Sonia dropped her hand and turned away from Dean, looking at the neat stacks of paperwork but not seeing anything but a blur of black and white. Why was this so hard to say out loud? Not a day went by that she didn’t remember …
“Her name was Maria. She had tattoos like Ann, who’s fighting for her life at Sutter Hospital. Not four stars, but a square with an overlapping cross. She finally agreed to help me after one of the younger girls was murdered by a john. Maria realized that none of them were safe. It took me months to work on her, primarily because I was undercover and only there one day a week. I was the “nurse” giving them their Depo-Provera shots, checking them for pregnancy and STDs, and treating their cuts and bruises.”
“How long were you undercover?”
“Fifteen weeks. We could have gotten them for illegal prostitution, but I needed to prove they were smuggling in not only illegal immigrants but also minors against their will. I wanted the whole chain, not just that one link.” Every night she’d left reluctantly, wanting to take all twenty-four girls with her. Help them. Protect them. That she couldn’t tore apart her heart.
“Did you get them?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, yeah. Twenty-seven people went down in that sting, from low level thugs to the coyotes who transported the girls to leaders controlling multiple such places. We prosecuted nine, the remainder fled. Five were extradited last year and are awaiting trial, and the rest we can’t touch. They’re not Americans, and they’ve gone to ground. But, all in all, the operation was a huge success. For everyone except me, that is.”
Dean was right behind her, she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. “What happened to Maria?”
She blinked back tears. “Two days before we took them down, Maria gave me vital information. I had everything we needed, but she was giddy—there was a new shipment of girls coming in that night. I staked it out, but it was a bust. The next morning, Maria was dead. She’d been set up, and—” She stopped. He didn’t need to know everything.
“Did they know it was you?”
“Yeah. I fucked up, okay?”
“But you got them.”
“Maria not only died, she was tortured. They shipped off half the girls before I could get them out. I found some of them, but … it’s not just about putting the traffickers behind bars, it’s about saving innocent people. Maria should never have died. I should have sensed it was a setup, but I was so high on the power of the hunt, of nailing these guys every which way I could, I was blind.”
“And you don’t want to risk it again.”
“I can’t!”
“I’m not a risk, Sonia. You agreed we’d work together. I can’t work with you if you don’t trust me. It’s your call.”
Sonia wanted to. God, she wanted to, but she suddenly felt the vise tightening and everything was moving too quickly. She needed time to think.
Her phone rang and she excused herself, relieved that she could buy a couple of minutes. Dean walked out, mumbling something about water. He was angry, and Sonia wished she could patch things up. Dean wasn’t Charlie, she had to trust him, somehow.
“Hello,” she snapped into the phone.
“Sonia.”
The deep voice was none other than Kane Rogan. She breathed easier. Kane had never let her down. She wanted to trust Dean like she did Kane, but she didn’t know the fed. Yet, she didn’t really know Kane, either. Other than the fact he’d saved her life.
“Thank you for returning my call.”
“You don’t call often.”
“Charlie Cammarata.”
The silence was so complete Sonia could picture Kane as a statue, calmly assessing a threat before he acted. “What about him?”
“I saw him today. Working for a trafficker. You’ve hired him in the past—do you know what he’s working on now?”
“I haven’t hired him in ten years.” Kane spoke clearly in a low, deliberate tone.
She swallowed uneasily. She’d angered him without intending to. “I know, but you’ve been in contact.”
“I’ve sent jobs his way. When no one else was willing to take them.”
“Recently?”
“I referred him to a woman whose daughter went missing last year while on a cruise. Security determined that she fell overboard after drinking too much. The mother was not convinced. However, the police were, and they closed the case.”
“That’s all?”
“In these last few years. Cammarata has become un-dependable.”
“Would you still have her contact information?”
“Of course.”
“What about Charlie’s?”
“Yes.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“Very well. I assume you know what you’re doing, but remain aware that Charlie is not the same man he was ten years ago. And he wasn’t trustworthy then.”
“I understand,” she said softly, clearing her throat. “I appreciate your help.”
“You can call anytime, Sonia.”
“I know.”
“Let my brother know if you need anything. Duke will drop everything to assist.”
“He doesn’t even know me.”
“I know you. Watch your back, sweetheart.” Kane hung up.
Ten seconds later the contact information she wanted came through on her text messaging. He included his brother, Duke Rogan’s, private cell phone number.
She trusted Kane Rogan with her life. If it weren’t for him, she would have died ten years ago when Charlie went off on his own mission and left her, only a year out of training, in a situation that forced her to kill for the second time in her life.
But Kane was God-knew-where fighting battles only true heroes had a chance of winning. Once she had called him a cat with nine lives, and he’d actually smiled—a rarity.
If she could trust a man she saw once in a blue moon, why couldn’t she trust FBI agent Dean Hooper, a man she was working side by side with? She already knew more about Hooper after knowing him less than twenty-four hours than she did about Kane, a man she’d known for ten years.
Dean returned with two bottles of cold water and handed her one. Nothing had looked so good; she was parched. “Thank you,” she said.
