by Kate Lowell
They showed him that file, with its picture of a nice-looking young man with high cheekbones and an optimistic smile. Julian read the police report and the parents’ statements. He flipped through the other pictures, of Ethan standing thigh deep in water, wearing ugly green hip-waders, of him standing with his date at the prom. It made Julian angry, with a strength he’d never before experienced, to think that someone just snatched all that away from this young man.
He raised his head. “What, specifically, would I be doing?”
Specifically, they needed someone to go undercover as a teenaged victim. And then Bert began to explain what they knew of the system, talked about the undercover agent—Leo Gale—who was already in place, assured Julian that he wasn’t there to investigate but merely to keep the criminals from suspecting Leo wasn’t exactly who he claimed to be. How Leo had been promoted and was now faced with directly working with the victims as a trafficker. And the legal problems that entailed.
Then Ronalda began to list the chances of violence, of death, of getting lost in the system himself. She reminded the other two men that Julian hadn’t had the benefit of the five-month training at Quantico, that he’d never fired a gun, that he wasn’t, in fact, interested in being a special agent, but an analyst.
Bert countered with the security plan he had prepared and Leo’s stellar record.
Julian had one question. “Why haven’t you just gone in and arrested them all?”
Bert sat back and tossed the file in his hand onto the table. “You cut one leg off an octopus to keep it from eating you, it still has seven others to get you with. This is only one part, a few brothels that we have physical locations for, one processing warehouse as soon as they move Leo over there. There’s a bunch more that we know exist but have no physical location for. Leo says there’s been hints that there’s a much more complex operation behind this, that it might even just be a front for something else.”
He leaned forward and stared directly into Julian’s eyes. “We take down this arm, we send the rest of them digging deeper. It’ll be that much harder to find the guys behind it and put them in prison. We don’t know how many kids they have right now, but if we go in hot because we can’t wait, we lose all but the handful in the four brothels we have physical addresses for. Right now, we have money and support. If we waste this opportunity, it may never happen again.”
Ramos interrupted. “That being said, if you do agree to join the operation and it looks like you’re getting in too deep, we’ll send Hostage Rescue in and shut down this group and get you out, then worry about the rest of it later. You are under no obligation to say yes. It will not affect your chances of getting into Quantico, nor will it affect the rest of your internship. Do not allow those considerations to influence your choice.”
Julian sat back in his chair and glanced down at the notes he’d made. “Do I have to decide right now?”
Bert opened his mouth, but whatever he had been planning to say was stillborn in the bladelike sharpness of Ramos’s glare. Ramos instead answered Julian’s question. “No. In fact”—and here he turned a firm eye on Bert—“I would suggest that you go home and think about it overnight. Give us your answer tomorrow. No, Bert!” He waved down the agent. “You can’t rush him into this, as worried as you are about this operation. You have a Plan B, so it’s not as if there isn’t another option. I can see why you chose him, but I will not have anyone pressured or guilted into going undercover in a high-risk operation like this.”
“Leo expects the transfer on Friday. And we’ve done it before.”
Ramos answered, “I haven’t.” He gave Bert a stern look. “You’re going to be available to answer any questions he has. And make damn sure there’s an extraction plan.”
“Yes, sir.” Bert stood up and motioned to Julian to join him. “Come on. We’ll get lunch. My treat.”
Destination
“Dammit.” Thursday afternoon races were supposed to pay out better than this. Leo tossed his betting stub on the ground and headed back into the building for a drink and to peruse the odds on the next race. Maybe he should stay away from brindle dogs—not a one of them had won for him in the past week. And he needed something to distract him from the ticking time bomb of this operation.
By the time he was done, he was going to be a gambling addict for real. He was actually starting to see the appeal—some days, he felt like he had more control at the track than at work.
He got into line at the concession stand, not really thinking about the job but letting his subconscious poke away at it. Sometimes that was the quickest way to a solution. He’d passed on confirmation of his schedule for Friday when he’d placed his first bet. While Leo lost a hundred dollars on the next two races, his contact would send the report on to Harrow and get back to him with the response.
Leo’s new criminal supervisor turned out to be his blond tail, a man named DeGraff. The very few men who worked in procurement had all been chosen and trained by him. Leo didn’t know what had happened to the guy he was replacing, just that he’d disappeared. DeGraff let Leo’s imagination fill in the blanks.
It had been three days since his interview with Carragher. The lag was to give the organization time to find a replacement for him and to delegate his current responsibilities at the brothel. DeGraff had spent some of that time with Leo, outlining his responsibilities and the company’s philosophy when it came to business.
“You see, it’s pretty straight behavioral modification,” he’d said, pouring shots of tequila for them both. They’d mostly talked in the kitchen, where they could hear if anything went wrong up front and snacks were easy to come by.
