Breaking Point

by Allison Brennan

  “John was killed in action three years ago. Army. We went to school together.”

  “So you go way back.”

  “I introduced them and I’m their daughter’s godfather. Trix is ten now. I go out and visit at least once a month.”

  “I’m running home for a few minutes and then need to check out the trucking company.”

  “Need backup?”

  She considered it, but declined. “I’m going in as a potential customer.”

  “Can I give you some advice?”

  “Of course.”

  “Lose your standard uniform.”

  “Uniform?”

  “Slacks, blouse, blazer. Good for an FBI agent, but totally pegs you as a cop. Jeans and a tank top. It’s what all the twenty-somethings wear.”

  Maybe, but Lucy was a bit more conservative in her dress. Still, Brad had a point. “I’ll dress down.”

  “I have a desk for you if you need it.”

  “Thanks.”

  She ended the call and pulled into her garage. She turned on all the lights and brought out a heavy duty flashlight. She searched the undercarriage of the Mustang and found the tracker attached to the metal frame near the front. She removed it and stared.

  Lucy had hoped Sean was wrong, but he wasn’t often wrong about these things.

  She brought the tracker inside. She knew how they operated in general, but she wasn’t familiar with this model. She took a picture of it and sent it to Sean.

  Bandit came to greet her. She gave him a dog treat and let him out back. He did his business and bounced back in, wagging his tail.

  The golden retriever had been clingy ever since Sean didn’t come home last night. In the few months that they’d had the dog, he’d become a fixture in their lives and Lucy couldn’t ever imagine living without him. More, Sean was happier than she’d ever seen him—and not only because they were now married. If she’d known how good a dog was for them, she would have adopted one a long time ago.

  “I miss him too, Bandit,” she said and scratched his ears. “But you still can’t sleep in the bed. Sean would never forgive me.”

  Sean had established firm rules for Bandit and made Lucy promise not to break them when he wasn’t there. The number one rule was no sleeping on the bed or furniture. To that end, Sean had bought a half dozen dog beds and scattered them through the house.

  Sean responded to her text message.

  That’s a sophisticated tracker. It sends data to a server that can be downloaded and viewed in real time. It also makes you vulnerable to a long-distance tail. Send me the serial number and I’ll see if I can figure out when it was activated.

  She did as he requested, then made herself a sandwich though she wasn’t hungry. Her stomach was tight and she needed to unwind and decompress after the conversation with Rachel and finding the tracking device. She would stick this out because she wasn’t a quitter. She wasn’t going to let Rachel chase her out of the office. Lucy loved being an FBI agent and she was damn good at it—so she gave herself a deadline. If things didn’t get better before the end of the year, she’d ask for a transfer. She’d have put her two rookie years in and many agents transferred after that. She might not get the squad she wanted, but she’d rather be working in cyberterrorism where she had something to do than be on the squad she wanted but sitting at a desk.

  She didn’t want to leave San Antonio. It was now her home—her home with Sean. They really loved it here. She would try to make it work with Rachel, but she could only do so much. In the end, it would be up to Rachel Vaughn whether Lucy stayed or left.

  Not for the first time, she considered joining Brad in the DEA office. It would be a lateral move. There was a special course at Quantico for FBI agents transferring to the DEA or another federal law enforcement agency like the ATF. Brad had mentioned it casually to her more than once.

  But she didn’t want to be in the DEA. While she admired Brad and supported their mission, she wanted to work against violent crime. She had a strong drive to right wrongs—to find predators who preyed on the innocent and gain justice for victims. Was that drive stronger than her desire to stay in San Antonio?

  She’d figure that out when she was forced to make a decision.

  Sean called her just as she was about to leave.

  “The tracker went live the week after we returned from San Diego,” Sean said. “I’ve downloaded the report—she has checked it daily, and sometimes more often.”

  Sean was angry, and Lucy didn’t blame him. She was angry, but she didn’t know what to do about it—yet.

