by Tom Clancy
Ryan nursed his beer, casting enough looks at the dark-eyed dancing girls so as not to appear out of place. He leaned sideways toward Chavez and spoke under his breath, hoping the mic on his neck loop would pick up his whisper and broadcast it to the rest of the team.
“Our friend has a tablet computer I’d like to get my hands on.”
“Due time,” Clark said. “Does it seem like he’s being protected? Guarded by the cartel or triad?”
Ryan fought the urge to shake his head at the question coming from his earpiece. “No,” he said, still gawking at the stage and tilting his head as if speaking to Chavez. “There’s a Hispanic guy at his table chatting him up, but everyone appears to be guarding the girls.”
“He’s right,” Chavez mumbled. “I’d lay odds that there’s enough firepower in here to hold off a small army.”
“Good enough,” Clark said. “Keep eyes-on for another half-hour. Sing out if it looks like you’re starting to get stale.”
Adara’s voice came across the radio, calm but direct. “That small army you mentioned,” she said. “I’ve got eight plainclothes officers coming your way from a half a block south. I’m betting they’re Feds, and not trained counterintel types, either. They’re too overt-covert.”
Jack nodded to himself, as if in time with the bass beat from the speakers. He knew exactly what Adara meant. Men and women who’d spent long careers carrying large and heavy firearms on their belts often tended to walk holding their arms slightly away from their bodies—even when they transitioned to a smaller, more concealable weapon for different duty. It took practice and concentration to overcome the effect of being a beat cop or even a suit-wearing detective. Simply wearing plain clothes did not make one covert.
Dom broke squelch on the radio. “Six more of the same moving in from the north. There’s a redhead leading the pack. She’s Bureau, no doubt about it. I saw her belt badge when she got out of her car. I’m guessing this is some kind of task force.”
Clark’s voice was tight, agitated. “Ding, Ryan, haul ass out the back. I don’t want you caught up in some whorehouse raid.”
“Copy that,” Chavez said, nodding toward the dark hallway at the rear of the building. “You lead the way, ’mano,” he said to Ryan. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Jack was already on his feet, slouching between the row of tables and the stage toward the back door, as if he was looking for the restroom. He wasn’t the sort to run from a fight, but his getting caught in a place like this would cost his father a great deal of political capital. Not to mention the fact that the resulting media attention would severely damage Jack’s ability to continue working in a covert capacity.
Even so, he turned to Chavez as they reached the end of the stage, stopping in his tracks. “What about Fee Fi Fo Fum?”
Chavez groaned, having already reached the same conclusion. “He’s gonna hurt somebody.”
The two men had worked together long enough that they generally knew what the other was thinking in any tactical situation. Neither wanted to leave approaching law enforcement to stumble into the strip club blind and come face-to-face with the armed behemoth. The task force agents would eventually gain the upper hand, but one of them was bound to get injured—and possibly even killed—in the process.
Ryan and Chavez each took a twenty-dollar bill from their pockets and stepped up to the stage. The two tired-looking girls turned, lowering their gyrating bodies to allow the men to stuff the money into their G-strings. The girl nearest Jack looked even younger up close. She had to be in her teens, probably the reason the cops were here. Throwing a quick look over his shoulder to make sure the giant by the door was watching, Jack gave an exuberant catcalling whistle, then put both hands flat on the stage as if to climb up and dance with the girl. Though not unheard-of behavior in a titty bar, it was exactly what Fee Fi Fo Fum had warned them not to do. They had not paid for the privilege.
The giant sprang from his stool by the door with surprising dexterity. “¡Pendejo!” he roared above the throbbing music, lumbering toward Ryan. His bullish neck was arched and his head down, as if he intended to bowl Ryan over.
Extremely big men may have doled out countless beat-downs, but they rarely had much real experience with anyone fighting back. Unfortunately for the bouncer, both Chavez and Ryan had plenty.
