Wordlessly Marchant followed instructions, quickly relocating to a stool that put his back to the kids. Owen wondered if he’d made the decision intentionally, allowing Owen to have the entire room under his gaze, but shook off the idea.
“Did you have a chance to treat the other kids from that place I never went to or saw?” Owen lifted his mug to hide what he was sure was a strained expression. “And by other kids, I mean those ones who don’t have anything to do with mine.”
“I know what you mean, and yes, I did. Some of them will be years recovering from what that man did. Every time I see what I think is the worst of humanity, some asshole has to go the extra mile to prove me wrong.” Mouth pulled to the side, Marchant allowed his disgust to show on his features. “Half of those kids had been reported dead in foster care, the other half flagged as runaways. They came from all over America, man. How can there be so many corrupt people within one single system?”
“Money talks, always has. If you’re an asshole, have something you don’t value much, like someone else’s child you’re being paid to feed and clothe, and someone comes along and offers enough money—it’s not rocket science what happens next.” Owen glanced at the kids. My kids. “Pair of young children like mine, with a dead mother and father, those parents part of a demographic also viewed as the dregs of society, it’s not hard to disappear them. Authorities are jaded, where they aren’t outright crooked, so when they’re told the worst, they more readily believe it.”
“And the kids pay and pay.” Marchant blew a stream of air across his coffee and directed his gaze to Owen’s face. “Why’d you ask me here?”
Pulling in a long breath, uncaring if it marked what he had to say next as momentous, Owen rested his palms flat on the countertop, steadying himself in that way, too.
“I’m ex-military. My daughter was kidnapped and killed by child traffickers while I was embedded overseas. I came home to a cold granite stone, and damn little in the way of information. Brass shipped me out again right away, well before I was ready. I was…unhinged would probably be the right way to describe my state of mind.” He swallowed, fighting against the taste of dust and ash, the scent of smoke thick in his nostrils. He flexed his hands, pressing his fingertips against the cold surface, anchoring himself in the now as best he could. Now, not then. It took a few breaths, but gradually, the smell of death faded away. “My mission was to take out a Central American political figure. I was in place, in play, target acquired—and saw a child only two windows down from where my man stood in plain sight. There was a male individual with that child, one I knew was a close confidant of my target. They were amigos, you get me?” Marchant nodded slowly. “So I did what I had to do.”
“You killed them?” It was Marchant’s turn to swallow hard. “Shot them both?”
“Fuck no. That’d be too fast.” Owen straightened his shoulders, echoes of his courts martial proceedings rolling through his head. I’d do it again, and again, if it meant saving a single child. “I razed the compound to the ground, walking out of there with all the innocent noncombatants I could. Took me three weeks to return those kids to their parents, scattered around the mountains as they were. Incommunicado the whole time, my bosses were sure I’d lost my hold on reality, and pretty much anyone would agree with them. For sure.” He shook his head. “When I finally called for an evac, I spent the entire dust-off with my hands on my head, expecting to catch a bullet the whole time. They tried me, found me wanting, and—since I was back on US soil by then—couldn’t do much more than boot me. I’d done what they’d ordered, killed my target. I simply did it by creating a political shitstorm they hadn’t expected or wanted. Like I gave a fat fuck about that.”
Sipping at his coffee, Marchant betrayed himself, his hand trembling as he held the mug to his lips. “Then what happened?”
“I started hunting for a living. Men like Warrant, mostly. I’ve got a partner who does the bulk of the investigative work, helps source any assistance or supplies needed, but it’s pretty much me on the ground these days.” Owen shrugged, cut his glance to where the kids were engrossed in the movie. “I do what you’ve been doing, but to the extreme.”
“I saw the inside of the cabin. I’d say it was pretty extreme.”
Owen bristled, back snapping straight. Keeping his voice low, with teeth clenched he hissed, “I walked in there and he had Shiloh tied to his bed—”
Marchant waved a hand, cutting him off. “I didn’t mean you. I meant that pedophile piece of shit. I’ve seen a lot of physical abuse, but breaking those kids down mentally like he did—in a huge group no less. Well, that’s nothing I’ve seen before.”
“There’re more of them out there. He had a video streaming when I got there.” Owen glared at Marchant. “I dismantled it so the authorities wouldn’t know. In no way were my actions to keep them safe from the cops or feds.”
Marchant opened his mouth, then closed it and took several slow, even breaths before saying, “So you can find and deal with them. You think there are others out there doing what he did to those kids?” Marchant’s face paled, and his lips pressed into a thin line. “Jesus, Marcus. What can I do?”
Bingo. Here was the reaction he’d been counting on. Now to tease the end game he most wanted.
“Kelly and Shiloh living with me means my actions are going to be limited for a while. They don’t know anyone but me, and I wouldn’t trust just anyone with them.”
“You want me to stay with them while you go out—what was it you called it? Hunting?” Marchant’s shoulders straightened, pushing back. “Name the date. I’ll make it happen.”
“What if the need was for bigger help than merely that? More specifically, what do you have holding you to Jersey?” Having gotten the initial response he’d hoped for, Owen was ready to press his advantage and go for broke. “Family here?” He already knew the answer. Marchant didn’t have anyone in the region, he’d stayed in the area for the ease of travel, waiting for his credentials to be restored so he could return to Thailand. Owen knew better than the man did that there was a slim chance his visa would be reinstated, not after how difficult he’d made it for the government there. Marchant was holding out hope, though, and Owen understood how it felt. “Boyfriend?”
“Nothing and no one.” Draining his mug, Marchant thumped it on the countertop. “Spit it out, Marcus. I can tell you’ve got something in mind, and if it helps save even one child, count me in.”
“My partner is in Colorado.” He let the statement dangle between them for a long breath. “I’ve got a line on a house not far from where they live.”
“I can be packed in a day.”
Even though it was the reaction he’d hoped for, Owen felt odd trusting the words. Luck wasn’t something he believed in these days. “You sure, man? You might want to hear more details first.”
“Kids need help, you help them. Kids need help, I help them. I think we’re working both sides of the same street on this one, Marcus. From where I sit, there’s no excuse for saying no. Your kids”—damn, it was good to hear his claim so plainly stated—“know and trust me. Between the two of us, we’ll provide a continuity of care that’ll go a long way to helping them recover and heal. It’s a yes from me.”