Page 84 of Wicked Deceit
"You said you had someone on the inside before. Are they still relaying information?" My heart rate spikes at the fucking question because I can't be the only fucking one they're using to get the information.
He hums, "Veritas has an agent planted on the inside still. They're relaying everything they can. But within the cult ranks, you are the highest individual we have on call. You have access to almost everything."
Almost everything, I mock in my head. Yeah, I don’t know shit about the Apocalypse bastards because I’m in the dark twenty-four seven. "So, they don't know fuck about shit either?" I growl, wanting to smash my phone with my fist.
"They're telling us as much as they can, as discreetly as possible. Members of the society constantly surround them, unlike you. You have a privilege they don't. I will call upon you again when we have more to go on, but keep your eyes peeled at the event you're attending in a few weeks. The clock is ticking on your girlfriend's life, Cunningham, and I'm getting a distinct feeling that you're the only one who can stop this shit because we've tried and failed to bring these assholes down. I want a report sent about the website and anything you can gather. Especially if you unlock the password. Until then, don't call me in the middle of the night again," he barks the last part with authority and then fucking hangs up on me.
I kneel, too dumbfounded to move from all the information swirling in my head. They don't know any more than I do. And they’re a goddamn government agency actively looking for these sickos to bring down. I grind my teeth together, pulling at my hair. This whole situation is so fucking fucked. I need to throw my fists into someone's face and let go of all this burning anger deep inside me.
Grumpy: Meet me in the gym. We need to talk.
West#1: With our fists, right, Grumpy?
Grumpy: GYM Right Fucking NOW!
ElfEars: And you wonder why we call you grumpy…sheesh, bro.
West#1: I'm coming…Jesus…I just got my dick to go away too.
I recoil and stare at the phone, blinking.
Grumpy: Fuck is that supposed to mean West?...
No response. Fuck it. I slam my fist into my computer desk and turn off the website glaring back at me and taunting me with the unknown.
I don't know the full extent of what is going on, but I feel I'll be breaking into a website here soon. They may have hidden everything else from me, somehow, but they won't with this. I'll pull all my fucking resources together and find out what they're up to. I just hope I'm not too late.
The Day Of Kaycee's kidnapping
The moment I left Kaycee and Chase, something violent churned inside me. Starting at the tips of my toes, knotting my stomach, and clouding my mind—something wasn’t right. So, why the fuck did I leave? Because I had to. My computer finally dinged back with something fucking useful for our investigation, forcing me to leave them and check it out.
Anxiety builds in the depths of my gut, bubbling up my burning throat as I sit in front of my computer. It’s no longer littered with code breaking through the contents of my father’s computer, instead displaying a website. Something I wish I could step back from and pretend I didn’t fucking see. But I can’t.
My teeth grind together as I click through the different pages displayed on the complex website. A live number appears at the side of the screen, counting down something—a place to put bids in for different types of ideas. As I watch, they rise in number going from one-hundred to five-hundred in seconds. And continues to grow higher and higher and never stops.
Watery Grave vs. Six Feet Under
Battling Babes vs. Tantalizing Toe Nails.
Humanities vs. Survival.
"The fuck is this?" I growl, clicking on Watery Grave in hopes it takes me to some kind of menu.
My heart drops when a description pops up, describing the individual being handcuffed to a pole, and left to drown unless they could displace enough water. A menu pops up on the side of the screen on the amount of money you'd like to bid to win this method over the other. A real-time bidding war is happening before my eyes, advertising a show about to happen tomorrow night. It was all coming to a head, and fuck me. Fuck.
I growled, dialing the same number I'd dialed a few times before.
"Kid," he growls his usual upbeat greeting.
"I got through to the website, and it's…." I run a hand over my lips, shaking my head.
"What is it, Cunningham?" He asks, perking up. A pen clicks in the background like an annoying habit, and I bite my tongue.
"I don't know, but it's on my computer. It's bids. It's something. It's—I don't fucking know! But you need to fucking see it," I grit my teeth through every word, pressure building in my head to the point of explosion.
"Patch me through," he demands, clicking his pen a few more times.
"Fucking fine, but I—" I pause when a text comes through, vibrating my cheek.
