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The rain outside pours mercilessly. Thankfully, I've always loved a good thunderstorm.

It wasn't the noisy banging of the water droplets against the black railing near the open window, or even the cold rain covering my face and now-drenched tank top, that woke me. This, I understand immediately, whether from instinct or fear. I throw the thick cover, now peppered with a layer of tiny droplets, off of me. I dozed off fully clothed with my boots on. I didn't pay for a night at this dump to sleep. I came here on business–a stakeout, not a vacation.

The putrid stench of the soiled carpet reeks and the mugginess clings to my neck. I peel strands of my thick brown locks off my face and neck and gather them into a loose braid.

"I heard it too," my younger brother Jule whispers. He sits straight up on the twin-sized bed. I realize now he never even covered himself and that he, too, is fully dressed.

I creep low toward the wall across from me as a ray of lightning illuminates the small room. I reach for my equipped backpack and throw a baggy, hooded sweatshirt over my drenched tee. "Stay low, don't close the window."

Jule nods. The grown look on his face reminds me of the fright that used to cover his big brown eyes. Now at fourteen, he thinks of himself as a man–someone to protect me and not cower away. But I need him safe, and this isn't a job for a young teen trying to prove himself.

"Here," he whispers in Spanish. "You never know."

I roll my eyes, but take the pointed, travel-size blade by the ornate hilt. I never carry weapons, but he insists the dangers I face during these outings require it. I guess, somewhere within, I agree. I open the door to our double-bed rented room as gently as I can manage and wriggle my way out. The hotel corridor feels damp and overheated, and I instantly feel sticky under my sweater.

"Nikoletta!" I turn, alerted by the harsh whisper of my brother's voice.

I'm momentarily taken aback by his towering stance. It seems just yesterday he was at waist level, and now he's a foot over my five-foot-three-inch stance.

"If you come to face a danger beyond your kung fu karate knowledge, look in the bag for your birthday gift from me." He winks and closes the door before I can properly roll my eyes at him. I only manage to snort out loud at the door.

I'm smiling as I run toward the exit that leads to the roof, and I welcome the icy water falling hard. I pull up the hood and fasten my pack.

My birthday. I wince at the thought.

This is, thankfully, the end of my birth date. My best friend Jasmin and my brother Jule forced me to celebrate. They even managed to save up for a damn cake. They both know I dread this day, and although I understand they only mean to cheer me up, all it does is remind me of my parent's murder.

Seven years ago, days before my big day, my mom and dad were gunned down by two men, led by a gang leader named Vork.

So, when midnight rolled around, and I'd officially turned twenty-two, I ran off to avoid Jasmin and Jule. I was sure to be rid of them but only found a fucking cake, with twenty-two burning candles, and their gift wrapped in newspaper.

After force-feeding a slice of the too-sweet frosting-filled, cotton candy-flavored cake, Jule and I hurried to the motel in the heart of this fucked up city. An anonymous follower had reached out, letting me know that Vork would be here, only they didn't give a time, just a date. Sleep took us as we waited for something, anything, to happen.

Shriek-filled cries alert me to the southeastern corner of the block, just two buildings down. I shake my head to clear any thoughts of birthday shenanigans, thankful that this day has finally come to an end, and run onto the puddle-covered roof to get a better view.

Most, if not all, of the beatings, drug trafficking, forced prostitution, and rapes lead to Vork. Shadows pulse in the collected puddles near the dark alleyway behind the butchers. No one in their right mind buys their meat at this location unless they're desperate, which seems to be just about everyone in my neighborhood. Once again I hear the cry I'm sure woke me, the one my brother Jule heard–the yells of women. Out on the roof and in closer range, I hear more than one victim and surely about three assailants.

I run to the fire escape, almost forgetting to grip the railing tight, the black metal extra slick in the rain. Once my feet hit the ground, I reach into my backpack, dig inside, and smile when I finally find the object I need.

I was grateful, but now I'm over the moon that Jasmin got it for me. The need for a good camera wasn't lost on me. One that could withstand drops, bear some load, resist water submersion, and still snap decent photos while I was on the run; which was right now.

My hunched shoulders lean even further when I crouch forward. I'm rushing in this awkward posture until a large man comes into view. I slam my back against the brick wall, my breaths come out in dramatic force and rain is furiously drenching my face. The attempt to wipe it dry is useless. Fucking rain is making my work tonight a whole lot more complicated, and I truly have hardcore evidence this time around.

Usually, I get glimpses, long shots, distant and hazy photos. When I'm lucky, I might get a recording of a muffled conversation without truly being able to identify who the people on the other end are. Nothing that could stand in court, not a sliver of evidence deemed competent enough to put away the fucking criminals that rule these streets.

