Page 38 of Dirty Quinn
Both Jen and Roxie monitor either side of us, their heads pivot in tandem as though on a fifteen-second timer, leaving me to guard us from behind. Not to continue to make comparisons, but the bureau could learn a lot from efficiency such as this. These girls remind me more of my old Delta Squad than anything I ever encountered after leaving the military.
“All clear northeast and southeast ends. But fuck if I know what’s going on to the west.” Daria calls in an update. The signal is faint but still clear, luckily. I kept pinging her every few seconds when we first got down here to make sure we still had a connection. Worried as fuck we’d lose comms with her and something would happen.
I was tempted to stay with her in the truck. But the very idea pissed her off, and I don’t need to raise her stress levels right now. It often amazes me just how much I’m willing to give and bend for the woman. I’m certain there is nothing she can ask of me that I won’t do.
Rapid gunfire ahead has us immediately halting and flattening ourselves against the wall. We aren’t hidden by doing so, not by any means, but if someone comes around the corner and down the hall toward us, we stand a better chance of getting them before they get us.
I hear someone roar, “Fuck!” right before all hell breaks loose.
22
Reed
I want no part of whatever they have planned for Andrei’s little girlfriend tucked away down here. I’ve already told them I won’t hurt women, if they won’t respect that, then I’m out of here. Fuck Viktor and his plans. I barely have an inkling of what I’m supposed to be looking for anyway. Viktor told me I’d know when I found it, that this Ronan guy is a major douchebag, and my crime-fighting senses could sniff it out.
Like I’m fucking Scooby-Doo or something.
Viktor already knows about the trafficking, he knows about the drugs, and about the money laundering. I mean, what else is there? I know they all have their “territories” so maybe along with that they have their own career crime modes they have control over. I chuckle to myself at the thought ofcareer crime modes. What a stupid thing to fight about. As though there isn’t enough crime out there for all of them.
If there’s one thing I learned from the FBI, it’s that crime is everywhere. And I mean every-fucking-where. When you do expect it, when you don’t, doesn’t matter. Everyone commits a crime at some point in their life. Most people, more than one. It just depends on if they make a habit of it or not.
Everything from a twenty out of your mom’s wallet or a few pens and pencils from the office, to fucking embezzlement or grand theft auto. Hell, to human trafficking, drug running, and murder. I’m not saying one leads to the other, mostly because I’m not sure how I feel about the idea of gateway crimes.
Or gateway drugs.
You are predisposed to do something, or you’re not. It either goes against your moral compass strongly enough that you refrain, or you don’t. Me killing the guy earlier—and not in the name of the law—it just didn’t bother me enough to not do it.
Lately, I feel like a fucking pressure cooker ready to explode. I played the straight and narrow for so goddamn long that now I have no qualms with going wide and crooked as fuck. But, to bring it back around, is that because I joined this gang? No. It’s because I was predisposed to violence.
And maybe to righting wrongs.
The guy did wrong, so I made it right.
And these guys I’m following down yet another dank and dark hallway, they were flat out born this way. Into this life. Not only is there a predisposition, but they see nothing wrong with what they do. It’s their job to protect their haul—doesn’t matter if it’s women, drugs, or guns—it’s their livelihood. How they feed their families, hire their whores, buy their fast cars. And it’s expected they will protect theirpakhan, the Russian equivalent of theircapo.The Godfather.
Though I haven’t quite figured out who exactly that is yet. I mean, Ronan is technically the one in charge. But Andrei definitely has the ear of most of the men. And it’s obvious he’s looking to throw down with this Ronan guy. Yet, Ronan still puts the fear of god in everyone but Andrei, it seems. But, after the crystal tumbler episode, maybe that will change.
Ronan has yet to make an appearance outside of that incident. I think it was only the second time I’ve seen him since he’s been in the US. He doesn’t stay here at Andrei’s, and I don’t know whose house it was that we visited him at. But the security was tight as fuck. Much better than what Andrei has got going on here, that’s for sure.
I follow one of the guys—Dmitri, I think—through the winding hallways. So many fucking hallways. We turn to head down the one I used earlier after leaving the dead dickwad I beat the hell out of. Pausing only once we reach the door where I heard the woman crying from behind earlier.
I figured that’s who we were collecting for Andrei. And I’m not entirely sure how I plan to handle it. I’m guessing that after her run in this morning, she’s probably a little beat up. That’s bound to piss me off. If they’ve got her stashed away down here, then her living conditions aren’t stellar, and that will make me angry too. Anything they’ve been doing to this woman that isn’t respectful and above board threatens to send me over the edge.
One of the guys tries the door. Dmitri backhands him across the chest and reprimands him in Russian, then digs through his pockets for the key. Which, of course, the dumb shit can’t find. It’s like the beginning of a bad joke.
How many Russian guys does it take to open a locked door?
For fuck’s sake.
I turn back toward the direction that we came, sensing something is off with this. Or here. Holy shit, maybe I really do have some kind ofSpideysense. Except there’s nothing behind us, and there doesn’t seem to be anything in front of us.
Convinced I’m overreacting, I turn back and follow the guys inside the room. It’s just as disgusting and deplorable as I figured it would be. The smell rank, the light dim, and the furnishings sparse. A bucket off to the right that has seen better days leaks urine to the floor. Amidst a small pile of rags, which I’m guessing the woman has been using after the bucket facilities.
Disgusting.
To the left is the thin mattress the woman is lying on. Her back to us, curled into a fetal position. The guy who I think is Dmitri goes over to her and yells something in Russian. I shake my head. She’s not going to understand; she’s American. The idiot.
He yells again and kicks at her back.
