Page 11 of The Vigilante's Lover

Who is this girl?

I drive most of the night. I watch her in the backseat. After about an hour, she lies down and falls asleep. Her hair is wild and tangled around her face.

Something tickles in my belly, something annoying, something like interest. I force it away and focus on the task at hand. I can’t just waltz into a Vigilante silo with a naked woman in bondage rope. If her information is wiped, no telling who she is.

I refuse to allow any thought that she might actually be innocent.

Ordinary people have Identipad entries that are pages long.

Social media accounts. Addresses. Records.

I can see every filling in their teeth and every bad grade on their high school transcript.

There is nothing the Vigilantes haven’t compiled on every citizen of every country.

People make it too easy with their long digital trails, interconnected with everyone they know and every place they’ve been.

But Mia is blank. Her parents too.

Then I realize, so is my family.

When they left the network, retired, their identities were erased. It’s a courtesy.

But this girl. She’s a working girl. She was in a safe house.

I rub my eyes. Nothing should be hidden from me.

Before Jovana and my prison sentence, I was next in line to take over the entire North American syndicate.

That would include this beautiful girl and her aunt’s Tennessee home.

I should know them. Be able to see their histories, functions, and allies.

Even if they are wiped. Even if they have special classification.

And yet, I can’t.

They could be transplants from another syndicate. Russian, maybe. Or someplace small. Norway. Mia’s features are very delicate. Her hair is a mix of brown and gold.

Damn it, who is she?

The lights of St. Louis become visible in the distance. We’ll be in the city soon. I’ll need to decide what to do with the girl. Dump her? Lock her away?

But if I bring her to the silo, I might learn more about her.

Standard procedure at every Vigilante station is a complete rundown of recent activity, biomedical, geolocation, technology use.

Everything. You couldn’t give a blow job without it being on the screen as you walked through the glass hall.

It would tell me about her.

I punch the screen on the dash to activate the search function. “Find me a five-star hotel,” I say softly, to avoid waking Mia.

A list appears. Ritz-Carlton. Four Seasons. Cheshire. Moonrise.

“Ritz,” I say.

A gentle female voice says, “The Club Level Executive Suite is available.”

“Take it,” I say.

“Reserving it now.”

I will need to provide something for Mia to wear to the silo. I swipe away the hotel screen. No traditional boutiques are open at this hour. I glance back at her. The jacket has slipped and I can see the swell of her breasts crossed by the red rope. Something stirs again.

“Fetish boutique,” I say to the screen.

But the list is totally unsatisfactory. Bondage shops. Cheap adult stores. St. Louis hides the good stuff.

Who would know where to find a service to provide couture clothes to a girl who is tied up? Someone discreet who wouldn’t blink at the ropes?

“Contact Armond,” I say.

“Contacting,” the voice responds.

After a moment, Armond pops up on the video screen. His bald head shines blue from whatever lighting he’s under. His eyes are bright under bushy brows. “Jax! You’re back on grid!”

“Not exactly,” I say.

Armond glances down. “I see. Now that’s what I call encryption. It says I’m in Buenos Aires.”

“And I’m in Tahiti,” I say. “I need a favor.”

“Anything, my friend.” He doesn’t even ask why I’m out of prison. Some things you don’t say even on encrypted channels.

“I need something lovely, size four, daywear, think high-class secretary.”

Armond guffaws a loud laugh. “You’re more like a size ten, I’d say.”

I shake my head. “Right. I do drag about like you do mezcal.”

Armond’s expression shifts to disgust. “Do not speak of it.” He’s from Jalisco and his tequilas are pure blue agave always. We’ve tossed a few back more than once.

“Also, we have a little bondage involved,” I say. “So send me someone prepared to handle role-play.”

He taps on something below his screen. “I need some coordinates.”

“Remember when we found six hookers in a meth lab?”

“Can’t forget that one.”

“The tall one. Her name. My usual spot. Usual suite.”

“Roger that,” he says. “I’ll send a couple ladies expecting to outfit a boss and secretary bondage game.”

“Perfect,” I say. Armond is the expert at these things.

“I’m not seeing that gray suit I sent your French compatriot,” he says.

“I should have known that was you.” I jerk my head toward the back. “The lady has the jacket.”

He nods knowingly. “Understood. Shoe size?”

I glance to the backseat. Mia’s slender foot is tucked under her knee, the Croc about to fall off. “I’d guess a seven.”

“All right. It will be ready for you when you arrive. ETA?”

I glance at the map still projected on the lower dash. “A little less than an hour.”

“We’ll get it done.”

“Thank you, Armond.”

“It’s a pleasure, as always.” He nods and the screen blips out.

“Six hookers?” Mia’s voice is full of sleep.

“It’s code,” I say, even though that one isn’t.

She sits up, her hair falling around her shoulders like a cloud. Damn, she’s sexy. The innocence paired with the attitude. I’ve never met anyone like her.

“We’re almost to the city,” I say. “I have reserved a hotel.”

She glances down at the suit jacket and frowns at how much she’s revealing. “I don’t think they’re going to approve of my walking through the lobby in red rope and a man’s jacket.”

“I have my own entrance,” I say.

“Of course,” she mutters. She shakes her head, trying to get her hair to fall back. “Am I going to be tied up like this for long?”

I set the car back into controlled drive and turn to look at her.

The suit jacket splits at her thighs, pale and slender on the black leather seat.

Her knees are pressed tightly together. She wears no makeup, so nothing about her is smudged or used up.

Other than the wild tangle of her hair, she’s like an angel.

The urge to unbutton the jacket and look at her again is powerful.

It’s the dry spell, I tell myself. I never fall for Phase One seductress Trainees.

When I raise my eyes to hers, I feel like she knows the direction of my thoughts. As if the innocent act is gone completely and she knows what I want. I wait for those knees to part, for her to open wide in invitation, her chest arching toward me.

But she just shifts on the seat, fighting against the ties on her wrists so that she’s less uncomfortable.

“How long you’re tied up depends on how well you cooperate,” I say and turn around, both for her sake and mine.

I need to be back under control again, and this girl is not helping.