Connor (Ridge City Recruits Book 6) Read online

  CONNOR

  Ridge City Recruits Book 6

  Mazzy King

  MZK Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 by Mazzy King

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by DesignRans.

  Proofread by Jenny Hanson.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  1

  Connor Cavanaugh

  I sit in a windowless conference room with a cup of terrible coffee in front of me, while a couple of detectives talk.

  It’s a surreal moment because not too long ago, I was in the same position, minus the shitty coffee.

  Only this time, a few months later, I’m not sitting here with handcuffs on, confessing to the terrible choices I made in my life that almost got me killed. As if on cue, the mostly healed gunshot wound in my left bicep throbs once, gently but painfully, reminding me of how close I did actually come to dying, had it not been for a stranger.

  A stranger who came before me, who once sat in this very same room.

  The door opens, and a built young African American guy steps in. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says “RCFD,” which I’m pretty sure stands for Ridge City Fire Department. What’s a firefighter doing here?

  “Connor,” one of the detectives says, lifting a hand toward the firefighter. “We’d like you to meet Khalil Robinson. He’s a firedog now, but he used to be a Recruit. And, he used to run an underground network of informants too. You might’ve heard of it—the Harbinger?”

  I stare at Khalil. “You’re the Harbinger?”

  He smiles. “Used to be. We still maintain our intel, but we’re not publishing much these days.” He pauses, then stares meaningfully at me. “You tell anyone, I will kill you.”

  I glance at the detectives. Neither of them even blink at the not-so-playful threat. “Um, sure, dude. No problem. So you’re here to help with intel on the Mortenson operation?”

  “Sort of. I still have a day job.” He looks wryly at the detectives.

  One of the detectives nods as Khalil takes a seat. “We’ve asked him to look into some things for us. Khalil?”

  Khalil leans forward. “So, my fiancée and I were able to uncover some information about the trafficking ring run by Robert Mortenson. We tapped into our sources on the dark web, and there’s some chatter that there’s going to be a private gala where attendees can meet some of the women they’re holding. It’s being advertised as a fundraiser, but that’s bullshit. They’re displaying the women before a big auction that’s going down in a couple of weeks.”

  “Auction?” I reply, frowning. This is fucked, and what makes me feel sick is that when I raced, I was backed financially by an organization that did this shit. They got punished and dismantled, but they’re not the only ones who do this shit by a long shot.

  Khalil nods. “These women are going to be sold overseas for top dollar. I mean, top dollar. Their potential buyers can do absolutely anything they want with them. I don’t even want to talk about what that could entail, but the punchline is, the women will never be seen again, one way or another.”

  “Fuck,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’ve got to get into that party.”

  “You’re in luck,” Khalil says. “Mortenson wants bouncers. All the help for the ‘gala’ is by referral only. We can forge some credentials for you that make it look like a trustworthy source has recommended you.”

  The detective looks at me. “Tonight’s intel only, Connor. We need to know what the Mortenson gang has planned, but we don’t want to arouse their suspicions. If all goes well, we’ll get them at the auction, but we need hard intel on that.”

  I nod. “You got it.”

  Khalil flicks his head at me. “You’re going to need a suit.”

  Later that night, wearing an expensive black suit I don’t get to keep, I stroll around the first floor of an enormous estate. People mill around, wearing tuxes and evening dresses like this is some actual fancy ball. Men and women alike. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but seeing so many wealthy people walking around with champagne flutes and canapes like this is legit blows my fucking mind.

  Do they all know they’re here to view and make bids on human beings? Or do they think this really is a fundraising gala? Can every person in here be this fucking disgusting and crooked?

  Seeing women here equally astounds me. These are guests, not the “products,” and they’re acting as blithe and casual as anyone else.

  This can’t be real.

  True to his word, and I don’t know how he did it, Khalil got me an in with the head of security under a fake name. He told me what to say, how to say it, I did, and I got the job, no questions asked. I was told what time to show up and that I’d be paid at the end of the night.

  My job for the night is to make sure the entrance to the “showcase room,” a large set of double doors marked off with velvet ropes at the back of the room, stays closed until the “viewing party” begins. Just the thought of it turns my stomach.

  It’s going to make gathering intel a little tricky. At some point, I need to get upstairs to Mortenson’s office at the back of the mansion. If I’m going to find anything, it’ll be there.

  Across the room, a bright golden flash catches my eye, and my chest suddenly feels tight. I know I’m working, but…damn.

  A gorgeous, curvy blonde wearing the hell out of a short, black lace dress and holding a tray full of champagne flutes weaves her way in and out of the crowd, pausing to smile at guests and offer them a drink. She’s young, mid-twenties, and easily the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. Her legs are long and thick, perfectly shaped, and the dress highlights her exquisite ass. Her eyes are encircled in something dark and smoky, her lips a glossy nude-pink.

  She catches my gaze and does a double take. It feels like time has slowed all the way down as we hold each other’s stare.

