a thin brunette who looks very much like your average girl next door, wrings her finger in front of her as she chews on her bottom lip, refusing to make eye contact. Alright, so this one is shy and was probably tortured a time or two. That’s normal around these parts. I know it’s messed up, but these women are here because of their histories. It’s molded them into what we need for our operations—intel. That’s what we do. We get in, we get information, we get out. Occasionally, some sisters, that’s what we call ourselves, go undercover, assimilate, build relationships with the scum of the earth, and deliver information by means that put them in a direct line of danger. I used to be one of them. Others, Cell, in particular, prefer to work behind the scenes—away from the bad men.

“Hello, ladies, I’m Kali.” Keeping my distance out of respect for what they’ve gone through, I wave to the ladies and smile. It’s genuine. I’m glad they’re here.

“She’s our boss,” Cell chimes in from her chair as she spins around in it like a child, and I good-naturedly roll my eyes. I’m not anyone’s boss, not in the militant, you-better-follow-my-orders nonsense. We’re a family here—end of discussion.

Undeterred, I continue my introduction. “I’m sure being here is a little scary with all you’ve been through. So, why don’t you two follow me?” I sweep my hand toward the great room. “I’ll show you around your new home and get you settled into your rooms.”

Wanting to have a little one-on-one with the ladies, away from the rest of the sisters, I show them around their new underground home that runs half the block beneath the storefronts. The ceilings are tall, industrial, and painted black. The lighting is soft, with none of those harsh fluorescents to worry about.

In the main space, we pass Sam and Dina, still at the table eating.

They wave but say nothing.

The women return their gestures in kind.

Off to the furthest side is the communal living room, with three overstuffed couches and a giant television mounted on the brick wall.

The kitchen is a hop, skip, and a jump from there, tucked into an old, spacious office supply room. Thanks to the help of the Sacred Sinners, it’s industrial, with all the bells and whistles you could ever want—a massive double-sided fridge and matching freezer, a steel table that runs the center of the room as a prep space and makeshift island, and an open shelf where they store all the bigger kitchen gadgets.

On the counter, Till left a plate full of chocolate chip and double chocolate cookies—my favorite. I snatch one up and scoot the plate to the edge. “Have at ‘em,” I encourage the ladies.

The blonde accepts a double chocolate like mine as the brunette declines with a meek shake of the head. By the looks of her, I’m guessing she doesn’t eat much. Eating disorders come with the territory here, as do mental health problems. We have a therapist most of these women see via telehealth. It’s mandatory at first and after assignments.

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