Decision (Diversion Book 8)

by Eden Winters

  No need to let anyone in the building clue into the shit hitting the fan outside, if anyone watched. He grinned. Keeping the guard in front of her, Johnson handed him over to the officers.

  Two down, more to go on the premises. Bo met them at the front doors. “No cameras but the one you took out. They’re pretty damned confident that whoever they have in the magistrate’s office is going to keep them safe.”

  Lucky tapped on his earpiece. “Keith, any signs they know we’re here?” He might not like the asshat, but the department’s head of surveillance came in handy on occasion.

  Rare occasions.

  “All clear,” Keith growled.

  Lucky motioned to Johnson and Bo. In a raid, no one else he’d rather have on his team. He’d show the rookies video footage from the safety of the conference room later.

  As they’d done the night of their maybe/maybe not legal recon, Lucky took one side of the door, Johnson the other, while Bo stayed back, gun drawn and door in his line of sight. Lucky pushed. Still locked. Well, add ten seconds to their entry time.

  “Don’t break anybody this time,” he murmured to Johnson.

  She flipped him off with her gun hand, still keeping a tight grip on her weapon. Impressive.

  Lucky threw open the door, gun at the ready. He and Johnson crisscrossed on entry, covering both sides of the dimly-lit hallway. One by one they cleared the empty offices. At last they stood in the warehouse entry.

  Lights shone overhead, illuminating grimy windows, dust swirling as they walked. Lucky stifled a cough. The rough plank floor might have been a thing of beauty in its day, but lay pockmarked and pitted now. Termite paradise.

  Flimsy metal shelves lined the walls, and the open floor space held pieces of machinery in various states of rusting.

  Flattened against the wall, they froze when the door at the far end opened. A lone man emerged, pushing a hand truck full of boxes. He placed them on the shelves and returned the way he’d come.

  Lucky tapped his earpiece again. “Team one in position.”

  One by one, the other teams chimed in. Good. Now to ruin some asshole drug dealer’s day.

  Lucky motioned Johnson and Bo ahead of him while he covered their trek to the far door. Filth-encrusted skylights let in more light from the few working streetlamps outside, letting them see what they hadn’t the night before. Not that there was much to see.

  At the door the countdown came through his headset. “Count of three. One, two, three…” Bo threw the door open. Together they stormed into the room. Screams sounded from the back, group two making an entrance through the loading bay doors.

  Wide eyes and raised hands, as far as the eye could see, except for…

  Two men broke away from the group, dodging people and machinery on the way to a window. “Team three. Two targets coming your way.”

  Men and women stood still for the most part, boxes in the hands of some. Murmurs of “Oh, Dios!” and gentle sobbing broke into the cackle of police radios outside.

  Bo stepped forward, lowering his gun. While Lucky understood a smattering of Spanish, he focused on keeping hands in the air and everyone in place. No one better make a move on Bo.

  At a firmly spoken order from Bo, the people formed a line, following the leader through the maze of shelves and rusting equipment into the warehouse.

  They formed ranks of two and sat on the floor.

  Lucky did the math. Based on their intel, two of the men now sitting before them were bosses. No need to ask who. The rest of the workers gave two men wide berth, stepping around them with frightened eyes.

  Lucky nodded at the two men, then at Johnson.

  “My pleasure.” Johnson’s growl and pointed gun said all she didn’t need to with words. Stripping them away from the group, she marched the two men toward the loading door at the back of the warehouse.

  Atlanta’s finest poured through the doors.

  Chapter Twenty

  Atlanta PD escorted all the occupants of the drug operation to a secure room on the second floor for processing, while DEA agents examined the warehouse’s contents.

  A young woman, no more than a girl, really, cowered on the floor, eyes red and swollen, gasping for breath between sobs. What could he do? What could he say?

  Comforting a hysterical woman. So not Lucky’s strong suit.

  He glanced right and left. The closer the uniformed cops came to her, the harder she cried. She uncurled her legs from her chest.

  Oh. God.

  Pregnant. Very pregnant. And in near hysterics. In her panic he’d not recognized Yolanda.