I've grown tired of the corrupt system that's supposed to offer us protection. Just the mere thought of the sorry excuse of a police force could send me into full hysteria. Either that or I'd sit there and wish I could set the station on fire. I would even extend an invitation to the fire department so they could stand behind me, and together we'd watch them die before our eyes. Better them than us. They're useless.

I flip the switch to my Pentax and hang it around my neck. Then, focusing on the screen, I zoom in and turn the corner. The large man has his back to me with a girl dangling from a chokehold. I push the button to record the images before me, thankful for the streetlamp highlighting their corruption in the way tungsten lighting illuminates a studio set. It's like my personal beacon of hope, and I'll take whatever the universe hands me.

"Come on, just get it over with!" someone barks and a young woman squeals. They're all still hidden from my direct view.

"No! I own these fucking streets; I want to leave our evidence here." I recognize the voice but can't quite place it.

A woman writhes in her attacker's arms and her shouts grow louder, begging for both her life and the other woman's.

There's so much going on, but what's clear is that the two women need help. Another man comes into view; his blonde hair, slick with water, glints with help from the streetlamp. He's even taller than the one before me, a mammothly huge, Hulk Hogan-looking fucker. Something else catches my eye, and I zoom in to get a closer look at him.

The man with his back to me speaks under his breath, just loud enough for me, and hopefully, my camera, to hear. "This fucking slut thinks we're going to let her go." He spits his guttural laugh on her face.

The image on my camera is far better than the one my eyes have, so I focus on it and gasp. I not only recognize the blonde mammoth, but I fucking know him.

Vork–subordinate to only one other.

No one knows who reigns above him and leads the ever-expanding crew that threatens civilians. Vork is good at keeping ordinary citizens cowed, using blackmail and the promise of a slow death, unless they comply with his demands.

He and his invisible boss have the police force eating out of their hands, keeping their pockets full of cash, their noses stuffed with coke, and their dicks slick with whatever pussy they demand. He owns every infamous gang banger, each hustler, drug dealer, and pimp.

He's exactly who I wanted to catch on surveillance.

I send a silent thank you to my anonymous tipper and zoom back out to emphasize what his surroundings are. Perhaps this will be good enough to put him away. Vork is finally going to be part of the documents I record and publish to the public.

My blog is a source for the people–it's what they rely on for real news broadcasts. My reporting offers them a sense of comfort. They know just what to expect, who not to trust, and places to stay away from. While the media projects what they want the public to believe, it's my posts that they turn to.

What I share has never been enough to put anyone behind bars for good. I guess, in this city, criminals are offered the best lawyers for their defense. Maybe, aside from owning the cops, these fuckers keep the best lawyers money can buy. The people have been fucked long enough. It's like living in Gotham City, only Batman isn't coming to rescue us.

A noise behind Vork rattles him, and he turns around to yell at his other comrade. "Hey, didn't you hear me? Finish her already so that we can get the fuck out of here."

A nervous jolt makes my camera quake in my now freezing hands. Vork and his men are going to kill these women and leave their bodies as evidence. He's trying to show how impervious he is; that he, and not the police, own the streets. He has no fear.

I have to do something. I can't let Vork take these women's lives. I don't give a shit if prostitution is illegal; it's no reason for him to brutally rape and slaughter them.

I dig in the front pocket of my sweatshirt and grab hold of the knife, then drop the camera. It hovers over my chest, and I make sure it has a clear view of what is happening in front of me before I step into view.

"Hey!"

Both men turn around. The half-naked girl in the guy's arm struggles to stay on her feet, yet squints in my direction. Vork looks amused by my knife and small stature. I know what he sees–I'm short and appear to be fifteen years old. To him, I'm a nobody. I'm sure he thinks this is some kind of joke.

The guy who hasn't shown himself comes into view; he has the frail body of the other female bent over and dangling in front of him, his arms gripping her limp torso.

The one who has his back to me, with the girl in a stranglehold, scopes me up. "Is she for real?"

"As real as the one this fucker's got," Vork barks.

"Want me to take care of her, boss?"

Vork puts a hand up. "Johnny, please. What are you going to take care of? This little girl and her butterknife don't scare me."

"I called the cops and they're on their way." I'm not sure what governed me to say it, but it's out before I take another step.

Vork laughs. "I'm sure you did, sweetie."

No one calls the cops anymore. For what? Maybe out of fear, but I think people have gotten used to turning the other way.

The man gripping his victim shoves her to the ground, then zips his pants. "We haven't even done the other one. What're we going to do now, boss?"

