Caught in the Devil's Snare Read online

More than anything, I want to find a quiet place to eat, but I still need to keep going. The more distance I can cover today, the better. I have nothing to clean my hands with, so I rub them on my jeans as I walk away from the bakery, only pausing to pull out a muffin. It’s blueberry, and my mouth promptly waters. After stuffing the cellophane wrapper in my backpack to throw away later, I take a big bite of the muffin. My taste buds explode inside my mouth. Nothing has tasted this good in a very long time.

  The muffin is gone within minutes, and my mood has brightened. Now I just need water, and then I can continue making my way towards Manhattan.

  I walk blocks, shoulders brushing others as the sidewalks become crowded, and soon I see flyers for special events posted on storefronts. The store awnings are nicer, and I’m not seeing as much garbage collecting in dark corners. I’m leaving behind the bad areas, and I begin to relax.

  It’s not until an hour later that the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand on end. Someone’s following me. I doubt it’s the pimp, or I would have noticed earlier on, which means I’ve gained someone else’s attention. Who? And why?

  Damn it.

  My good mood disappears. I have to find a way to lose whoever’s following me.

  Two

  Devlin

  I’m more than displeased to be dealing with some sort of setback tonight, and heads are going to roll. With a muttered curse, I stand in front of the large, opulent mirror that’s positioned above the gleaming granite counter and double sinks in the en suite bathroom. I detest phony facial hair, but when business becomes problematic, these disguises are the very reason I’m not in prison. Unlike my father, I prefer to keep a lower profile, especially when doing illegal deeds that can get me locked up for life. That way, if I somehow find myself on surveillance, or a witness spies me coming or going from the scene of an active crime, my real identity is hidden from sight. Not that the cops don’t already know what I’m up to considering I’m the son of Brandon Kade. I grew up in the organization, and it’s well-known that I’ve taken over. However, they can’t do jack shit if they don’t have evidence that I’m running the show now that my father’s six feet under. They would have to have evidence to pin me to a specific crime, and I will never will give them the opportunity to nail my ass.

  I run my hand over the fake beard, disliking how the glue and scratchy hair feels against my skin. It isn’t natural, and it feels odd. I regularly wear a day or two’s growth along my jaw, but I’d had to shave to eliminate all traces of hair so that the glue would fuse to my skin. Clean-shaven has never been a preference of mine.

  Next, are the contact lenses. Whatever is going on, it’s big. The disguise is necessary, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy the process. Unfortunately, Carter, my righthand man, is already dealing with an issue that came up earlier. Otherwise, I’d send him in my place. After all, that’s why I pay those working under me. They take the chances; I pay them and keep their asses safe. Once you’re in an organization like this, you’re in for life. I protect you and yours, and you take hits or worse for me, because that’s how life is in my world.

  After inserting the brown contacts, I blink and look at myself in the mirror. Now comes the fake tattoo. I open the box on the counter that has all the necessary items to change my appearance, and I sort through the tattoos until I find one that will work. A snake. I reach for a washcloth and dampen it before tilting my jaw and pressing the tattoo to my neck, applying pressure with the cloth. The dampness will soak into the ink so that it’ll transfer to my skin.

  Emilio had gone through eight calls to different parties to eventually reach my personal number. It’s a pain in the ass to contact me directly—just the way I like it. It deters anyone from contacting me over a trivial matter that is beneath me. I have people in place to take care of the small stuff.

  I toss the cloth aside and stand back from the mirror, studying my reflection. Devlin Kade wouldn’t be caught dead in jeans and a hoodie, which is why I’m wearing the ridiculous getup. I lift the hood and place it over my dark hair. No, this won’t work. I turn and enter the master bedroom, striding to the walk-in closet. I need a hat of some sort.

  A second later, I exit the closet wearing a nondescript, black baseball cap with the hoodie pulled up over it. The hooded sweatshirt hides the two guns I’m packing, one in the front waistband of my jeans, the other at my back. I also have a knife in my boot. One can never be too prepared.