  He crouched down to her eye level, speaking softly, as he’d heard Bo do when trying to soothe someone. Would she recognize him as one of the men who’d tried to save her before? Had Cruz even explained Lucky’s presence, or told her who he was? “Yolanda, please calm down. You’re not doing yourself or your baby any good.”

  He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she shrieked louder, shouting in Spanish. Lucky only recognized a few of the words. Whatever she said wasn’t something he’d learned in prison. Worthless. In this situation he couldn’t do one damned thing.

  Except…

  Lucky stood and searched the room. The cops were busy processing the others. No help in sight. “Can I get a female officer or agent in here?” he called.

  Several sets of eyes focused on him, quickly turning away.

  “I got one!” came from the hallway outside the way-too-small room they’d assembled the workers in.

  The sea of blue parted, though with the height and hair he’d already spotted the female agent in question.

  “You needed me?” Johnson strode forward, the emblem on her blue SNB-issued polo shirt marking her unmistakably as someone Yolanda would fear.

  “This is our informant, Yolanda. I need you to talk to her. See if you can settle her down some.” Good, with Johnson here, Lucky could make a quick exit.

  The woman continued wailing when Johnson drew near. Oh, twice the girl’s size and muscles upon muscles rippling in her arms. Not the least intimidating woman on the planet.

  In a moment of relative quiet, a soft voice answered the woman’s plaintive Spanish. She perked up, searching the room for the source of the sound.

  Hallelujah! Bo squeezed through the tightly-packed bodies, worming his way across the room. The woman sniffled and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.

  Bo didn’t merely crouch as Lucky had. Uncaring for his pressed dress pants, he sat down on the filthy floor beside her. Whatever he said, she paid rapt attention. When Bo stopped talking, she replied.

  Bo stood. She took his offered hand and wobbled to her feet.

  “Excuse us.” Bo pushed through the crowd, arm around Yolanda, who clung to his side.

  “Somebody get a chair in here,” Johnson barked. A uniformed cop disappeared into an office area and returned with a dilapidated rolling chair.

  Bo led the woman to the chair, hip-checked a few uniforms out of the way, and settled her there.

  Her eyes went wide when he stepped away, but she relaxed at a few words from her savior. Bo disappeared into the area of the warehouse recon showed to be a breakroom and returned with a few paper towels and a bottle of water. Ever so gently he sank to his knees, offered her the bottle and wiped her face, repeating, “Yolanda” all the while

  With the situation under control, Lucky could resume his case. Fluent Spanish wasn’t necessary to gather certain information. By all appearances, judging by her clean but threadbare clothes and no obvious signs of drug abuse—may he be right for the sake of the baby—she might be innocent in this situation, a young woman taken advantage of as she’d told Cruz.

  He’d met many in the drug trade over the years, from a genteel lady doctor to soccer parents, to die-hard traffickers without the slightest trace of decency. One thing they all shared in common: they had no qualms about coercing someone weak and helpless to do their dirty work.

  How he’d love to ride out t
his investigation, trace it back to whoever pulled the strings, but the time for action was now.

  No matter how hard he tried to concentrate, his attention kept wandering back to Bo and the girl. Oh, dear Lord. In a matter of minutes, she’d gone from hysterics to clinging to Bo’s arm.

  Yeah, Bo worked his magic on lots of people. They kept their heads together, her nods and headshakes indicating a question and answer session.

  She grimaced, and Bo’s talk took on a more frantic tone. After a few moments, he lifted his head and glanced around the room. “Loretta? I need you to come with me, please.”

  The girl paled when Johnson approached, but Bo’s constant murmuring smoothed the stress lines from her face. He helped Yolanda to her feet, mimed calling Lucky with his thumb and little finger to his mouth and ear while mouthing “Call you later” and plowed through the crowd. He towed the girl with a gentle hand on her arm. Johnson brought up the rear.

  What was that about?

  He’d have to stop worrying. Any man capable of taking a woman from hysterics to answering questions in the course of ten minutes knew how to take care of himself.

  Please let the girl and her baby be okay. Poor thing. She must be about the same age as his sister when Charlotte carried her oldest son, Todd. Yolanda was in good hands, but where had Bo taken her, and why?