Vork smiles. "That's easy. Fetch me the butterknife girl, and we'll simply add her to the list."

Obeying Vork's command, he walks my way with a smile on his face. I freeze, unwilling to disappoint the people who check my blog by showing them how much of a coward I am when approached by danger. But this isn't some grocery store robbery with an assailant and his crowbar. This is fucking real.

Suddenly, I recall my brother's words and flip my bag, then desperately dig inside. The man is in no hurry to get to me. In fact, he seems to rather enjoy his leisurely retrieval. I'm his prey and he gets off on the hunt.

My hand fists an unfamiliar and heavy object, which makes me figure it's Jule's birthday gift. I pull it out without looking and pose it in front of me. The guy gasps, frozen in place. Curious, I look down and almost drop the weapon from my grip.

Where the hell did my brother get this, and why would he give it to me?

"Boss?" The fright in his voice is unexpected, and I hold on to the firearm with much more confidence, although my hands are practically sputtering in front of me.

"She's got a tec9." Johnny stutters while pointing at me. Vork lets go of the girl in his arms and gives me his undivided attention.

"Well, hell, seems like I've underestimated you, kid."

Sirens ring out in the distance. It surprises up, but I cock an eyebrow and smile at Vork. "Seems about right," I say, my grin stretching.

Vork signals for his men to stand down and retreat. They follow his orders instantly, rubbing their noses angrily while jogging toward their getaway car.

Vork lingers and points at me from his short distance. "You and I got unfinished business, Butterknife." He walks backward toward his car.

"Schedule a time with my secretary," I call out to him. I hear him laugh, then they speed away.

I stand there frozen for a minute until one of the girls moves. The sirens are closer now, and the realization that we have to get the hell out of here hits me. "Hey, are you alright?"

The redhead who'd been in a chokehold grunts and moves to stand. She looks to be in her twenties, super slender–she's pure skin and bones.

"Are you out of your mind, kid? What the hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea who that was?"

"A quick thanks would suffice." I ignore her calling me a kid. I'm used to it.

No one in town knows my age, and they all think my brother is older, which has led me to think I appear to be around his age instead of my own.

The redhead shakes her head while trying to cradle her friend who'd been beaten so badly she can barely stand, let alone walk.

I reach for the other side of her and straddled a limp arm around my shoulder. "Where to?"

"Who are you?" she hisses.

"I'm the one who just saved your fucking lives. Now, where to? We got seconds before the cops get here."

We drag her friend to the inside of the butcher's joint. The smell makes me want to gag, but I'm glad to be out of sight, away from the cops who are now outside scoping the area. The blue and red lights dance on the walls around us and the siren wails uncontrollably. It's been forever since I last heard one and my eardrums seemed to panic at the deafening vibrations.

"To the back," she whispers.

We lower her friend gently to a cot lying on the ground. Her short blue dress is torn, and she's missing a shoe. Her dirty blonde hair is splattered all over her face, and when the redhead soothingly pushes it back, I gasp under my breath.

"We don't need your judgment," the redhead sneers.

I shake my head and my hood falls back, making the dark strands of my braid fall to my face and over my brown eyes. "She's so young."

The redhead looks back at her friend. "Yea, she's just fifteen."

I quickly retrieve a thick wool blanket from nearby and cover her. Then I collapse against the wall, twirling my fingers around anxiously.

"I'm Piper, this is my sister Macy."

"She's your sister?" My voice comes out harsh and accusing.

Piper leans back, her eyes huge. "What's your problem?"

My problem is that my brother Jule is just months shy of that age. I can't bear the thought of him beaten and unconscious, let alone allowing him to be used this way. I shake my head at Piper, who's still waiting for an explanation for my outburst. "I… er… have a brother."

"Yea? Welcome to the club."

Piper hugs her knees to her chest, giving me an unwanted glimpse up her torn dress. She isn't wearing any shoes and she must be freezing, yet she sits near her sister's head without showing any sign that she would want to share the small blanket and therefore offer her sister Macy less warmth.

I notice no other blankets are around. "You live here?"

"If you call this living."

The lump in my throat threatens to come out as a whimper, so I swallow it back and nod. I have to distract my wandering thoughts, so I walk to a blackened window. Two detectives are across the street scouting the area, and I snort.

"What's the matter?"

"The force sent two fucking cops, like that would've been enough."

"Yea? Well, you were enough," Piper chuckles quietly and joins me. "Hey, I don't recognize that one."

I'm instantly distracted. I rarely see cops and have no idea who they are. But the one she cocks her chin toward is young, maybe thirty, give or take a couple of years. The other one looks to be twice his age and size in circumference.

