Page 6 of Clay

SMS didn’t need the secrecy but preferred it, if for no other reason than the strangeness of their business plan.

Clay hit the gate remote and rolled the Scout through the main entrance to the church, which was papered with “Do Not Trespass” signs and into what had been a courtyard, once upon a time. Some enterprising gang had installed a chain link gate barring access to the courtyard, and Tate had upgraded it into a rolling steel door on remote.

No one was getting into the compound unless invited.

All the security wasn’t really warranted; the neighborhood wasn’t that bad and the only thing worth stealing was Dev’s computer shit, but it fit in with the impression of people who were dangerous and wanted to be left the hell alone. Which they cultivated, within reason.

Warren had schmoozed the neighbors early on, explaining that no, they weren’t a gang, but they were very private and would be good, quiet neighbors. They’d kept their end of the bargain, and had become regarded as beneficial.

Bangers didn’t come anywhere near the ‘hood now after Tate had made an example of one of them when they were hassling an old lady three doors down. He’d followed up the takedown with a visit to the gang leader. Whatever he’d said had impressed the man enough to leave them the hell alone.

Tate could be that way. Intense and forbidding. He could also be an asshat joker to those who knew him well. Who he was willing to let see beyond the surface.

He leaned the bike over on its kickstand, noticing everyone was here already.

Devin’s blend-into-the-scenery tan Escalade, Tate's in-rehab Mustang that looked almost diseased with the mottled paint and body putty and Warren’s old-man champagne-colored Caddy. Their cars fit their personalities, just like his bike fit him.

Off to the side were their business cars, a trio of identical white SUVs, completely decked out, just one step short of being armored.

Sometimes Jordan and Cali helped out, as their schedules allowed, but they weren't in residence tonight. Having the two women in integral positions on the inside of LVMPD and the Air Force had been immensely helpful already, so even if they weren't fully on-staff, they were definitely part of the team.

He swiped his key fob over the reader in the vestibule, pushing through the heavy wooden doors when he heard the locks disengage, and entered the nave.

The main body of the church had been stripped long before they’d arrived, and Devin had sunk a wad of money into making it comfortable and high tech. They all had their own places tolive off-site, of course, but the choir area had been converted into an apartment, and they all took turns being on-shift.

Offices lined the sides of the space, converted from confessionals and storage, leaving the main area of the church open, with a long conference table in the middle, a seating area with big-screen TV further down and a kitchen at one end.

Devin had created a Batcave, as they liked to call it, where all of his tech stuff was housed in one of the larger rooms near the back.

The altar itself had been walled off. No one was willing to set up camp there, not even the bangers who’d squatted before SMS bought the building.

He walked to the seating area and fist bumped Tate, then sprawled out on the couch and waited for Dev to finish working on his laptop. Warren emerged from the kitchen, sandwich in one hand and plopped down near Clay.

Dev hit a few more keystrokes, then swiveled in his chair at the head of the big conference table and looked expectantly at Clay. Behind him the huge monitor came to life, filled with the background of SMS's logo of St. Michael holding his sword.

What had once been Dev’s brainchild had morphed into something none of them could have foreseen six months ago in that quiet room above the rowdy bar. Each of them had bloomed into roles they never would have imagined the day they stepped foot into the therapy room.

“Ivy Foster,” Clay began, “is looking for her friend Katie McAlister.” He’d already forwarded the info Ivy had sent him to Dev, giving their computer guru time to search for background on McAlister.

“McAlister went off the radar a little over three weeks ago. According to Foster, she packed a bag and hasn’t been heard from since. Local PD is writing it off as McAlister dipping out with a man.” He shrugged. “They might be right, but Foster isconvinced something else is going down. No signs of struggle in her apartment according to Foster. McAlister is twenty-nine, blonde and blue. Works as an online personal assistant, mostly for independent authors.”

He nodded at Devin, who pulled up the picture Ivy had forwarded to him right after he left the cafe.

“Pretty thing,” Warren murmured as he studied the screen. He turned to Clay. “You thinking human trafficking or something a bit more ordinary?”

He shrugged. “Too early to tell. I believe Foster, though. She’s worried. Worried enough to do the work to find us.”

Devin looked up from his tablet. “Foster’s background is pristine. Father retired here as an aircraft mechanic from Nellis, so she’s got the background to have the SMS contact number passed along. He died fifteen years ago from an aggressive cancer that was linked to burn pits. Her mom is still here in Vegas, does a lot of charitable work. Very comfortable financially after her husband’s death, no red flags on her or her daughter. Ivy’s an artist specializing in street-centric murals but has several works hanging in high-end casinos that’s a bit more mundane. Has almost completed her master’s in art conservation. We’ve probably seen some of her work over on Fremont, she’s part of the public art program. She’s known McAlister her whole life, and I would say has a pretty good read on her character. As a client, she’s legit. Dossier on her is in your inboxes.

“As for our find, from what I was able to root out in the last fifteen minutes, Katherine McAlister moved to Vegas two years ago from Charleston, after her parents were killed in a fire. McAlister and Foster’s families were stationed together off and on throughout their formative years. She started up her business when she arrived in Vegas and has been off the radar for everything else. Her socials are all under her business name.McAlister has an apartment in Henderson rented in Foster’s name. Additionally, her phone is listed under her parent’s name in South Carolina, but my initial search confirms they are deceased. Unclear why that hasn’t been updated,” he looked at Clay, “so those are first on your list of things to find out.”

Clay nodded and wondered why Ivy hadn’t said anything at their meeting about the apartment. Then again, he’d been so disconcerted by his reaction to her that he hadn’t exactly been a stunning conversationalist.

“She’s not in jail here in Vegas, or anywhere else I can find, and I’m working hospital admissions, but those take a bit longer. There are no Jane Does matching her description at the morgue and nothing has popped in NCIC,” he said, referring the National Crime Information Center, which connected police agencies across the nation, helping them identify crime patterns ranging across multiple jurisdictions. Especially those involving unsolved homicides. It was a sobering thought, that McAlister might be dead, but it was definitely an angle they needed to pursue.

“I’m diving into police records,” he continued, “but so far, nothing here in Vegas. Next up locally is traffic cams and CCTV. I wanted to make sure we were a go before I started poking around in police records further out.”

The jobs they took were very specific and the majority of the crew had to agree to take on the client.

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