  He found Keith at the back of the warehouse room, sitting at a desk and pecking at a laptop. Like some of the equipment, the newness of the computer stood out in the squalid surroundings.

  Walter squeezed in between the wall and the chair. “Download what you need and take the laptop to the office.”

  Keith nearly jumped from the chair, grabbed up the electronic evidence, and strode past Lucky, so preoccupied he didn’t even bother to sneer.

  Walter ran his hand up his face, dislodging his bifocals to rub his eyes. Ever since his health scare, he’d begun tiring so easily.

  The boss stopped rubbing his eyes and turned a weary gaze on Lucky. “I’m concerned for the expectant mother. Has Bo taken her to the hospital?”

  Lucky let his gaze drift to the doorway where he’d last seen his partner. “He left with the girl and Johnson.”

  Walter nodded. “Yes, best to have another agent with them.” He scrubbed his hand over his face again. “I do hope her child hasn’t suffered.”

  The mother did have an underfed look about her. And she worked with God only knew what without benefit of protection like gloves or a mask. What had life been like for her these past few months? If those sonsofbitches hurt her, he’d…

  Yet, she’d refused to get out when Cruz offered.

  A shriek pierced Lucky’s thoughts. “Get him!”

  Lucky charged back into the warehouse to insanity. One of the kids they’d rounded up struggled through the press of bodies. Where the hell did he think he was going?

  Fighting his way through a crowd not smart enough to get the hell out of the way, Lucky closed in on his prey. The guy went the wrong way to escape.

  The kid ran up a flight of rickety stairs. Lucky ran after. Younger and quicker, the kid soon vanished from sight, nothing but his tennis shoes pounding stairs giving away his location. Where the hell was he going?

  Footsteps sounded behind Lucky, and he risked a glance over his shoulder. Three plain-clothed agents from God knew which agency followed in his wake.

  The stairs ended on the sixth floor. Winded, Lucky shot down the hallway, following the sound of running feet.

  The hall ended and the kid yanked open the window at the end.

  Holy shit. Lucky’s heart stopped and started again with a slam to the chest. If the kid hit the fire escape, he’d be gone.

  “Stop! We’re not going to hurt you. You’re not in trouble. We just need to ask you a few questions.” Where the hell was a bilingual speaker?

  The kid glanced back over his shoulder, eyes widening as Lucky bore down. Time slowed. Two things hit Lucky’s brain at the same time: the kid diving through the window and…

  Lucky grabbed for an ankle.

  His hand closed on air.

  There was no fire escape.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bo’s truck wasn’t in the driveway when Lucky dragged himself out of his car and to the front door of the house. He checked his cellphone. Three-sixteen a.m.

  Dim lights shone from the kitchen and living room windows. The soft glow should have been welcoming. He wasn’t coming home to an empty house, after all, like he’d done so often in the past, but Charlotte and Ty would be asleep.

  She’d locked the door. Good girl. A short beep greeted him, and he disabled the “stay” mode, resetting the alarm once he’d closed the door.

  Cell phone still in hand, he texted, “You okay?” Several long moments passed before the device vibrated, showing an incoming call.

  He’d been so tied up the last few hours he’d not had a chance to contact Bo. Likely, the same held true for Bo.

  “Hey, Bo. How ya doing?” Why aren’t you home, asleep like you should be?

  “I’m fine. Yolanda is still shaken up. We’re at Mercy General.”

  Young, scared and pregnant meant Bo’s penchant for using first names might pay off and win the girl’s cooperation. Thank God he’d gotten her to the hospital.

  “She’s going to be okay, right? The baby okay?”

  Bo’s sigh likely produced gale force winds. “She thinks she’s going to jail for the rest of her life. That’s what the traffickers told her.”

  “Fuckers.” She’d said the same to Cruz, no matter that he’d tried to tell her otherwise. How else could the lowlifes get themselves free labor, who took all the risks with none of the rewards? Yolanda’s gaunt appearance also suggested she hadn’t been fed regularly or well.

  “Would you believe those assholes wouldn’t even let her see a doctor? She’s eight months pregnant and she’s had no prenatal care. None.” Lucky imagined Bo pacing, running a hand through his hair.

