Page 59 of Retribution
Although we all hated him simply because he was a client, I certainly preferred him to the vicious ones that liked to hurt us with chains and knives and whatever other tools were handy.
No, the reason Judge Mitchell Easton made my list was because he protects the other pedophiles and traffickers.
He’s an influential man, with powerful connections. Because of him, men get away with the crimes they commit against women. There are many more Judge Eastons out there, and I certainly can’t take down them all. But I can take down this one.
“Judge Easton!” I call out. “We have found you guilty of pedophilia, child abuse, fraud, witness tampering, and perverting the course of justice. We have come to execute your sentence.”
Mitchell stands up, puffing his chest out. “I do not find this little act amusing. I don’t know who the fuck you are, but your allegations are preposterous and downright slanderous. Leave now before I have security arrest you for trespassing.”
Trey chuckles, the sound eerie coming from behind the mask. “Oh, no, Your Honor. That’s not how this is going to play out.” He holds up a tablet in his hand, letting the judge see emails, photos, and other evidence he was able to obtain.
The judge collapses in his chair, his face turning white. “No one will convict me,” he rasps out. “No one would dare. Not with the number of favors that are owed to me.”
“Who said anything about a trial?” I purr from behind him. He never even noticed me slipping around him when he was talking to Trey. Idiot. He thinks I’m the lesser threat.
One swipe is all it takes, and it’s over relatively quickly - much too quickly for my liking. Trey tags the walls with spray paint, listing his crimes while I write my favorite word across his forehead. We leave the tablet on his desk as evidence, then exit out the same way we came. Leaving behind Judge Easton, his severed neck grinning wide in a grisly welcome to whoever finds him.
Four down, one to go.
Chapter 33
Special Agent
Daniella “Dutch” Buchanan
My bike thrums under me, wind whipping through my hair as I race my bike along the backroads. Trees whir past me in a green blur as I take a curve faster than I should. I lean with it, nearly leveling the bike before I bring it upright, a loud whoop of delight trailing behind me as I increase my speed.
I needed this. The speed, the adrenaline rushing through me, the tinge of fear mixed with fucking unadulterated joy. This case is getting to me, more than I’d like to admit. I wonder if my uncle planned this from the start, knowing how engrossed I would become, how dedicated to getting justice.
But now? It’s turned into a fucking circus, that’s what this is. A goddamn fucking three-ringed circus. My jaw ticks in anger, frustration lancing through me. National news stations have picked up what’s going on here, and the media frenzy is in full swing. The one upside to it? It’s made the FBI sit up and take notice. The DNA samples are now flowing in, unlike the small trickle they were previously. Charlotte Rossi is definitely the fifth girl that was being held at the house. Or Rebecca, as she was renamed.
And then to know that her own child was trapped in that house, locked in a cage...her little body covered in infections and sores from being left in her own filth, starved and poisoned. It makes me sick, so fucking sick, to see a child so young having to experience a life like that.
A mental picture of the eight bodies being lifted from the mass grave flashes across my mind, and a shudder works over me. I’ll take these images to the grave.
Evidence brought in from the computers shows just what sick fucks Tony and Dolores D’Angelo were. It went back well over two decades—around ninety girls abused, tortured, and sold. Each group of girls were named in the order of the alphabet, Tony just working his way down to Z and then most likely planning to start up again from the beginning.
Luckily, Tony kept excellent records, recording the sale of each girl and who bought them. It may have been his insurance policy should he ever need it, but for now, it will help us trace them.
If any are still alive.
That will take years and numerous teams to cover. But their parents, the ones still living anyway, deserve answers, deserve to hold their children in their arms. Deserve to stop wondering, worrying.
And the piece of shit parents that sold their children to Tony to pay off debts? Well—we’ll be coming for them, too.
The only thing not found in the computers, files, or anywhere else in the house? Proof of my father’s involvement. The disappointment was crushing and has only made my mood more foul.
Flying past the vacation rentals where Earl Johnson’s body was found, I lean into the next curve. I don’t have a particular destination in mind...justaway.
Chase is taking Susannah out for dinner later tonight, and I decided to give them some privacy. Pretty sure they’re going to be bumping uglies tonight, and Isodo not want to hear that.
Spinning a U-turn, I head back towards Flagstaff, feeling some of the adrenaline start to burn away the closer to town I get. I could do with getting laid myself, although I can’t see myself ever settling for just one dick. Not sure if I’m really the monogamous type.
I’m certainly not the whole marriage, two-point-five kids, dog and picket fence type of girl. Give me my bike, a good beer, and three or four dicks, and I’ll be happy.
Cruz Sandoval’s picture floats through my mind. Olive skin, thick dark hair. Those coffee-colored eyes staring into mine as he fucked me long and slow...then fast and hard.
My vajayjay wakes up at the memories, and I groan into my helmet.We’re not thinking about him,I admonish her.He’s long gone.