  I call Aiden, my personal driver, and order him to bring around the SUV I reserve for outings like this. Once I’m certain that I’m ready, I make my way through the penthouse and to the small foyer where the private elevator is located. Tobias, one of my personal enforcers, is already waiting at the doors, dressed similarly as me. He’s a beast of a man with dark blond hair and hard blue eyes that will make any man think twice about messing with him. The man’s a killer through and through.

  I nod at him as the elevator doors slide open, and we step inside. He takes position near the door and presses the button for Garage Level D. It’s the lowest level beneath the hotel and impossible to reach unless you live with me in the penthouse or you have a keycard. As the owner of the upscale, hundred-floor hotel, I can do whatever the fuck I want—within reason, of course. This is my place of residence, and nothing illegal goes down on the premises. I keep my legitimate businesses separate from the illegal, something my father never cared for. He was a power-hungry bastard, and he’d shove his power down a person’s throat just to prove he’s better.

  I, on the other hand, prefer a subtler approach. As far as the general public is concerned, Devlin Kade is a successful businessman that shed his father’s criminal ways and appears to be an upstanding citizen. When I’m not acting as Devlin Kade, I’m likened to the Devil. Hell, I believe on the streets I am called the Devil.

  When my father died from a heart attack, the organization was thrown into chaos. Some wanted to take over, but as Brandon Kade’s only heir, I put the chaos to rest and terminated those that were hoping to rise to power. This is my organization now, and if I don’t trust you, you’re out—permanently. Once I’d cleaned house—so to speak—I’d made my point and earned the respect of those left standing.

  The elevator doors open to reveal Level D of the underground parking garage. It’s quite small, with only several of my personal vehicles stored in their slots. Level C is for those that I employ within the organization. Level A and B are for the hotel employees and those that have leased suites. An outdoor parking garage is located across the street for hotel guests, and it includes an underground and above ground passageway so guests can easily come and go without having to cross the busy streets that surround the hotel.

  Aiden has the older SUV model ready, and Tobias steps forward and opens the side door for me. I climb in, and once Tobias is situated in the passenger seat, Aiden expertly turns the vehicle around and presses a button attached to his visor. A thick garage door built from heavy-gauge steel slowly opens to reveal the inner recesses of the parking garage. Arrows painted on pillars, and signs hanging from the low ceiling point towards the entrance and exit ramps.

  “Where to?” Aiden asks as he drives.

  I tell him the address and then lean back in the seat, a frown furrowing my brows. The only thing going on in Emilio’s location was the transfer of those on their way out to be shipped overseas. Human trafficking has become almost as lucrative as the drug trade. My father began delving into trafficking before he’d died, and I’d maintained the arrangement. If it’s bringing in good profit, there’s no reason to discontinue it.

  Apparently, Emilio had run into trouble tonight. I’m not concerned that it’s a setup, because word would have reached me by now. I have eyes and ears everywhere. Everywhere except inside the damned warehouse where Emilio’s watching over the unlucky ones who fall into my men’s clutches. That’s where they’re held until the transfer occurs. It was supposed to be an easy handoff, so why the hell was Emilio calling me, insisting I com
e down to talk to him personally? From the tone of his voice earlier, I could tell he was about to shit his pants when he’d requested my presence. I never conduct business by phone unless it’s with someone I know that has a secure line, which is usually only Carter and Elias.

  Elias was my father’s advisor, and when I’d inherited him, I’d done an extensive investigation to determine if he might turn on me. He’d proven himself trustworthy time and time again, so I’d made him my underboss, the technical term for his place in the organization. So far, it’s worked well. That is until he has the balls to try and advise me, and then I shut him down quick. The only power he has is the power that I grant, and that certainly doesn’t include having a say in the decisions I make.

  As we leave Manhattan behind, I recheck my weapons so that I have something to concentrate on other than my mood. I hate being called to clean up messes because it means someone’s fucked up and will likely lose their life by the end of the night. Not that I care whether I lose a soldier or not, they’re easily replaceable, but it’s the mess that I hate dealing with. I’m not a man who enjoys fixing someone else’s screw-ups. I pay people to do tasks like this, so there’d better be a damned good reason why I’m being directly involved.