  Then the moment breaks as someone passes between us, into our line of sight. When he moves out of the way, she’s gone.

  2

  Sierra Thompson

  Stay focused. No distractions.

  I’m scolding myself as I walk swiftly toward the bar with my empty tray. Catching that dark-haired security guard’s eye back there momentarily knocked the wind out of me, which is saying something about how fucking gorgeous he is. I’m here for my older sister Lucy, who I haven’t seen in one year. My sister, my only sibling, who, up until a couple of weeks ago, I feared was dead. I’ve been waiting for this night, for my chance to rescue her, and I’m not letting anything or anyone get in my way, no matter how sexy he is. Besides, if he’s working here, for Mortenson, then he’s a piece of shit anyway and deserves to burn just like the rest of them.

  I welcome the fresh surge of rage as I reach the bar and set down my tray. The bartender, a slim and very miserable-looking guy named Ray, glances up at me. “Give me a second to open some fresh bottles.’

  “Take your time,” I tell him. “Actually, I have to run to the bathroom, anyway.”

  He squints at me. “You know we’re not allowed, right?”

  “I have to go,” I insist. “What am I supposed to do, piss myself in front of everyone?”

  Ray shrugs. “It’s your funeral.”

  I suppress a shudder. I don’t know what Ray knows about all of this or
how much, but his words have an ominous echo of truth to them. If I get caught, it will be my funeral.

  But Lucy is worth the risk.

  I head toward the side of the room. There’s a short corridor just beyond this massive foyer that will take me upstairs, based on the intel I was given. It’s precious intel that should have cost me thousands—and that I was prepared to pay for. But my contact at Harbinger, a woman called El, only told me the following when I asked her to name her price: Take them down.

  If it kills me, I will.

  I slip up the stairs to an opulent and expansive second floor, trying to get my bearings. El—not sure if that’s short for Ellen or Eleanor or something, or an L-name—gave me the blueprints to this house, which I did my best to memorize since I couldn’t exactly bring them with me. If I’m right, then the room I need is a straight shot from where I’m standing to the other side of the house.

  I walk as casually as possible, prepared to offer a bullshit excuse if I encounter someone with them, but the upstairs area appears to be empty. When I reach the door I need, I try the handle—locked, as anticipated, but there is a digital keypad in the wall beside the door.

  My fingers hover over the keys as my heart pounds. If El is wrong, I’m likely dead. Swallowing hard, I push the keys, one at a time, my hand shaking.

  The LED light on the keypad flashes green, and the snapping noise that accompanies it tells me El was not wrong

  I ease open the door and glance around. Definitely an office, definitely where I need to go. My heart pounds harder as I focus on the computer at the back of the room, and the door slips from my fingers, swinging closed behind me.

  I steal over to the desk and ease into the chair. The computer is a sleek, hi-tech machine with three monitors. I’m not sure where to start, so I jiggle mouse. The screen lights up, and I’m prompted for a security key.

  I draw a deep breath and push up the long sleeve of my dress. On the inside of my forearm, I have all the security keys El gave me, in the order she said I’d be prompted to enter them. How she knows all this shit, I have no idea. But she hasn’t led me astray yet, so with a deep breath, I enter the first key. And it’s accepted.

  Down by my elbow, I have the path I need to get to the files I want. I make my way through the computer, nauseated with fear and adrenaline, heart beating fast as I enter the keys and click the path until I find the files. I pull out the small thumb drive I’ve been storing in my bra and stick it into the side of the monitor, then proceed to download everything.

  One of the documents is descriptions of every woman they are holding—height, weight, skin color, hair color, eye color, nationality, or ethnicity, if known—arranged in a spreadsheet. There are no names, only numbers as if they’re nothing but chattel.

  My sister is somewhere on this list.

  I don’t have time. I know this. I know I need to hurry the fuck up and go. The progress bar of the download to my thumb drive is at 100%.

  But my gaze finds an entry and lingers there.

  Item is five feet four inches. Blonde hair to waist. Curvy hourglass shape. Hazel eyes. Has a tattoo on the right wrist of a Chinese character (can be lasered off if buyer prefers).

  My throat tightens as I look down at the inside of my opposite wrist, where the Chinese characters for “little sister” are tattooed. Lucy has the corresponding characters that mean “older sister” on hers.

  It’s her. I just know it is.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The voice makes me jump with terror. I fling myself away from the computer, feeling like my life is about to end.

  The hot security guard from earlier stands in the doorway, staring at me in shock.

  “Wh—what are you doing here?” I demand, my voice shaking.

  He steps inside the room. “Making sure everything is all right. Are you fucking crazy? Do you know what will happen if they catch—”

  He stops talking, tilting his ear as if he can hear something. Before I can ask him what he hears, he sighs heavily, hangs his head, then strides toward me.

  I back up, holding my hands out. “What—”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to do this,” he breathes, one second before his mouth lands on mine.

