Wicked Company

Chapter Four

~ Six months later ~

"Stupid fucking mother fucker!" I threw the wrench across my little garage, digging into my lackluster tools to continue my gloomy search for the ten millimeter socket that always seemed to evade my clutches.

"Piece of shit! Always the tens. Always! Fuck me!" I whipped my arm up to check my watch and growled at myself.

Ten shitty men. I'd already, quicker than I'd ever imagined I could, gotten what I needed from them. They were the lowest ones on the corrupt totem pole I'd sought to destroy.

Albert Bancroft, the sleaziest of all, had finally listened to their pleas and had decided to take the situation seriously. Whispering to his friends to up their cyber security, I'd had to take a small step back to reassess my plan of action. Tonight was my first night back after two months of silence.

Already running late on the strict schedule I'd set, I said to hell with the valves and hoped for the best. It was a cool evening and I had to pray that they wouldn't overheat in the brisk air.

I strayed from caution - that was my first mistake.

Throwing my leg over my bike, I let it purr between my thighs. I stepped out and down the driveway. Looking down to my peeking tattoo from the bottom of my jacket sleeve and then up to the sky, I nodded to my uncle.

Already behind, I flew down the road to my eleventh target - Dick Morrison.

Dick. I chuckled lowly to myself. Every time.

I pulled into the large parking garage of the apartment complex adjacent to his building, breathing in the cool night's air at the very top.

Did I have to be in close proximity for each job? No. But did it up the satisfaction to see the workplace for each man? Absolutely. I just had to be extra careful to keep to a route left untouched by cameras, or had to loop them myself to keep them blind to my work.

I pulled out my laptop and made quick work of his security system, swerving through the back door and hacking into his financial records.

I scrolled through his employee files and held back the bile that rose in my throat. Each and every employee that wasn't an American-born citizen had been tossed aside and screwed over like yesterday's soggy leftovers. Each and every one.

I took a deep breath and triple checked myself, making absolute positive that I wasn't seeing things in my own disdain.

Racist, corrupt piece of fucking shit. Fifteen thousand a year.

I got my binoculars out and found the man mopping the conference room. Matching his face to the employee database, I felt my fingers clench to the point of pain.

This poor man makes fifteen thousand a year. No benefits - nothing. But... I scrolled through the payroll database. It really says he only works four hour days. Eight in the morning to noon. He's already clocked out for the day?

I huffed sarcastically, checking my watch - seven past nine.

How strange. Noon looks different here. So someone already put in his hours.

I dug into the employee's past.

Victor Mendoza, fifty-seven, wife and kids still stuck in Honduras. I'd assume he's working his ass off to get them here and this is how Dick sees that effort.

He's put in for a raise... seven times. Rejected each time. Naturally.

Fucking selfish piece of shit.