The Price of Grace (Black Ops Confidential 2)

Gracie resisted the annoyance igniting her cheeks. How did she keep getting out of school? What were Momma and Leland doing over there? Why hadn’t her security system let her know that someone had entered? She should’ve gotten a text. This kid. “How’d you get in?”

Cee waved her wrist. “I used my chip.”

No. It didn’t work that way. Unless? “Who programmed your chip? Who gave you the code to get in here?”

Cee’s eyes grew wide, guilty. Gracie changed the code every week. Only Leland and internal security had the codes. And only one person in Cee’s class, the only other boy adopted into the family, Romeo, had those kinds of cyber skills.

Oh boy. This was turning into a ball of wax. Cee’s unit, Vampire Academy, was testing every boundary. And Cee seemed to be leading the charge.

“All right.” Gracie held up a hand. “Let’s unpack all of it, but first I’m starving.”

“I bet.”

Smart mouth. “Wait here.”

After putting her weapon away and making her omelet and a cup of tea, Gracie sat down opposite Cee.

“You and Rome have to stop messing with the security chips. Leland is going to come down hard on you. And—”

Cee slammed her hand on the table, causing the silver spoon in her now empty bowl to jump. “They already have. But no one does anything about the group I found!”

Whoa. Angry much? “League operations are shut down because of the drone attack. We have to protect our people too. And it’s not like we’re doing nothing. We do a lot in other areas.” Like blackmailing a senator to support our agenda.

Cee fidgeted. “I can’t forget them.”

“Who?”

She sat forward. “The other girls like me—they’re scared, uncertain. Not understanding how men’s desires reduce us to just a body. As if we had no souls.” Her lips tightened for a moment and then released. “Please. Allow me to do the work. Please.”

Gracie felt a tug on her heart. This was the first time Cee had shown her a motivation that didn’t seem prompted by anger or revenge. Her eyes were slick with fierce intensity. She wore the force of empathy on her face, the sincere longing to help another.

Gracie knew that look. Had worn it. She knew what it felt like to believe that what you were doing, what the League did, was the only way to fight back. She could almost hear the thud of that other shoe dropping. Because as much as she complained about the League, her time in the world had only made her believe more in the work they did. And yes, sometimes Momma’s tactics were questionable, even hurtful, but her intention was to help, to free, to rescue others, especially girls like Cee.

Fudge buckets. She’d risked all of those good intentions, her entire family, when she’d sent that email. If she further exposed them to Dusty and he betrayed or rejected them, it would devastate her. A lot more than if he’d just betrayed and rejected her. “Let me drive you home. I’ll talk to Momma.” She looked around. “Do you have stuff?”

Cee nodded, looked away. “Yes. Upstairs.”

Upstairs? A finger of foreboding swept down her spine. She’d gotten upstairs? “You and Rome have got to knock it off, Cee.”

Cee stood up, stomped her foot and glared. “Do you want lions or rabbits in the League?”

“Neither. We want foxes. Cunning. Not rage. You need to stop being so angry.”

“You need to stop being so afraid.”

What? “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Of being one of us. Come out from behind your computer and do the work. You might find that people”—she paused, swallowed what seemed to be a genuine emotion—“are worth it.”

Gracie’s face flushed with heat. Poo. The kid was right. Still… “Look, I get it. You want to make a difference. And you can. But for today, you’re in a safe place. Let that sink in. Relax.”

Cee shook her head. “No place is safe.” She looked around at the club. “This place can’t protect you. It won’t. Nothing will.”

Gracie balled up her napkin and tossed it onto her plate. “Just get your stuff.”

Chapter 37

After taking a bus ten miles from his home, Tyler walked down the street to the shipping store where he’d rented his private mailbox. The owners, a woman and her husband, were busy behind the counter bubble-wrapping some kind of large glass bowl. They barely stopped long enough to nod hello.

He nodded back, pressed the code on the gleaming painted golden door—like something you’d see in anime. He imagined opening it to see a too-pale doll with stringy hair, giant eyes and tits. Nope. Not this time. He pulled out the silver and black laptop and slipped it into his backpack. He’d done this enough times it now felt like routine.

