Page 6 of The Truths that Deceive

The Collectors.

Sex trafficking.

Sex slave rings. Girls for sale.

Girls who suffered just like my mother did a long time ago.

She got out. In body, anyway. But her mind?

Not so lucky.

And definitely still captive to the travesties of that time in her life.

The Collectors are still around, and the reason I’m not about to turn myself in is that I’m going to ruin them all financially and then find one of their founders, Jon Trenton, who raped my mother and set her down the path of horror from age fifteen.

That was the name in her diary, anyway. All I have to go on.

He went dark, supposedly dead. Yet his accounts are active, all of the hidden ones, that is.

At least, up until the demise of the biggest wing of the Collectors.

Trenton’s not a concern to the CIA. Rogue agents and clandestine groups are. But my mentor, Aaron Riley, formerly of the CIA and now a senator, warned me about rich and powerful people like Trenton, of the seemingly dead. Of people who take high profile yet shadowy positions so they can fly under the radar to continue their depraved work. The ones who hide in both dark corners and out in the open.

Like the Devil himself.

Riley has a healthy distrust of everyone. It’s probably why politics suits him so well.

I shift on the uncomfortable wooden slab of a seat, trying to separate paranoia from possible real danger.

My calves tighten, as the urge to run grabs hold. But I don’t. Instead, I glance around in the darkness. No one new has come in since I arrived. Yet…

A cold whisper of unease slips down my spine. I copy the information I need to a thumb drive, just in case I can’t get online at some point. Then I send it to my Jane Doe cloud account where it’ll be stored securely.

Switching to some mindless gossip website, I log off the hot spot but keep the page up. I stare at it, pretending to read the words when the hairs on the back of my neck prickle with fear.

Three people sit to the left of me at another table, and to my right’s a man in black, his nose buried in a book.

For some reason, my gaze catches on him. He’s tall and needs a shave. He’s about mid to late thirties with chiseled good looks. Dark honey-brown hair, muscular, full lips. I absently twist a strand of hair around my finger as my eyes take note of every feature.

People read in places like this. He’s got the look of an artist, definitely German. But…

But.

But he rubs me in a way that has my senses screaming. I pack up my laptop and walk over to the bar. The man rises from his table. He brushes into me as he passes and electricity cascades.

Penetrating blue eyes meet mine. “Entschúldigung,” he says.

“Das ist gut.”

I let him know all’s good, ignoring the velvet darkness of his voice that holds a carnal edge. Immediately, I decide to goto the bar for another soda. “Wolf,” I say to the bartender in German, “can you do me a favor? If anyone asks?—”

“I have never seen you, Hendrix.”

I flash a smile, hating the miniscule exposure of even this, standing here in the shadows. “And point anyone asking about me in the opposite direction of where I go when I leave. The usual.”

And I slide over a few more euros to him.

He palms them and winks.

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