Ryan yanked a wad of assorted bills from his pocket and pitched them onto the stage, hoping the investment would keep the girls busy doing something besides kicking him in the head. Chavez stepped deftly aside as the giant chugged by, giving him a stout two-handed shove from behind and causing him to go faster than his legs could carry him. Jack caught the man mid-stumble, grabbing him by the shaggy hair with both hands and directing his forehead toward the lip of the stage. Inertia and gravity did the rest. The resulting collision of bone against wood cracked like a rifle shot. Fee Fi Fo Fum piled up on the filthy carpet at the base of the stage, moaning, both hands on his gashed forehead, trying to stanch the flow of blood.
Chavez gave Ryan’s arm a tug. “Haul ass!” he said, without looking back.
The nearest cartel guys sat at their table and blinked. It was inconceivable that anyone could knock out the big bouncer. Everything had happened so fast, it took them a moment to process what this white kid with the frosted hair and dark beard had done.
Ryan turned to run but came face-to-face with Eddie Feng, who was now on his feet, clutching his tablet computer in crossed arms. A commotion at the front drew the Taiwanese man’s attention toward the door. Ryan took that moment to dip into his pocket and then reach under the edge of Feng’s table. A strong adhesive held the GSM slap mic in place—leaving Ryan free to run down the hallway and out the back door, joining Chavez in the alley at the same moment law enforcement poured in the front door.
Fourteen members of the Crimes Against Children Task Force button-hooked through the double doors two at a time, moving quickly as they came in to make room for the person behind them. They hadn’t knocked or announced, so they’d seen no reason to cover the back door. With their sidearms drawn, they divided areas of responsibility as they scanned for danger. Chicas was a cartel joint, so it was a given that there would be guns inside. Joe Rice, the Waxahachie detective, had suggested they call Dallas PD SWAT. Callahan had demurred, though she knew it was probably the smarter call. She wanted to take Eddie Feng herself and right damn now, too, before he had a chance to contact even one more child online. She wasn’t about to screw around waiting for a bunch of SWAT guys to convene and scratch their asses while they drew up a plan.
With her FBI badge hanging from a chain on her neck, Kelsey Callahan pointed her pistol at the Sun Yee On triad turd nearest her and gave a shrill whistle to get everyone’s attention. On cue, Special Agent Olson cut the music and turned on what lights there were—which still didn’t brighten things up much. A dead quiet fell over the club.
The triad and cartel pukes just blinked, sizing up the task force like dogs consider a piece of meat. They were starting to get twitchy.
“Eddie Feng!” Callahan shouted, staring down a skinny Chinese gangbanger beside the stage. She lowered her voice slightly in an effort to defuse the situation. “I only want Eddie Feng.”
The triad guy’s shoulders relaxed a notch. He tipped his head sideways toward a man with a fauxhawk holding a computer tablet and a can of Red Bull. The bleeding gigantor lay at his feet.
Two CAC Task Force officers moved in on Feng. One took the tablet while the other spun him none too gently and put on the cuffs. Callahan continued to scan the shabby club. “Nice and calm,” she said, her voice steady and remarkably controlled considering how fast her heart was beating. She had to concentrate to focus on the threats and not the poor kids standing topless on stage. “Hands!” she said. “¡Manos! Let’s see hands.”
Ninety seconds later, seventeen fuming members of Sun Yee On and Tres Equis sat on the floor
in front of the stage, hands flex-cuffed behind their backs. The big guy slouched at the end of the line, blood still oozing from a nasty cut above his brow. One of the agents stood guard over nineteen confiscated handguns—now cleared and stacked along with knives and assorted other weapons, from chains to bicycle locks.
Callahan sat Eddie Feng back down at his table while two female CAC officers got the dancers some clothes and took them outside to interview in the cars, away from the accusing eyes of their pimps. Two agents secured the front and rear doors while the rest either pulled guard duty or stood in front of the guys lined up at the base of the stage, running them through Dallas PD dispatch for wants and warrants.
Callahan tapped Feng’s tablet, handing it off to Olson. “Let’s get this bagged before somebody wipes it.”
