After they leave, I grab my laptop and open social media. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I can access—or hack—all forms of social media and have accounts under many names. However, before I left for the Army all those years ago, I had a Twitter account which belonged to me, the real me—Isaac James. Although I never post, my family, my friends… Via, they all believe I never use it. The truth is, I monitor their lives. When I can’t be near, when I want to cling to home to feel close to them, that’s when I log in. I could hack into their personal accounts, but I feel like that would be a step too far, and I need to draw the line somewhere for my own sanity.
Where Via’s concerned, though, it seems I like to torture myself by reading what she’s been up to over the years, knowing when she’s dating or having fun, living life without me in it. Still, I can’t seem to stop, even now. Opening her Twitter page is just another stab in my heart. Her status makes me grab my phone. I hold it in my hand and will myself not to call or text her before slowly placing it back down.
Olivia McKenna @Via_McKenna - Pain is the only feeling you can ever really trust.
I read and re-read her tweet, as though if I stare at it long enough, it will change. I’m just about to log out, to give myself a break when I spot another tweet from her.
@NoahMaitland - Saturday works.
And then she’s put a damn wink emoji.
What the fuck? Who was she replying to?
I click on his name as the profile photo—some sea view bullshit which tells me nothing. The moment it opens up, I read the account information, then scroll down to his tweet to my Via. I relax, realising it’s the guy from the dance studio.
@Via_McKenna – Wanna dance again?
Clicking my neck from side to side, I’m glad when the tension eases. Not only does the most recent information I’ve gathered tell me that Noah Maitland is interested and actively pursuing Via’s friend and roommate, Helena, I also watched them dance last week. There was no fire, no passion. Via likes him, but it’s purely platonic. If I ever see her dancing passionately with another guy, then I’ll be concerned. Even so, I should be her partner. It’s what I want, it’s what she wants, but it’s not what she needs. I’m not what she needs. Not yet. But I will be.
I log off and pull out the notes for the current mission. It’s just after nine p.m. now, and I should be getting my four hours of sleep too, but I can’t seem to stop my brain from running at a million miles an hour.
We need to be at Crimson, a small dive club in the centre of London, by one a.m. I’ve studied the trend of this ring as much as I can. They seem to always arrive at their chosen spot around one thirty in the morning, waiting for a few hours sourcing and watching the girls. My understanding is that they pick out roughly ten girls, but take just two or three. They hang around until four in the morning waiting for the most sober people to leave and then choose from the girls who remain. It seems it’s easier to collect their packages when the world that surrounds them is drug infused or drink addled.
I don’t want to put Shelly in that position, but I have no choice. She knows that, it’s her job. No matter what I say, the fact is I’ve become attached to my team, and with the work we do, it’s both a benefit and a curse.
“They’ve arrived.”
“You’re sure?”
“Affirmative, it’s them. Only three from the six-man team we tracked last week. Intel says more are coming, but these three are the spotters, the rest come to collect later.”
The chatter through our earpieces confirms what we all thought. Tonight is the night. As I sit at the back end of the bar overlooking the seedy club, I know I need to focus. We’ve been here for little under an hour, and I’ve spotted at least twelve possible girls they could pick. Darwin is across at the other side of the club where the second bar is situated, and much the same as me, he’s projecting the image of a drunk propping up the bar. Shelly’s sharing a table with Victor at the moment. They’re under the guise of being together, occasionally kissing and pretending to be all over each other. He will seemingly leave her alone later, following a fake argument, which will hopefully set the stage for Shelly to be the bait. Clint, Dean, and Brand are pretending to be drunk arseholes. At twenty-six, I’m one of the oldest—except Darwin, who has two years on me—which means we can all pass for horny guys out for a quick fuck. Nobody ever takes us for Black Ops, and that works in our favour. I scan the room but already know I’ll never spot Arlo and King. They’re ghosts, they always have been. I know they’re somewhere in the background, watching, lying in wait like coiled pythons. Until they’re needed, no one will see them.
While sipping my drink, I covertly scan the men who have just arrived. To most, they are pretty nondescript—all have brown hair, stand around six foot and are wearing dark jeans and long-sleeved tops—but I notice the smaller things. The first guy has a scar on his chin, he’s slightly leaner than the other two, and I’d put my money on him being a quick sprint, which means he could get away easily. “Dean, the guy with the scar