"Must be a rookie," she says, more to herself than to me.

I watch, amused by the older one's awkward movements. Not only does he slosh around, but he looks too terrified, like they aren't supposed to be here. It makes the younger officer's movements stand out.

The rookie walks around with his gun in hand, truly searching, looking for clues and probing the area. Out of curiosity, I reach for my camera, still hanging around my neck, and flip it to picture mode. I zoom in and catch the cop's swift moves up close.

His body, slightly angled with strong legs ready to sprint, seems trained and fully capable of taking someone in a fight. He holds his visibly strong arms out in front with a pistol in hand. His face, etched in sharp edges, with a piercing, deadly glow in his dark eyes, glowers. His lips pucker tightly in concentration, and his unshaven jawline matches that of his rough appearance. His black hair falls in short waves, covering his ears and grazing his jawline. He's tall and his muscled shoulders stretch and tug at the now soaked material of his black blazer. I watch in awe as his veined hand grips the Glock, and notice black lines on his skin, tattoos.

"What's that for?"

Piper's voice brings me back and I turn to her. She's pointing at my camera and my shoulders go up. "I'm a reporter, more or less."

I face the window again and snap a picture of the rookie. Somewhere in my mind, hidden from the world, a warm glow spreads like liquid gel. I get this giddy feeling, desperate even. I don't know why. I want to investigate it, but Piper's hissing evaporates my thoughts.

"What the hell does that mean?"

I whip around and glare at her. My insides churn and black irises appear whenever I blink. "I'm the one that runs the Justice Hotline blog."

"So you're Justice? Oh my god, you're going to get us fucking killed! I swear, if you post any of this, I'll kill you myself!"

"I don't get it–I can help you. This will put Vork away for sure, Piper."

She starts pacing back and forth, whispering harshly at me, and flailing her arms around herself. "No, what this is going to do is put me and my sister in a grave. And you, too, and your brother."

"Not another word about my brother, Piper. I'm fucking warning you." I run my finger over the air separating us for emphasis.

But Piper merely points an accusing finger at my chest, my stare fixed on her dirt-caked fingernail. "There are bigger things at stake here that you don't understand, kid. You're wrong if you think Vork is at the top of the food chain, and if you let this little video of yours leak, you're only going to send the real mafiosos… on all of us." She expands her hands dramatically to signify that she means the entire city and not just us three.

"Well, what am I supposed to do? Stand back with my hands crossed behind my back?"

"All I know is I got rights, and I forbid you from showing this video. That and my sister is underage. You'll need my signature if you don't want to end up in jail."

I roll my eyes. "Please."

"I mean it, kid. I'm thankful you saved our lives, but I can't allow you to let this out." She grills closer. "We'll be killed for sure, and then where will you be? In front of your computer screen, checking up on your Facebook?"

Facebook? What the hell? I don't even own a computer. I have to pull a thousand strings in order to get online and upload my videos. I shake my head. "What if I obscure your faces?" It's merely a suggestion; I never alter what I post.

"No. Everyone will know it was us." Piper's face looks glum, and she turns to look at her sister. "This is our turf."

There's gotta be room for negotiation. The point is to send a message. Peoplewill see the footage and know that somebody is willing to stand up to Vork. It will give the people hope. "Who's your pimp—"

The words barely leave my lips when Piper nearly leaps on top of me. She pins me against the wall and holds her forearm to my neck. "There is no pimp. Get that through your thick head, kid. I'm my own boss, okay?"

I know how to escape from her weak grip and frail arms, but I don't want to hurt her. A deep breath enters my lungs and I allow it to clear my head. Piper and Macy are victims, and I won't allow myself to lose my shit here. "I'm sorry if I offended you. It wasn't my intention. I just really want to help."

"If you really want to help," her arms fall to her sides and she takes a step back, "don't help. The cops are gone now. You should go, too."

I jog to the window and peer out. My lips dip at the corners, but I don't understand my frown. Sure, the young cop is cute and all, but what was I going to do? Go out with my tec9 in hand and say hello? I almost scoff under my breath. What good will knowing a cop do, anyway?

They're all the same, a bunch of corrupt law pushers that cower under their donut-filled desks instead of putting the bad guys behind bars where they belong. And although this guy seems different, like he needed to do good, I know better.

They're all the same.

"Okay, Piper. I'll leave. Just remember, the hell you're going through is the same pit we're all in. Vork owns you, he owns us all. And I, for one, am sick of it. You know where to find me if you change your mind. Or when he comes back, because he will."

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