Free The Token (#10): Shepard by Marata Eros Page B

“Cameras aren't in the right direction for viewing. It's like these fuckers knew exactly where to engage.”
    “How many people were on the train at nearly ten o'clock on a Sunday night?”
    Thorn shrugs. Tag's question is rhetorical, but he answers. “Figured you could fire a cannon through the Kent Station and not hit anyone.”
    Tag points at Thorn. “Exactly. Everything's credit card pay now. Names are cataloged.” He spreads his palms wide. “It was only a matter of time.”
    Thorn's exhale explodes between them. “Spit it out.”
    “Marissa Augustine.”
    Thorn walks to Tag, his hands on his hips. “Speak.”
    Tag rolls his eyes at Thorn's obvious impatience. “American, mixed ethnicity—twenty-three. French major.”
    Thorn's grin is savage. “Bingo.”
    Seeing Thorn's manic glee, Tag inclines his head. “Doesn't fit the French angle perfectly, though. From what Juliette says, Shepard recruited young girls. Virgins who didn't already speak a bunch of languages. Chicks who needed to be molded. ”
    Thorn nods. He's excited. “Yeah, but that was foreign. In their turf where they had all kinds of resources they could pay off. Over here?” Thorn slaps his thighs, walking off his nervous energy. “Here, they would need a leg up. Makes more sense to nail girls who are already partially suited to their needs.”
    “This chick doesn't look real mixed.”
    Thorn is curious despite himself. “Let me see.”
    Tag flips the phone around.
    The image fills the screen. Classic driver's license photo. Girl has long, kinky dark blond hair and wide smoky eyes, Angelina Jolie lips, and is built to move. Athletic, big of bone, delicately featured. Different.
    Thorn purses his lips. “Hands-down exotic.”
    Tag nods. “She has a unique look, but she's not...”
    “Black?” He hikes an eyebrow, remembering the French mob's idea of mules.
    “Fuck, Thorn—you know I don't give a ripe shit.”
    “I know.”
    They stare at each other, thinking about their shared past. “But these clients—for lack of a better term—Juliette says that the girls need to be mixed to appeal to a wide variety of delegates.”
    “Pricks,” Tag spits.
    Thorn shrugs . Truth. “Yeah. But I want Shepard. He's got this girl, right?”
    “Looks like.” Tag heaves a rough exhale, plowing his fingertips through his fair hair and uncrossing his arms. He puts the flat of his palms on his thighs. “But we don't know if he's hurting her, or he—saved her.”
    Thorn scowls. “Shepard can't save anyone. He only fucks women up. A Léopard doesn't change his spots. He's his own fucking freak show.”
    “I think that's tiger...”
    Thorn hikes a shoulder. “Whatever. The dude clearly lacks compassion. Shepard was there. Juliette was here ten minutes ago and ID'd his methods. It's him. And we have two FNs dead and a missing girl. Looks pretty conclusive.”
    “I know you want to bust this guy's balls, but something doesn't add up.”
    “Which part?” Thorn tosses his arms into the air. “The part where the former pimp of the French mob shows up and so do bodies with known French mob connections, and a mixed-blood girl who speaks French is suddenly gone? Seems like it does. Two plus two is four, pal.”
    Tag grimaces. “The circumstances point to that, but if that was this Shepard's MO, why wait an entire year to get back into the biz? Why piss in corners and mark his territory now?” Tag's brows shoot up.
    “Wait till the heat cools?” Tag's frown deepens to a scowl. “Once no one's paying attention, Shepard moves in and claims this area for his own little trafficking oasis.”
    Thorn shakes his head. “Nah.”
    “Maybe he was hoping to be the mob's guy here in America?”
    Thorn fights rubbing his arms from the meat-cooler cold of the morgue, clenching his teeth instead.
    “They've got plenty of local trafficking going on. Shepard wouldn't get a foothold.” Thorn moves to the morgue door.
    His hand heats the metal of the chilled