Shadows in the Night

In a meager, dark room sat a man. Anyone to pass said man while out for a stroll in the city wouldn’t think twice about him due to his extraordinarily ordinary appearance. He resembled a simple businessman in his graying suit jacket, polished shoes, and always handy briefcase. The only memorable qualities this man possessed were a polite grin to those who managed to catch his eye and a debonair swing to his every step. He was smooth as silk, and much like the slippery material, he was frustratingly tricky to keep within your grasp. If you’ve spotted him once out on the street, odds are, you’d never see him again.

Those who did happen to run into him more than once often ended up dead, half insane, or under his command.

The man sat in the room, separating his product into smaller, weighed baggies. Each was to be one gram, not a single mark over. One might hear him chuckling at the thought of who would be receiving such baggies of his cocaine, and one might even receive a horrified chill down their spine at how brazen he was. The drugs he was currently handling, with the upmost care, would be handed out as sampler packs to the unfortunate kids and teens that crossed his path on the street. He wanted them hooked. Giving them his cheap, often times free samples never failed to reel them in. Of course, children and adolescents weren’t his first choice of customers seeing as their money wasn’t always guaranteed. They often couldn’t produce the cash to keep up with their growing need for his illegal substances…but the man knew how to get around that. His Glorias were very persuasive when it came to reeling in the bigger fish, after all.

Once his drugs were separated, he gave them a satisfied nod and motioned for the woman watching devotedly from the corner to gather them up. One would recognize her as Brittney Cade, the man’s most faithful employee. The term lapdog might fit better in this situation, but the woman would twist the balls off of any man who dared to degrade her in such a fashion. Mike Pritchard had once used the word to describe her.

“You know where to put these,” the man whispered to Brittney, giving her ass an affection squeeze as she sashayed her way out of the room. The giggle that escaped her throat upon receiving such attention from the man would make even the most cynical of hearts’ skin crawl.

“Of course,” she sang out, heading directly for the area of the warehouse where the drugs were handled.

The man smirked, revealing a set of perfectly aligned, though slightly yellowed, teeth. Anyone on the receiving end of his smile might wonder to themselves if he had had braces as a child, but their assumption would be incorrect. It was yet another one of those pesky, frustrating qualities about the man. He never needed metal wires and rubber bands to correct an overbite, for his teeth were naturally in perfect order. Their only imperfection was the yellowing, due to years of cigar smoking. Cubans, to be exact. Nothing but the best and illegal for our silky businessman.

When he was certain his lapdog was on the far end of the warehouse, he removed himself from his personal office to check up on his precious little Glorias. One in particular demanded his immediate interest, but he made sure not to make that obvious. He had to treat each girl the same, as if their personalities, names, and life stories meant nothing to him. If he played favorites, they might gang up on the unfortunate girl. As much as he would love to see such a thing happen, he knew these runaways, dropouts, and homeless girls were certainly not invaluable to him. In fact, they were his most important asset. Each girl was worth thousands, yet not a single one of them was aware of said fact. The man would like to keep it that way.

He approached the area of the warehouse where the girls lived, eyes travelling over each and every one of them. Of course, they were sectioned off based upon who their specific handler was. The handlers were all dubbed Christian when out on the job to keep from compromising their identities, much like each of the girls would respond to the name Gloria. There were about three to five girls per section, some underage, some not. One girl, the youngest of the lot, was sitting curled in the farthest section with absolutely no interest in interacting with her new sisters. The girl was once called Stella, but of course she had only one name now. They all had only one name.

Gloria.

The man would have spoken to the girl if her father hadn’t burst into the area hell-bent upon verbally destroying him. He didn’t even have to turn around to know who had interrupted his intentions.

“Look girls,” the man murmured. “Daddy’s home.”

Five of the Glorias looked up eagerly at the site of Mike Pritchard tearing into their line of vision, and all five of them jumped up to greet him. Ten little arms wrapped around his waist, clutching him as if their lives depended on him. In a sickening sort of way…it was true. It simply angered Mike more, though he would never blame it on his girls.

“Mikey, we were worried,” a girl once called Jessica whimpered, burying her face into his shirt as she softly cried.

“Yeah, you’re never this late,” another, previously named Mariela, added with an obvious hint of worry wrapped within her words.

“We thought you were…dead,” the oldest, Gretchen, muttered, barely able to finish her sentence due to her mounting fear.

Mike hugged the girls close to him before assuring them that nothing was wrong. He then added that they should probably cover their ears.

“Where the fuck is she?” Mike bellowed, causing each of his girls to flinch at the tone in his voice.

“Ohhh, Mike, she’s not ready to be seen just yet,” the man answered simply as the new girl in the back of the room was whisked away by the always faithful lapdog. Mike saw it.

“BRITTNEY!” he screamed. “Where the hell are you taking her?!”

“You know damn well where! This little Gloria needs to be dolled up before she can get to work,” Brittney retorted, her voice sugary yet chock full of malice.

“No,” Mike whimpered, watching in agony as his wide-eyed daughter was dragged from his line of vision.

“Yes. Mike, we warned you of the consequences many a time. Hell, you’ve witnessed what happens to traitors and thieves. I’m surprised that you didn’t see this coming,” the man scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest in his trademark stance of annoyance.

“I thought…”

“You thought what? I’d kill you?”

Mike nodded slowly, causing the girls gathered around him to huddle in closer. They didn’t want their Christian to die…he was the only one who gave a damn. Mike’s nod and the sight of his Glorias huddled around him brought a mirthless laugh to escape from the man’s throat.

“That’d be far too easy,” the man sighed with a hint of boredom. “And, seeing as your daughter is just the right age and looks the part, I had to have her.”

“No,” Mike cried, his hands curling into fists.

“She’s mine now, Mikey boy.”

“No!”

As if L’Ombre’s previous sentence wasn’t cruel enough, he just had to have the last word. He had to make certain that Mike knew just who he was dealing with.

“Do you know where your husband is?”

The man gave Mike no time to react. He simply turned on his heal and sauntered away from the Glorias’ sanctuary. His form, dressed in that faded black suit jacket, easily dissipated from view as he was swallowed by the darkness of the warehouse. Much like his nom de plume suggests, L’Ombre had no difficulty with disappearing into the shadows of the night.