He didn’t ask, he simply looked at her with piercing brown eyes that demanded answers.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll set up a meeting with my informant. But first, there’s something else you need to know.”
Riley Knight stood sentry outside Jane Doe’s hospital room. Ann, he reminded himself. That was so like his sister to give an unknown victim a personal name. One of the psychological games traffickers and other abusers used to demoralize their victims was to dehumanize them, make them forget they were individuals and program them to believe that their only value was in what they did and not who they were. Naming people “Jane” or “John Doe” grated on Sonia like fingernails on a chalkboard, though she’d never said anything.
There were many things Sonia never said, but after twenty years of being virtual twins, Riley knew her better than she knew herself. This was no exaggeration; Riley didn’t think Sonia cared to be introspective. Like any good cop, she could handle her complex and emotionally demanding job because she could compartmentalize. That trait enabled her to put her past in a box she rarely, if ever, opened. But that didn’t mean her past didn’t shape her present and future. Maybe that was why Riley still worried about her even though she was one of the most self-reliant people he knew.
He hoped Charlie Cammarata—that bastard who nearly got his sister killed—didn’t mess her up with whatever insane mission he was on. She had never spoken about it again, after telling Riley what had happened on that undercover assignment ten years ago. But Riley couldn’t forget that Cammarata had set up his sister so he could get the glory. Cammarata had never apologized for what he had put Sonia through, only said he was sorry that “it had gone too far” and he “never meant for her to get hurt.”
Cammarata
was like an extremist Muslim on a jihad; he didn’t care who he hurt as long as his goal was achieved. Riley didn’t give a rat’s ass how noble the goal was; the bodies Cammarata laid in his wake made him the enemy. Riley didn’t want one of those bodies to be his sister.
Dr. Peter Miller left Ann’s room, acknowledged Riley, and walked down the hall, passing Detective John Black, who approached with a cup of coffee. “Thought you could use some,” he said.
“Thanks.” Riley sipped. It was nowhere near as good as his mom’s.
“I have Ericson relieving you at twenty-one hundred. You good till then?”
“I’m good.”
“Then I’ll see you in the morning. Let me know if there’s any change. We have no witnesses, except that girl.”
Black walked off and Riley sipped the coffee, then put it on the low table next to him. He wasn’t sleepy, his shift had technically just started a couple of hours ago, and he had plenty of energy. His mom didn’t understand the allure of the swing shift, but for Riley it was great. He’d always been a night person, and now he had an excuse to sleep until noon.
An orderly approached and ignored Riley, making a move to open the door.
Riley blocked him. “You’re not authorized to enter this room.”
“Sure I am,” he said, showing his name badge. Jose Martinez.
“You’re not on the list.”
“I’m just changing bedpans.”
Riley didn’t budge.
Martinez swore. “Look, my boss is gonna get on my ass if I don’t get this done. I don’t know why I’m not on your friggin’ list. Let’s go talk to him, fix this.”
Riley didn’t like the way Martinez’s eyes darted back and forth. He squinted at Riley with dark mousy eyes. Riley glanced at the photo on the name badge again and realized this man wasn’t Jose Martinez. Same general look and race, but two different people.
“Let’s call him,” Riley said, motioning to the house phone. “What’s his name?” He needed the fake orderly to believe he was playing along, to get him away from Ann’s door. As casually as he could, he tapped a code into his radio with his badge number and “officer needs assistance” signal. He hoped Black was still in the building with his radio on.
The imposter nodded, moved toward the phone, then started running down the hall.
“Shit!” Riley started down the hall, then stopped. He couldn’t leave Ann, and the fake orderly was acting overtly suspicious. A decoy, Riley realized, to get him away from the door.
He whirled around and saw a tall, lean, blond Caucasian male with his hand on Ann’s door. Where had he come from so quickly?
Riley commanded, “Don’t move.”
The man didn’t stop and in three long strides Riley was in a position to restrain him. The man pivoted and backed into Ann’s room. He had a scalpel in his right hand, and something Riley couldn’t see in his left.
“Security!” Riley yelled at the top of his lungs and saw a nurse scurry toward a phone.
Riley couldn’t let him near Ann. He grabbed his Taser, but the suspect kicked his wrist. Riley held on to the Taser, but his arm went straight up, and his attacker lunged with the scalpel aimed at Riley’s neck as if it were an ice pick.
Riley faked right, then pivoted left toward Ann. The suspect was fooled by the move, but recovered quickly and tackled Riley, plunging the scalpel high in his thigh. Riley bit back a scream as the sharp blade was pulled several inches up his leg. He Tasered the bastard in the chest, but the darts bounced off. He had a fucking vest on!
Already the perp was scrambling up and moving fast toward the unconscious girl. Riley grabbed his legs and pulled him down. Then saw what the attacker had in his left hand: a syringe. If that syringe had pricked him or Ann, Riley was certain they’d be dead.
Sweating, his vision blurry and fading, blood flowing from his leg, Riley grabbed the killer’s left wrist and slammed it hard against the floor. Again. Again. The perp said nothing, but he grunted in pain and frustration. Riley didn’t see the scalpel coming toward his head.
