Page 78 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

“Thank fuck.” He scrambles, opening his drawers and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “Viks, hurry man, open the damn windows.”

“She’s gonna know anyway,” Viks replies even as he shakes his head and strides towards the windows on either side of the desk.

The man ignores him and lights up his cigarette with shaking fingers. The face he makes after the first drag makes me feel like I’m watching a porno. A deep, satisfied groan rumbles up his chest as he blows a long line of smoke into the air, towards the now open window.

“Shit, that’s good,” he mutters, sucking back more nicotine. It makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve had one. I usually only let myself indulge when I’m stressed, but with Micki around, she’s become my drug. Any time I want a smoke, I find myself fixing my lips over something else—like her lips or her juicy pussy.

“Alright, Teller,” Dean says with a sigh. “We get it. The smoke is good. Focus. We’re all here, can we get to it?”

Teller—the man—looks at me. “You the one asking for this info?” he asks.

“If it’s about the girl and Thomas Kincaid, then yes,” I answer.

He puts the cigarette between his lips and then cracks his knuckles. “You got cash on you?”

Viks reaches out and smacks the back of his head. “You’re very well paid, dipshit. Fucking tell us what you found.”

“Ouch! Shit, fucker. Fine.” He spins back to his screens, and I move further into the room.

“This is Jackson Teller,” Dean introduces. “He’s been working with Viks for a while.”

“Hacker?” I guess.

“I prefer the term technical genius,” Teller replies as he ashes his cigarette over the side of his desk straight into a metal trash bin.

“Why didn’t we just use Rylie?” I ask.

Braxton moves towards the desk and turns, placing his ass against the side of it as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Abel’s a little protective of his pregnant wife, man,” he answers. “And she had an appointment today.”

“Teller’s just as good,” Dean assures me. “In fact, we’re thinking of adding him to the Undead’s payroll.”

I arch a brow. If they’re comfortable mentioning the Undead—their latest acquisition in less than legal businesses—then Teller must already be well entrenched with these men. I refocus on the screen before me as Teller’s hands fly over the keyboard.

With the cig pinched between his lips, Teller’s eyes glaze over as he directs the entirety of his attention to the computer. He plays the damn thing like an instrumentalist long into his career, not even bothering to glance down at the keys he’s stroking as picture after picture flashes across the screen and new files pop up only to disappear a split second later.

“What have you found?” I finally demand after several seconds.

“Patience,” Brax says.

Patience is one thing I have very little of now. After Andrew Bennington’s disappearance—or death as we all know—there’s been a low fuse of tension in Eastpoint. My phone calls are still going unanswered. My texts unread. My private detectives have nothing. My father’s still in the wind, but his businesses chug on. That can only mean one thing—he’s well aware of what’s going on and he’s taking care of business while in hiding. The coward.

“Marina Michaels.” Teller’s voice brings me back to the matter at hand. He leans back and slaps his palm against the edge of his desk before lifting it with flourish and gesturing to the computer screen. “She’s five years old. Lives with an older couple in the Midwest—ex-employees of … wait for it…” He leans back and grins as he takes his cig out of his mouth between two fingers and ashes it once more into that same metal trash bin. “Kincaid Industries.”

So much I could’ve guessed, my father likely hadn’t wanted her too far from his influence. I step closer, bending down and fixing my eyes on the picture displayed. She’s a small girl. Big round eyes, puffy cheeks, and a smattering of freckles across the tiny bridge of her nose. My chest expands as I inhale deeply. Her hair is the same blonde mixture as Micki’s. Her chin and skin tone, the same as well. But her eyes … they’re all mine—or rather my father’s. Big and luminous and blue. Fuck, she looks like … what I’d imagine our kid would.

My insides churn. “How soon can we get to her?” I demand. “I expect he’s got other people watching her.”

“That,” Teller says, clicking across the screen, “is something the rest of you will need to discuss.” The image of Marina Michaels disappears and, in its place, an older couple appears. Their faces are unfamiliar. The woman is reed thin with an almost beak like nose and a long chin. The man at her side, in opposition, is a paunch-bellied figure with a circle of gray hair on the top of his balding head.

“This is Edna and Jarvis Hayes,” Teller explains. “Both retired from Kincaid industries. Edna worked as a nurse and Jarvis as a maintenance tech for one of Kincaid’s office buildings. They’ve been tasked with looking after the girl, and according to their bank records, have been compensated a few thousand a month for the last five years.”

“The woman was a nurse?” A thought occurs. “What about the records of the girl’s birth? Is she marked as their biological daughter? With her last name?”

Teller grimaces. “No, she’s not marked as their biological daughter. The two don’t have children and from what medical records show, Edna was never able to conceive. I did find, however, that Edna was still working for Kincaid up until five years ago, around the same time as the child’s birth.”

“She must’ve delivered the girl,” Dean guesses. His words mirror my own thoughts and I agree. No doubt my father’s been bribing the two to keep the knowledge of his illegitimate child a secret, and who better to rely on than someone that already knew.

“Have they had any run in with law enforcement?” I demand. “Any indication of how she’s treated?”

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