  3

  Connor

  I pull the beautiful blonde I was ogling downstairs against my chest, cup her face, and kiss her. It’s pretty fucking crazy that fifteen minutes ago I was checking her out and now my lips are on hers, but someone’s coming down the hall, and I’m pretty sure she wasn’t up here looking for the bathroom.

  At first, her body is taut against mine, and I’m afraid she’s going to beat the shit out of me. Then, she starts to relax against me, and her mouth opens underneath mine.

  Automatically, I slide my tongue inside, finding hers, and my mind goes blank as I’m lost in the taste of her, the feel of her against me.

  I don’t even know her name, and I think I just fell in love.

  “What the fuck is this?” a voice at the door demands.

  We both whirl toward the door. The security guard who hired me stands in the doorway. He’s got a gun in one hand, but it’s lowering to the floor. It’s clear from his annoyed expression that he can tell what we’re up to.

  “Sorry,” I say sheepishly, stepping away from the woman.

  “How the fuck did you get in here?” the guard demands.

  I shrug. “It was unlocked. We just wanted some . . . privacy.”

  “Then go get a fucking room,” he snarls. “This isn’t some hourly motel. I didn’t hire you for this shit.”

  “Sorry,” I reply.

  His gaze shifts to the woman. “You’re the cocktail waitress.”

  “Uh . . . yes,” she says.

  “Not any-fuckin’-more. Both of you are fired. Get the fuck out. You have two minutes, or I’ll let the boss know you were in here.” He clicks the safety on his gun, but it’s more for effect than anything. “And he won’t be nearly as nice as me.”

  “We’re going. Come on.” I grab her hand and pull her from the room.

  The guard follows us down the stairs and directs through a back hall to exit through the back door. Across from the small corridor we’re in, the double doors to the showroom are wide open, and guests are drifting in, still talking and laughing like they’re about to go to the theatre.

  Sick fucks. I shake my head.

  The woman becomes dead weight I’m tugging. I glance over my shoulder.

  She’s rooted in place, staring through the doors. I follow her glance. At the back of the showroom, women stand on lit pedestals in lingerie as the guests circle them. It’s disgusting, but I’m taken with the stricken look on the woman’s face.

  She says something that I think is “Lucy,” but I’m not sure.

  The guard shoves her. “Get moving, or else you’ll be in there with them. And I don’t mean serving cocktails.”

  A surge of protectiveness goes through me. My ass. “Come on,” I say to the woman again, tugging her hand.

  Outside, the guard stands in the doorway as we walk quickly down a long, winding path off the property. I risk a glance back, exhaling in relief when he goes back inside.

  “Fuck,” I exclaim. “What were you thinking, sneaking around like that?”

  There’s no answer.

  I turn to her, about to demand one, when I see the tears coursing down her face. In fact, she’s crying so hard she can’t walk straight.

  “Jesus,” I say softly, coming to a halt. “Hey. I’m sorry. Hey, look at me.”

  She won’t, though. She claps a hand to her mouth, shaking her head, crying silently as if she just found out a loved one died.

  Then it comes together.

  “You know someone in there, don’t you?” I ask.

  Finally, the woman looks up at me for a beat, huge brown eyes glossy with tears, and nods.

  “Were you, like . . . spying?”

  The woman pulls her hand from her face, draws a deep breath, and
wipes the tears off her cheeks. “I was trying to when you came along.”

  I frown. “It’s a fucking good thing I did, too. Do you have any idea what that guy would’ve done to you? If I hadn’t been there, you’d probably be standing in that showroom in lingerie being ogled by people ready to pay top dollar!”

  “At least I’d be close to my sister!” she cried.

  Shit. Lucy.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly.

  She sniffs and backs away a step. “Look, I appreciate the save in there. And you got fired because of me. If it’s all the same, I’m gonna go now.”

  “Where are you parked?” I ask. “I’ll walk you.”

  She eyes me dubiously. “That’s okay. I took a taxi here.”

  “Look, let me give you a ride home. It’s not safe to be out here alone.”

  She scoffs. “Thanks anyway. But I can manage. I don’t accept rides from strangers.”

  “But you accept kisses from strangers?”

  Her eyes flash with fury. “That was all you,” she snarls.

  “I don’t think you hated it,” I reply. “I definitely didn’t.”

  “Don’t be a creep,” she snaps. “Besides, I don’t know you. I’d rather take my chances.”

  “I’m Connor,” I tell her. “Connor Cavanaugh. I’m not a creep, I swear.”

  “Sure,” she says sarcastically. “You’re working for a bunch of traffickers, but you’re not a creep.”

  “I guess you could say I was here spying too.”

  She freezes, staring at me. “What did you say?”

  I hold up my car keys. “Let me give you a ride home.”

  “Well . . .”

  “What’s your name?” I press.

  She sighs. “It’s Sierra. And now, I have questions.”