Olson reached in his jacket and pulled out a black nylon sleeve, into which he slid Eddie Feng’s computer. Often called a Faraday bag, the forensic evidence sleeve shielded the device from sending or receiving signals that might shut it down, remotely wipe the information, or inform a third party that it had been compromised. FBI techs would be able to take a better look once they got the device back to a shielded room.
Feng slumped at the table, hands behind his back, his dark eyes casting around the place like a cornered animal. He glanced at the RF shielding bag and then up at Olson. “There’s no need for that. Hell, it’s barely even encrypted.” He leaned forward, chest against the table, as if to confide in Olson. “We need to go somewhere else to talk.”
“And we will,” Callahan said.
Feng looked over his shoulder at the line of triad and cartel members. Every one of them was now staring daggers at the man.
“Seriously,” Feng said. “We should go.”
Ordinarily, Callahan would have agreed. But now the bad blood that had suddenly sprung up between Feng and the rest of the men made her think a few more minutes might rattle the guy’s cage in a productive way. Her team had the inside of the club secured, and marked DPD cruisers were already rolling up to the front and rear doors. She didn’t have to worry about the outer perimeter. Sticking around was safe enough, and even if it didn’t turn out to be incredibly productive, it did Callahan’s heart good to see this little prick squirm.
“You have the wrong man,” Feng whispered in accented English. “I’m one of the good guys.”
“You seriously need to shut up,” Callahan snapped. Feng was the type who would talk, but she wanted to get the tap flowing good and strong of his own accord before she read him his Miranda warning. Often, the best way to do that with people like him was to tell them to be quiet.
An Asian man with a buzz cut and full-sleeve tattoos craned his neck from his position at the base of the stage. He began to shout maniacally in Chinese, eyes wild, spittle flying from his drawn lips. Feng went pale, shrinking sideways in his chair to put even a few more inches between himself and the screaming triad soldier. A task force officer gave the tattooed man a shove with the toe of his boot. Instead of going quiet, the man rolled on his side, scrambling to his feet. He continued to scream in Chinese as he rushed toward Feng. Arms behind his back, the screaming triad puke fell flat on his face when Armstrong simply stomped on his foot.
Feng suddenly stood, nearly knocking over the table, but Callahan shoved him back down. He seemed awfully frail, and it wasn’t very difficult.
She nodded to Armstrong and then the screaming triad guy. “Get him out of here, Jermaine.” She looked at the rest of her team. “Tase the next shitbag that so much as twitches without my permission.”
Olson held up the bagged computer, unfazed by the commotion. “Is this going to be more of the same stuff?”
Feng’s face fell. “Same stuff as what?”
Olson shrugged, leaning back to rub his eyes. “Record of payment, maybe? Most of it is in code. ‘Coronet’ gets mentioned a half a dozen times or so—”
“Shhh,” Feng said, nearly apoplectic now. “Don’t discuss that in here.”
Callahan looked over Olson’s shoulder. They would need to get back to the office to concentrate on the data, but this was big stuff. She already knew the triads were running underage girls, but if they’d linked up with an offshoot of the Sinaloa Cartel, that took this ballgame into a whole new league. The information on this guy’s iPad could nail down a major human-trafficking ring.
“I’m begging you,” Feng whined. “Just get me out of here.”
“You’re in an awfully big hurry to go to jail,” Callahan said. “Having sex with a minor is a pretty big deal here in Texas, Ed. Even the guys on the inside don’t take kindly to child rapists.”
“What are you talking about?”
Callahan decided to play a portion of her hand. “We have a thumb drive that came from you.”
Feng’s face went slack. “How?”
“We’ll get to that,” she said.
“Can we get to it somewhere else, Officer . . . ?”
“Special agent,” she corrected. “Callahan, FBI.”
“Okay, Special Agent Callahan,” Feng said, chewing on his trembling bottom lip. He’d become wooden, his words barely audible. “There’s more going on than you realize. Take me somewhere safe. I promise I’ll tell you everything I know.”