  By the time we arrive at the unassuming warehouse in Queens, I’m in a foul mood. I wait impatiently as Tobias scouts the outer perimeter before he raps a fist on the window to signal it’s all clear.

  I shove open the door and step into the darkened gravel lot. There’s not much to see since the sky is dark, and the one-story building extends most of the block, eliminating any kind of pleasant scenery. Rocks crunch beneath my boots as I follow Tobias through an old, rusty door. It leads us into a small room that might have once been an office. A bobbing flashlight shines across us as it appears at the end of a hallway on our left. Both Tobias and I yank out our guns and point them at the flashlight holder.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! It’s just me,” a male voice says hurriedly as he approaches. He’s a stout man with dark hair and chubby cheeks. There’s a nervousness lingering in the air around him, and it’s turning the stale air sour with his fear.

  There’s no way to keep track of all the men working for me, so I’m not surprised that I’ve never met this one. The organization is large and deals mainly with gangs and other lowlife criminals. I don’t typically concern myself with the soldiers, because even if they are a snitch for the cops, they won’t get anything worthwhile. Nobody learns anything pertaining to me or the inner workings of the organization until they reach the higher levels of power, which don’t easily accept newcomers. When they do, which is rare, I am the one to clear the newcomers before they’re trusted with information that could be incriminating.

  “Emilio, I presume?” I ask in a dry tone. Why the hell is someone of his lowly stature calling me?

  His head bobs up and down. “Yes, yes,” he quickly confirms.

  Tobias, always on guard, keeps his gun trained on Emilio. I slowly lower my own, sensing that this man is more frightened than an actual threat. “Why am I here?” I ask as I scan the hall, searching for others. How many men were in on this transfer?

  Emilio notes the direction of my gaze. “It’s just me, the others dropped them off and left. The truck is late. Something about a flat and no spare,” he says, his voice higher pitched than it had been moments ago.

  “Start talking,” I order.

  Emilio visibly swallows, and I can see beads of sweat shining on his forehead. “He didn’t know it, probably still doesn’t,” he says quickly. “But I recognized her immediately.”

  “Recognized who?”

  He hesitates, looking very uneasy. “Enrique played Uber driver tonight. Uh, he brought in some women that were leaving a club. The DA’s daughter was taken, along with two of her friends. At least I’m assuming they’re friends since they shared the Uber,” he says in a rush.

  I begin cursing profusely. Who the fuck is Enrique? The number one rule in trafficking is to stay away from the clubs because those are the types that will be missed. Fuck! The district attorney’s daughter? This is a clusterfuck of epic proportions.

  Emilio’s eyes widen as he watches me. “They’re still drugged,” he says hurriedly as if that’ll dampen my temper.

  “Take me to them,” I say in a biting tone. There’s no going back from this. There’s a chance they may not recall a damned thing because of the drug, but I can’t take that chance. The only option is to kill them and destroy the bodies, making certain that no evidence can ever be found. Their disappearance will make headlines, but it’s a small price to pay compared to what could have been.

  Enrique leads us to a room that has two light stands situated in opposite corners. On the floor, piled on the dirty cement, are about a dozen unconscious women with cable ties securing their hands. Most are dressed in street clothing, but three of them have been separated from the group and are dressed in club outfits.

  I move closer and gaze down at the three women. They’re just as one would expect—pretty with healthy bodies. The one in the middle has her minidress pulled up to her waist, and the flesh between her legs is bare. Someone had recently taken advantage of her unconscious state.

  My eyes roam over the women with irritation. They would have brought in a nice profit, but this must end before it can unfold further. I pull out my gun and train it on the brunette on the left, aiming for her head. I pull the trigger, and blood and brain matter explode out the back of her head to splatter the pretty blonde nestled beside to her. The blonde is next, and then I put a bullet in the last woman. The scent of blood and gore fill the room, and it’s an odor I’m familiar with. I saw my first dead body when I was nine, and there isn’t anything left in the world that can shock me these days.