  “I’m going to leave it in the house for now,” she said. “I don’t know how I’m going to talk to her. She’s already angry about the task force.”

  “I would put it on her desk and tell her GPS trackers are illegal without a warrant.”

  “I’m a federal agent.”

  “Doesn’t matter—she can put a GPS on a government car, or require that you drive a government car when on duty—but she cannot put a GPS tracker on a private car without a warrant. Besides, it’s my car and it’s in my name, and I don’t work for the fucking government.”

  “You don’t think there’s an investigation into either of us, do you?”

  Sean hesitated, just long enough to make Lucy nervous. “No,” he said slowly, “and if there is we’re in deep shit, because that means two of the highest ranking FBI agents in DC don’t know about it.”

  He was referring to AD Rick Stockton and AD Hans Vigo, who was Lucy’s mentor. Sean was right—if they knew anything, word would have gotten to Sean and Lucy if there was an investigation.

  “Don’t say anything.”

  “I’m sweeping the house and my plane as soon as I can. I won’t say anything—yet. But I’m going to find out if there’s an investigation, and you’re not going to like how I do it.”

  He didn’t say more; he wouldn’t over a phone. Some might assume he’d call Rick directly, but Lucy knew Sean. He planned to hack into a government database.

  Yes, it was better that she didn’t know that for a fact.

  * * *

  Lucy heeded Brad’s advice and changed into jeans, heeled boots, and a tank top. She was uncomfortable walking around in the form-fitting shirt, so she found a worn plaid shirt she’d had for years and put it on, rolled up the sleeves, and instead of buttoning it she tied the ends under her breasts. Had the same effect but at least didn’t make her feel as awkward. She brushed out her hair, and used her curling iron to add a few soft curls. Her naturally wavy hair took curls well. She then put it back into a loose and sloppy pony tail, added more make-up than she usually wore, and exchanged her small post earrings for gold hoops.

  She drove the Mustang—sans tracker—back to the moving company. The gate was closed, but there were two cars parked by the office. She stopped at the gate and got out of the car.

  Time to play dumb.

  She frowned, looked around, tried the gate, then went to her phone and searched the Internet for the trucking company. Most times, archived websites were still up for businesses and individuals. This company had just been sold, and its website was still there—bonus for her.

  Before she could call the number, however, a tall lanky Hispanic male came out of the office and walked over to her.

  “What can I help you with, sweet thing?” he asked. He looked at the Mustang with almost the same lecherous gaze as he had her body.

  “Are you open? Your website says you’re open. I need a moving truck?” She frowned, kept her voice both confused and stressed. “My boyfriend is going to shoot me because I kept postponing getting the truck and now we’re moving tomorrow and I really, really need one. You just can’t be closed.”

  “We’re in the middle of some changes,” he said, and actually sounded like he felt bad about it.

  “Changes? What? Can’t I just rent one little truck? You have one … two … four.” She counted those she could see through the gate with her finger. “Anything, please,
will work. We can make two trips if you only have a small one.”

  “They’re reserved,” he said.

  She frowned and forced tears to her eyes. “Everything is reserved. Everywhere.” She spoke rapidly in Spanish, criticizing her “boyfriend” for making her do this in the first place, and tossing in a few choice swear words. “I … I don’t know what to do. I just need it for one day—I can pick it up tomorrow morning and return it tomorrow night?”

  He unlocked the gate. “Come in, I’ll see if I can find you something. No promises.”

  “Thank you thank you thank you!” she squealed.

  She opened her car door and he said, “Leave it there.”

  She was really winging it because she didn’t plan on renting anything—she had no fake identity, and if anyone ran her name that would be a serious problem. She slipped her wallet under the seat, grabbed her purse, and shut the door.

  “What’s your name?” she asked as she followed him to the office.

  “Oliver.”

  “I’m Lucia.”

  “That’s a pretty name for a pretty girl.”