• • •
Ryan and Chavez moved their rented Dodge to a cracked asphalt parking lot behind an abandoned warehouse three blocks from Chicas Peligrosas. John Clark and the others had scattered to various locations in the area. The GSM mic broadcast on a cell signal, so there was no need for them to congregate any closer and risk being caught by responding officers.
Chavez gave Ryan a nod during a lull in the conversation. “I guess this Feng character is a big deal after all. Sorry I doubted you, Jack.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Wait,” he said. “You doubted me?”
Feng started talking again. It sounded like he was about to break down in tears.
“. . . Seriously,” he said. “You have to promise to keep me safe.”
“I can do that,” Agent Callahan said. “But why should I?”
Chavez grimaced and mouthed, “Heartless. I like her.”
Feng insisted he be taken somewhere else before he would talk. Callahan continued to play hardass, reminding him of the trouble he was in for sanctioning child prostitution.
Clark’s voice came over the radio, sounding strained and fatigued. “Dom,” he said, “I assume you have your FBI credentials.”
“I don’t leave home without ’em, boss,” Caruso said.
Officially on special “unspecified duty” away from his assigned field office, Dominic Caruso maintained his commission as a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This often made him the only member of The Campus who could legally carry a weapon in all fifty states and U.S. territories—not that any of them let a little thing like that stop them from packing. Many of the things they did overseas were, in point of fact, against the law. It was the way of counterintelligence work. The fact that one’s government sanctioned an action in no way made that action legal in another country, no matter how moral or right it might be.
Clark continued. “The human trafficking is bad enough, but there’s more going on here than that. Eddie Feng is a piece of shit, but he knows something—as evidenced by Jack’s earlier discovery about the Beijing subway bombing. We need to find out what that something is. Dom, I’ll get Gerry to pull a few strings with the Bureau so you can insinuate yourself into Special Agent Callahan’s investigation. Stick with her and find out what she knows. The rest of us will back off a bit and do more research into the unholy union between the Sun Yee On triad and the Tres Equis men.”
“Copy that,” Caruso said. “I’ll follow at a discreet distance when they come out, and then introduce myself to Special Agent Callahan in an hour or so.”
“That should give me
enough time,” Clark said. “I’ll let you know.”
Over the radio, Feng’s voice changed from whining to demanding. “If you don’t get me out of here, I’m going to have to ask for a lawyer.”
“You do that,” Callahan said. “We’ll see then what kind of protection you get.”
“Look.” Feng was sobbing again. “I was bluffing about a lawyer. Just put me in solitary. These animals would kill me five minutes after I go into general population. I swear, I’ll give you everything I’ve got.”
The voice of a male agent came across now. “Including whatever code you’re using?”
“Yes.” Sniff, sniff.
“And what all the numbers mean in your data?”
“Yes!”
“And who they correspond to?”
“If I know.”
“How about Coronet?” the male voice asked. “Who or what is that?”
“What is wrong with you people?” Feng spoke so quietly now that the GSM mic barely picked up his words. “I said I’d tell you, but you have to get me out of here.”
“So tell,” Callahan said. “Show some good faith.”
“Okay,” Feng whispered. “This guy, Coronet. I think he’s some kind of spy.”
• • •
The man with La Santa Muerte tattooed on his neck sat down the street from Chicas Peligrosas in his 1994 S-10 pickup. He ground his teeth, discolored from years of smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. The man’s name was Javier Goya, but everyone called him Moco. At twenty-nine, he’d spent more than a third of his life behind bars—and he’d decided after he got out the last time, he wasn’t going back. His leg bounced on the floorboard, rocking the little truck and drawing a look from Gusano, the man who sat beside him.
“You got the need, the need for weed,” Gusano said.
“Shut up, cabrón,” Moco said, knowing his partner was right. Gusano had once eaten a worm on a bet, earning his name—and Moco thought him just about as smart as one of the slimy creatures.