Backpack on and weighted by the custom laptop—the Parish family didn’t mess around—he left the store and avoided the Starbucks at the end of the street. Cee had told him to vary his routine. Seemed stupid, but he’d been followed before.

Although he’d been followed by his mom. Biological mom. Not the mom that lived with him, took care of him, and annoyed the heck out of him.

No. The mom that had given him up. He couldn’t wait to meet her. Talk to her. And she wanted to meet him. According to Cee, she’d given him up when he was younger to keep him safe from the scary life of the Parish family.

He didn’t find it scary. It was cool. It was real. Like really helping people. No bullshit. He stood in line at the window for the juice store, got a watermelon smoothie, paid with a crumpled ten, and sat at an outside table with a neon-red umbrella.

He booted up his computer, hooked into the stand’s free Wi-Fi, sipped his smoothie, and checked the mailbox Cee had set up for him. Ten emails. Looked like she’d been—

Ah. Brain freeze. He shut his eyes.

Once it passed, he took a more cautious sip of his smoothie and went through the emails, starting with the oldest. Most were things Cee had already told him. Things he’d done. Getting a burner phone. Making sure he had a face mask to block facial recognition software. When he got to the more recent emails, he found each one had instructions that built on the last one. By the time he’d followed all the instructions, he found himself in a secure chat on the dark web.

An instant message box popped up. Check it out.

Gruesome images of naked women tied up on chairs, drugged, being raped, tortured, appeared.

What the hell? He looked away. Closed the window. Damn. He double-checked that even though his back was to the building, no one could see his screen. They couldn’t.

He didn’t open the box again. His hands shook. Shit. That was so messed up. Like the way the women had been tied, bruised. The paleness of their skin, cuts on their…

There were some sick people in the world. He wasn’t going to look again. But this proved it. He was doing the right thing, lying to his family, sneaking around. It was the right thing to do.

Another message popped up: The money you sent is going to stop this.

He typed: It’s enough? Fifty thousand seemed like a lot to him, but he’d never funded vigilantes before.

Yeah.

He let out a breath. When can I meet my, he hesitated, deleted, retyped: When can I meet Gracie?

Do you have access to the

cabin? Can you make sure no one will be there?

His fingers began to twitch. His heart to pound. Finally. This was it. He’d done everything they’d asked. Yeah.

Then soon. Put the laptop back in your mailbox. You won’t need it again.

Why not? He ran his hands over the expensive laptop’s glowing red and black keyboard. This was his connection to the group, to the plan to take down bad guys.

This was the way his mother would contact him to be part of the family and the League of Warrior Women.

Did they really need the women part? Couldn’t it just be League of Warriors? Kind of sexist the way it was.

He typed: How will I know the plan?

I’ll text you the next steps on your burner.

Chapter 38

Not much could ruin a stroll through the charming sidewalks of Bristol, Pennsylvania. Antiques stores, homemade ice cream, pancake places, mom-and-pop coffee shops, bookstores, and taverns along the Delaware River, cute as all hell.

Too bad Dusty’s brain wouldn’t let him enjoy it. Kept replaying Gracie’s reaction that morning. Shaken. Breathing hard. Angry. Pretty much obliterated cute as hell. Made his chest hurt that he couldn’t even call her.

She wanted space. He’d give it to her.

Space sucked.

Skirting an antique washboard with a rusted grill and an old pram doll carriage in front of one of the shops, Dusty went two doors down and entered a restaurant. Reminded him of a New York diner—thin, rectangular, with two-person booths, steel-poled barstools, and a long Formica countertop.

He automatically noted the number of people inside and where they were sitting. Not too busy. Practically empty. Two women in a booth. Three guys at the counter. Waitress. Cook.

He swung into the last blue-plastic booth, back to the wall, with a view of the front door, kitchen door, and reflection of the restroom doors in the mirrored glass behind the counter.

The waitress, a middle-aged woman with a been-there, done-that smile, handed him a menu. He thanked her. Told her he was waiting for someone.

Always liked to arrive early. Take in the surroundings, make a note of things. Recon never hurt anyone.