  She giggled. It felt so odd coming out of her throat that she almost laughed.

  “If your boyfriend gives you shit, he’s not a good boyfriend, you know?”

  “He is, really. He’s in construction. Works for his uncle. Puts in long hours and I just have a little part-time job. I’m a cocktail waitress over at Enrique’s—been there?” It was a real place, but a bit more upscale than where she figured this guy would get his booze.

  “Nice joint, I haven’t been in.”

  “Tips are good. Anyways, it’s our first place together, you know? And I messed everything up.”

  He entered the office. “We’ll see what we can do.”

  A shiver went down her spine as if someone was watching her. She glanced around but didn’t see any security cameras.

  “Ollie?” a tall man who looked like an older version of Oliver came out of the back. “We’re closed.”

  Lucy smiled nervously and looked at Oliver.

  “She just needs a truck for tomorrow, Frank. We need to change the website.”

  “We don’t have any trucks right now. Sorry.”

  “Well, we have the two seventeen-foot trucks that were ours from the beginning—”

  “They’re not ours,” Frank cut him off. “We can’t be renting them, the new owner wants an inventory.”

  “I just need it for one day,” Lucy said.

  “We don’t have anything,” Frank said firmly.

  “Hold on, Lucia,” Oliver said and he and his brother went into an adjoining office and closed the door. But not before Lucy saw someone else was sitting inside.

  This appeared to be a small, family-owned business—Frank and Oliver were likely brothers. It was crowded but clean with pictures of family and the first dollar they made on the walls. How had they gotten into business with Hirsch?

  If they had.

  The late night trucks and three vans tell you they are in bed with the trafficking. Just because they don’t appear to be criminals doesn’t mean they aren’t.

  She heard them talking in muffled voices. She leaned over the desk and saw a desk calendar. Last night had been circled with “11–12” written in the box. Sunday was circled with the same green marker and “3 a.m.”

  The door opened and she turned and smiled. She got a clear image of the guy sitting at the desk, his feet up. She had her phone out. “I need to text my boyfriend and tell him the good news?” she asked hopefully. She took several pictures of the guy in the office.

  “I’m sorry, Lucia,” Oliver said. “We just sold the company and I didn’t realize that we couldn’t rent anything because of insurance issues. But we’ll be back in business full-time next weekend, and I’ll give you a twenty-five percent discount.”

  Frank rolled his eyes, but didn’t contradict him. He went back in the office and slammed the door.

  “My brother is kind of a jerk sometimes,” Oliver said quietly. “He didn’t want to sell, but times have been tough, you know? He has three kids and is worried about things like college. None of our brothers and sisters went to college, and he wants his kids to go.”

  “I completely understand,” she said. She picked up a business card. “Is this you? Oliver Martinez?”

  “Yes. Call next week and I’ll set you up really good.”

  “I hope we can postpone the move for a week,” she said. “My boyfriend says we should always shop local businesses, so he didn’t want me going to one of those chains. You’re not going to be a chain, are you?”

  “No, nothing like that. Just another small business, just not as small as ours. They have a couple places, all in Texas.”

  “Oh, that’s good! Does one of those other places have a truck for me?”

  “There’re not that local. One’s in El Paso, and I think the other is in Port Arthur.”

  “Too far for us,” she said and pouted. “But, thanks anyway, I’ll be back if I can, you’re really nice for trying to help me.”

  “If your boyfriend gives you shit, dump him and I’ll treat you right.” He winked. “Pretty chica like you shouldn’t have to take any nonsense.”

  He walked her back to the gate and let her out. She waved at him as she drove away.

  Now that was all very, very interesting.

  * * *

  Lucy was almost late to her meeting with Tia Mancini and the prostitute Victoria Smith. Victoria had insisted they meet at a bar in a downtown hotel, and three p.m. Friday traffic was ridiculous.