  “What about the father?” She’d told Cruz the father died. Although she tugged at Lucky’s heartstrings a bit, he wasn’t totally trusting. If she changed her story…

  Bo paused a long moment. Weighing his words, maybe? “At first she lied and said the father died. Then she told me she doesn’t know who the father is. The men she worked for… used her.” Fuck. Worse even than the father dying. Though he might still be dead.

  “Fucking hell.” If Lucky caught the bastards, he’d cut their damned balls off. Then kill them. “That poor kid. How old is she anyway?”

  “She says she’s nineteen. The cartel took her papers. She’s been used as a pawn in the drug trade since she was fifteen.”

  Motherfuck! Lucky spun around the living room, searching for something to punch. Doing nothing rubbed his skin raw. “You coming home soon?”

  “Can’t. I promised her I’d stay a while. They’re bringing in a day shift nurse fluent in Spanish, but I’m needed to interpret until she gets here.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  Bo let out a weary-sounding sigh. “I could eat. The hospital cafeteria closes at night, and there’s nothing in the vending machine that won’t rot your arteries. Some of the choices might be evil enough to steal my soul. Why?”

  “You said you’re at Mercy?”

  “Yeah. They’re less expensive and don’t balk as much about no insurance. But you don’t have to come. It’s late. Get some sleep.”

  Yeah, right. Like he’d ever sleep again after seeing a kid who couldn’t be more than sixteen plunge out the window to his death. He’d not tell Bo right now. More than anything, Lucky needed a hug.

  Badly.

  But… Where was he going to find something for Bo to eat at this hour? No leftovers in the fridge. Oh well, one place never closed. Ever.

  Wherever he went, chances were they didn’t have decaf green tea. Lucky used Bo’s little one cup dispenser, twice, tore open stevia packets, and poure
d everything into a thermos.

  A trip to the Waffle House armed him with hash browns, smothered, covered, diced and capped. Which to anyone not familiar with that particular eating establishment, meant grilled onions, melted cheese, grilled tomatoes, and mushrooms. Plus, dry wheat toast.

  Lucky ate his burger and fries in the car. Yeah, Bo was only looking out for him, wanting him to eat healthy, but sometimes, a man needed comfort food.

  He located Bo in a waiting room on the maternity floor. Bo flashed a weary smile he couldn’t maintain. “I’ve only got a few minutes. If she wakes up and I’m not there, she’ll be upset.”

  “She’s really latched onto you, hasn’t she?” Smart girl.

  Bo collapsed into one of the chairs and scrubbed a hand over his face. “She doesn’t have anyone else, and hasn’t in years. Her father forced her into the situation she’s in, and last time she went home, he wasn’t there and someone else lived in the house. All her things were gone. Without the traffickers, she has nothing. Poor thing is terrified, and worried what will happen to her child. She can’t even support herself, and says her life is over when the men controlling her find her again.”

  Fuckers. “We’ll have to make sure they don’t find her then, won’t we?”

  Bo sniffed the air and nodded toward the bag. “Smells good. What did you bring me?”

  Lucky placed the thermos on the end table next to Bo and took a seat on the other side of him. “Waffle House was the only place I found open.”

  Pulling the to-go tray from the paper bag, Bo gave Lucky another brief smile. “Thanks.” He shook the fork out of the bag and pounced the greasy potatoes and cold toast with all the finesse of a seagull attacking a French fry.

  Poor guy must be hungry.

  Bo stopped with the fork halfway to his lips. “What about you?”

  “I ate already. That’s for you.”

  Between bites Bo told more of the story. “From the time she was fifteen until last year, a cartel used her as a drug mule, trafficking whatever they gave her from Mexico City to Houston. The men who gave her drugs in Mexico and the ones meeting her at the airport didn’t have much power. They were cruel and liked to act big, but she said they received lots of phone calls, although she couldn’t hear the conversations.” He placed the fork on the tray. “After sending her back and forth across the border more times than she could count, they brought her here to Atlanta and put her to work. She’s terrified of going to jail. I told her that wouldn’t happen.” The earnestness on his face said he meant to keep his word. “She wants to go back to Mexico, but not Mexico City, where she lived before.”