There was commotion behind him, then a sharp pain in his cheek, and John Black shouted, “Knight!” Riley sensed more than saw John grab the suspect’s right hand and slam it against the floor.
“The syringe!” he tried to shout, his words slurred.
Black’s hands reached over and clasped the perp’s wrist, squeezing, and Riley heard bones crack and the bastard beneath him scream in pain.
“I got him,” Black said.
Riley rolled away and lay there, barely registering two cops cuffing the blond man and pulling him out of Ann’s room.
“Riley,” Black said. “Help’s on the way.”
“Should be,” Riley said, seeing nothing but gray. “I’m in a damn hospital.”
Black ripped Riley’s pants away, grabbed a blanket from the foot of Ann’s bed, and applied pressure. “I got your radio signal,” he said.
“It happened so fast.” Riley was quickly fading. “I’m okay.”
“You damn well better be. Your sister scares the hell out of me.”
“Call her.”
A doctor and three nurses came in. Black said, “I’m staying with the girl. Get him stable. I need to talk to him ASAP.”
CHAPTER
NINE
Dean could tell Sonia’s decision to bring him fully on board had been difficult, but it was the right choice. If they were going to take down Xavier Jones, she had to trust him without reservation. There was no middle ground.
She said, “I set up layers of security measures to protect Vega. It’s not even easy for me to talk to him quickly without jeopardizing him.”
“What’s he doing? Trying to find files or photo graphs—”
She shook her head. “I need to catch Jones red-handed. I need a location—to observe an exchange of illegal immigrants for money. Hell, I’d get him on smuggling aliens into the country if I could, but he doesn’t get his hands dirty. What he does do, though, is meet with the principals. It might not be at the same time as the exchange, but it’s being discussed, and if I can get in, if I know where the meeting is, I can plant hidden cameras and microphones. Vega said there’s something going down soon, but I don’t have an exact date or a location. All I know is it’s local. And it’s connected to three dozen kidnapped teenage women from China. As soon as I know the details, we’ll set up the stakeout. We’re only going to get one shot. Either we get Jones, or I have to pull Vega and put him in protective custody because Jones will know who ratted him out.”
“Is that why you were at Jones’s house last night?”
“Not exactly.”
“Exactly what then?”
Sonia sat down again and rubbed the back of her neck. Dean resisted the urge to massage her shoulders. She was uncomfortable and Dean wanted to make her feel better. He knew how it felt to have a case grab you and tighten its grip until every muscle in your body was pulled taut. Sonia looked like the weight of the world rested on her pretty shoulders.
“Last week I had an untraceable email about a boy who had been held captive at Jones’s house and escaped. I was given the general area where he’d be, and after searching for a couple hours with my brother, a Sac P.D. cop, we found him. Andres Zamora. I thought Vega had given me the tip. Andres speaks little English, but I’m fluent in Spanish. The kid is ten. He was abducted from Argentina two weeks ago, along with his thirteen-year-old sister, Maya. Their mother and older brother were murdered when they tried to stop the abduction.”
“Jones?”
“No. I showed Andres his picture and Andres had never seen him before.”
“Then how did he end up at Jones’s house? How did he know it was Jones’s house?”
“He didn’t. My anonymous informant did. I asked Vega about it when I could set up a call the day after, but he claimed he didn’t know what I was talking about—he knew the kid had escaped, but said he hadn’t sent the message. I didn’t believe him. No one else on Jones’s staff
would have turned and known to call me. Anyway, Maya had been separated from her brother after two or three days, probably before they hit the American border. She was taken on another truck, and Andres was taken by boat. He remembers being crammed into a hold with dozens of other boys from eight to sixteen years of age, but doesn’t remember how long. Days. They gave him fresh water and one small meal daily. He thinks there were four meals. They were not allowed on deck. At one point, the boat was boarded—probably by the Coast Guard, based on what he heard—and their captors threatened that if any of the boys made a sound they would all be killed.
“After that, Andres found a hatch off the hold and hid inside—mostly because it gave him a little more room to move around. When the boat docked and no one came for him, he realized he couldn’t get out. A day later he was discovered and brought to Jones’s house. I’ve shown Andres pictures of Vega and everyone else on Jones’s staff, but he didn’t recognize anyone.
“Until this morning.”
Sonia opened a file and took out a photograph of a forty-something man with short-cropped dark hair graying on the sides. He looked younger than Dean remembered, but just as hard.
“Jones’s driver,” Dean said.
“His name is Charlie Cammarata. He’s a former Immigration agent.”
“Former?”
Sonia’s eyes glistened, but when she blinked the pain was gone. She was all business. “Yes. He was my training agent. He went rogue. I turned him in, testified against him, and he was fired and stripped of all commendations and his pension. He disappeared—though I’ve heard from him a few times. He likes to feed me information, and frankly, it’s been damn good information. But …”
“But what?”
“Nothing.”
“Sonia.”
Dean waited until she looked at him, then continued. “But what?”
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