  She was still dressed in her jeans and tank top, and Tia grinned at her when she walked in. “Good cover. I wouldn’t peg you as a cop.”

  “I’ll remember that. You feeling good?” Tia had been shot and nearly killed last year right in front of Lucy. The fact that she received immediate emergency care had saved her life.

  Victoria didn’t look amused. “I don’t have time for you two to play catch up,” she said, swirling her drink around her in glass. Ice clinked against the sides. “Tell me what you want.”

  Tia raised her eyebrows. “It’s your show, Kincaid.”

  Lucy said, “I understand that you don’t work with underage girls.”

  “It’s bad business,” she said simply.

  “I don’t have to explain your business to you, but you’re aware that there are two types of underage prostitutes. Those who, more or less, go into the business willingly, and those who are manipulated and threatened into commercial sex.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’m tracking a sex trafficker who makes his business by threatening young girls—many under the age of fourteen—often kidnapping them or grabbing runaways.”

  “Guerrilla tactics,” Victoria said. She seemed honestly disgusted. “It is, unfortunately, a profitable business. If you’re looking for proof that I’m not involved, I can offer you nothing. I’m not going to put my employees on your radar. You have my word, that is all.”

  “I’m not looking to jam you up or any of your employees,” Lucy said. “But you need to know that this man is ruthless. Last night in El Paso, he attempted to make a deal with the head local pimp. Raul Diaz.”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “He ran the majority of the working women in El Paso. He didn’t want to go into business with Martin Hirsch, so Hirsch killed him and his inner circle. Shot Diaz in cold blood, and when his detail didn’t immediately change loyalties, had them killed. It was brutal and effective and Hirsch lost only one man in the process.” Lucy didn’t want to let on that Hirsch’s man survived. It could put him in danger, and if he made it through the next twenty-four hours, they had a source of information. He might not talk—or they might be able to roll him.

  “And?”

  “Hirsch is expanding his operation east. We don’t know his end game, but he has systematically gone through several major cities along the I-10 corridor uniting factions and incorporating his business. And his b
usiness is providing underage girls in this market. We need to stop him.”

  “I do not know this man.”

  “If he hasn’t reached out to you yet, he may.”

  “And I will turn him down.”

  “Did you not hear what I said? You have one of the largest and most successful prostitution organizations in San Antonio. He’ll want to tap into that.”

  “But you have shown in this conversation that you don’t know the business. I have an escort service. I don’t run streetwalkers. All my girls are professionals. Some have day jobs and work only weekends for me to make extra money. They are escorts, provide a girlfriend experience, companionship, and yes, sex. But sex is part of the service, not the only service. There is no reason for this Hirsch to contact me because we have completely different business models.”

  “If not you, who?”

  “I don’t see how I can help you.”

  “I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you.”

  Victoria began to look slightly uncomfortable. Her perfect manicured fingers tapped the side of her now-empty glass. She put it down on the table.

  Lucy pushed. “I tracked three vans last night. They were likely bringing in new girls to San Antonio permanently. That impacts your business.”

  “On the contrary, it doesn’t even touch it.”

  Maybe Lucy really didn’t understand the sex trade. She understood human trafficking. She understood sex slaves and criminal organizations and drug networks. But the so-called “high-end” hookers? The escorts and thousand-dollar-a-night dates? That was out of her bailiwick.

  “I lost them off Hackleberry. That neighborhood borders downtown, the riverwalk, all the convention centers. I’m pretty certain businessmen, especially conventions, are your bread and butter.”

  Victoria didn’t say anything.

  “You know who is in the underage business. Who a violent predator might reach out to in order to expand his business.”

  Again, nothing, but she was thinking.

  “I have two names. Jugger and Eli Kinder. Who do I go after?”

  Victoria glanced at Tia. She then said, “The person you want is Ginger. Ginger Hodge. She used to work for me, but we had a … well, we’ll call it a disagreement. She started her own business, it caters to what I will call special requests.”