Don't Make a Sound (Sawyer Brooks #1)
T.R. Ragan
CHAPTER ONE
After the pinwheel on the computer stopped spinning and the screen brightened, she logged in to her private group. They called themselves The Crew. There were five of them, and they all had nicknames. Hers was Malice. The others were known as Lily, Bug, Cleo, and Psycho.
Their connection ran deep. Rape, torture, and years of anguish had brought them together. They knew one another’s stories, and they trusted each other fully. They hadn’t joined forces to provide emotional support, although much of what they did was therapeutic. The header pinned at the top of their page read Deterrence, Restitution, and Reformation.
It was The Crew’s belief that the only way to get justice was to see criminals punished.
Recently, they had decided unanimously to take control of their lives by teaching sexual predators a lesson or two. The people they planned to go after would come from all walks of life—young and old, rich and poor. The Crew had no intention of committing murder. The lowlifes would get exactly what they had coming—no more, no less. Once the target had been properly “awakened,” they would be released back into society.
They knew their hobby could easily become a full-time job. But there were only five of them, and so they would do what they could. They all had lives outside their club. Some of them were married and had children of their own. Some had full-time jobs. They would keep what they did from friends and family, because too many outsiders tended to believe the law would see justice served.
But reality wasn’t that kind.
Child abusers and sexual predators were becoming the norm. It was a well-known fact that fifteen of sixteen rapists walked free. Criminals knew better than most that there were police shortages in nearly every city and town across the country. It wasn’t easy finding good candidates to recruit for police work either. The pay was shit, and the odds of getting killed on the job were high.
So here they were, after years of getting to know one another, plotting their first target. They were a true sisterhood, committed to their newfound cause. Their motto was One Douchebag at a Time.
It was all they could do.
For now, it would have to be enough.
CHAPTER TWO
Sitting in her eight-by-eight cubicle on the third floor of the sturdy brick building that housed the Sacramento Independent, Sawyer Brooks, a twenty-nine-year-old journalist, gulped down her second cup of coffee and stared at the blank screen. What would her readers want to know about Jason Carlson, the man who thought it would be a good idea to whip out a rattlesnake to impress the kids at his ten-year-old son’s birthday party? While posing for pictures, he’d lost his grip, and the reptile bit the face of the child closest to him and another kid’s arm before slithering away.
It had happened yesterday. They’d been rushed to the hospital. One little boy was in critical condition. The other kid was going to be okay.
What sort of moron would think pulling out a venomous snake in front of a bunch of kids was appropriate?
A shadow fell over her.
She swiveled around in her chair.
Her boss stood there, hands shoved deep into his pants pockets. His grayish-blue eyes reminded her of the color of the sky before a storm. Derek Coleman was the guy she reported to, one of two people in the building who made the final decision when it came to what stories she worked on.
Coleman was a young widower at thirty-five. Sawyer wasn’t one to pry into the personal lives of others, but being observant, paying attention to those around her, and remembering details was one of her genetically predetermined characteristics. It was also her job to know things.
Three years ago, a driver who’d been too busy texting to pay attention to the road had hit Coleman’s wife’s car head-on. She’d died instantly. He hadn’t removed the silver-framed wedding photo from his desk until recently. The picture of him holding his bride close to his chest, her white satin shoes inches off the ground, their faces brimming with happiness, told half the story. Gossipy staff filled in the rest.
Sawyer had worked for the Sacramento Independent for five years now. She’d started out as an intern, basically a gopher, then moved on to researching and editing others’ stories, finally landing a job as a news and human-interest reporter after another writer moved back East.
She met Coleman’s gaze. His expression told her he had bad news. “What’s wrong?”
“The kid died.”
Her first thought was: What kid? Second thought: No way. She’d read the stats on snakebites. Both victims had been given an antivenin within an hour of being bitten. The probability of recovery was 99 percent. Venomous snakes bit seven to eight thousand people every year. About five of those died. “How could that be?” she asked, pushing through her surprise.
“Apparently the boy had an allergic reaction.”
She swiveled back around, grabbed her purse from the bottom drawer, and jumped out of her chair.
“Where are you going?”
“To the hospital.” She knew Coleman wouldn’t try to stop her from talking to the grieving family or friends of the boy. Many frowned on journalists talking to family members too soon. But this was a newspaper, after all. Coleman trusted her as a journalist to tell the story, no matter how difficult. She didn’t act callously or hound people suffering from grief.
And yet Coleman still stood there. Again, she met his gaze. “Is there something else?”