  My attention turns to Emilio. “Incinerate the bodies and get rid of all evidence that they were here.” My eyes hone in on his with warning. “Do a good job, Emilio, because your family’s lives depend on it,” I tell him in a quiet, deliberate tone.

  He nods, swallowing as a drip of sweat makes its way down the side of his face.

  He’s too fucking nervous. If the cops ever get their hands on him, he’d spew proverbial vomit without any effort on their part. He needs to be terminated, but it can wait until he’s finished the task I’ve given him. “What’s Enrique’s last name? Which gang is he affiliated with?”

  Just as I’d expected, Emilio gives me all the information I need on the idiot who couldn’t follow the simplest of rules. I give Tobias a pointed look, and he nods, putting his gun away before taking out his cellphone. He turns and walks out of the room, now focused on tasking someone with tracking down Enrique and terminating him.

  Movement draws my attention to the pile of women, and I notice one of them is stirring. She’s on the far left, and I wonder if she’d overheard everything. Looks like I’m losing another one tonight, and I aim my gun at her head. Instead of pulling the trigger, I find myself waiting.

  For what? Hell, if I know.

  She’s young, and in the poor lighting, her long hair looks to be a dull blonde. My eyes roam over her body, taking in the shape of her B-cup breasts beneath the blue tank. A long-sleeved, gray shirt covers her arms, but it does nothing to hide her slim, shapely hips covered in denim. She’s clad in skinny jeans and wearing scuffed sneakers. I gather she’d been snatched off the streets.

  She looks to be genuinely regaining consciousness, and her expression scrunches as she makes a face. The tip of her tongue peeks out as she licks her lips as if tasting something unpleasant. Long eyelashes flutter open, and green eyes focus on me with confusion. When her eyes slide to the gun, they widen further.

  I’m taken aback when her chin lowers defiantly, her eyes sparking with challenge. The little street urchin is practically daring me to pull the trigger. I’ve never met a female that can look death in the face and confront it like she is right now. Call me intrigued. “Stand up,” I order, still not certain whether I’m going to kill
her or not.

  I watch as her eyes dart to my lips, and her forehead puckers.

  The patience I’d had earlier vanishes over her resistance to follow my order. I reach down and grab a fistful of her tank, hauling her to her feet so I can see her better in the poor lighting. Christ, she can’t be more than a few inches taller than five feet.

  She glares up at me, slapping my hands away from her.

  This won’t do at all. I’m aware of Emilio still watching, and Tobias has re-entered the room. I raise the gun and press it to her forehead, a clear warning to stand still.

  Her breasts are rapidly rising and falling beneath her shirt as she breathes. If she’s scared, she’s still not showing it. Hatred shines from her eyes as her gaze remains locked on mine.

  Her eyes could only be described as viridian, a bluish-green pigment that is striking against the fringe of her long, dark eyelashes. Her face is heart-shaped, and her eyebrows arch gracefully above eyes that tilt slightly in the corners, reminding me of the term ‘cat-like.’ Beneath her eyes, scattering high across the curve of her cheekbones, are honest to god freckles. Not dark, but still noticeable enough that the dirt on her face can’t quite hide them. Her small nose fits her face perfectly, and lastly, lush pink lips that naturally tilt seductively in the corners prevent her from looking too angelic.

  I’m finished with my inspection and should be pulling the trigger, but instead, I clip out, “Your name.”

  Her head cocks slightly, and much to my exasperation, her eyes become more defiant—if that’s even possible. Good god, does this young woman not have any self-preservation? Her lips have flattened, and the curves in the corners of her mouth disappear as she refuses to respond to my question.

  I stare hard at her. No, she didn’t witness what went down earlier or she wouldn’t be this confident. All her attention is focused on me, so she hasn’t yet noted the mess I’d made twelve feet to her left. She’s quite a pretty little thing, no more than eighteen—maybe nineteen at most. She could still be shipped overseas, but as I stare into those blazing eyes, I find that I don’t like the thought of anyone breaking her spirit.