Leo was careful to mirror DeGraff’s body language, enough so the man was predisposed to like him, not enough to set off any alarm bells. It felt good to unpack old skills.
It worked spectacularly. DeGraff was proud of their operation, almost to the point of hubris. “They need to have manners.” He pointed at Leo with the hand holding his shot. “We can’t have them talking back or speaking out or anything like that. Bad for business. It’s really a carrot-and-stick approach, like you use with any rebellious teenager. Take away all their privileges; then give them back one at a time as the kids demonstrate appropriate behavior.”
Appropriate behavior.
The hardest part of undercover was having to find something to like about the people being investigated. They might inspire disgust, or dreams of seeing them bitten to death by fire ants, but they could never know that. People noticed a fake, even if they didn’t do it consciously. Leo needed them to trust him, so he needed to find something admirable, at least in DeGraff.
What worked for him in this case was DeGraff’s logic. It all made sense, from a business standpoint. And DeGraff himself wasn’t a bad guy, if you ignored the kidnapping and forced prostitution. One day, Leo caught him sending flowers to his girlfriend, for no other reason than she liked them. Hard not to like a guy who thought his girlfriend’s happiness was more important than his tough-guy image.
Hard to like him, too, knowing where the money to pay for those flowers came from.
Leo ordered a rye and ginger, despite the fact that it was barely after noon, and wandered over to check out the odds on one of the screens scattered around the room.
The bureau had promised him backup. Leo hoped they knew something he didn’t. It had taken him a year of working dive bars and petty gangs to even get the traffickers to approach him. The likelihood of the bureau getting another agent in place in this time frame was pretty slim. He was on his own.
He did have a safe house, but he didn’t know where the warehouse he was moving to was situated. It could be miles away. Even in another city. He was screwed.
The next race was starting soon. He glanced down the lines, where other desperate people were waiting to place their bets, and saw his contact. Five minutes later, money was exchanged, and a slip of paper, folded in half, had been transferred to Leo’s hand. He tucked it into
his race program and walked back out to his usual spot on the rail to wait for the race to start.
To pass the time, he studied his program. Or, more accurately, the sheet the agent had passed him. There wasn’t much to it—a picture of a good-looking young man who could have passed for anything between fifteen and twenty, a time, and the address of a mall in downtown DC. The man’s name, Julian Fitzroy, was handwritten underneath the image.
At the bottom of the page, two words: Your target.
So that’s their plan. They’d found an agent who looked young enough to pass as a teenager and had set Leo up to kidnap him. That was good. An agent could be counted on not to blow his cover out of fear, and it saved Leo from having to come up with excuses to avoid abusing real victims. Excuses which would eventually result in his discovery as an undercover agent. Methods didn’t vary much between North America and Central and Western Europe. Threats, beatings, rape. Everything he’d seen in the brothel had supported the bureau’s theory that this ring operated with similar methods.
Leo looked at the picture again just as the bell sounded. The dogs bolted unheeded past him in their fruitless pursuit of the ragged fake hare while Leo studied the man’s face. Attractive, almost uncomfortably so, which made him perfect for this plan. But dear God, he made Leo feel old.
He hoped this guy was as good as he was good-looking. Leo wasn’t sure just how potentially dangerous his new job was going to be, but he doubted it would be safer than the one he had now.
And he wasn’t sure how far he’d have to go to keep the operation functioning and himself and his partner safe.
A Prime Cut
Julian stood in front of the bathroom mirror of his apartment and ruffled his hair into something closer to his Friday-night style. He wore a black T-shirt with a boy-band logo on the front, and his best tight-as-fuck slut jeans. He’d picked up some cheap eyeliner on the way home from the Washington field office yesterday and took a few moments to slather it on like a teenager who didn’t have a clue how to use it.
He’d done what Ramos had said. After talking to Harrow over lunch, he’d gone home for the afternoon and thought about it. He’d read over his notes, slept on it, thought some more over breakfast. In the end, he’d talked to Harrow again to ask a few more questions and then had made his decision.
It wasn’t a particularly hard decision. How many other interns got this sort of chance? Yes, he was a little nervous, but he’d never met a challenge he couldn’t beat. He’d been the state math champion two years in a row in high school, before he’d gotten bored with it. He could research anything within an inch of its life. He’d qualified for his blue belt in aikido before his dad died, and he’d been a top competitor in fencing. He’d put himself through college on scholarships and his own sweat and kept his brother and sister in clothes and school fees at the same time. Whatever they threw at him, he was sure he could handle it. And there was the other benefit as well.
Harrow had promised him a seat in the first special agent training course after he graduated from college, as a reward for taking the job. Julian had talked him into the analyst course instead, despite the pressure Harrow put on him. Fieldwork wasn’t his career goal—sitting in an office, playing spider in the middle of the web and pulling the strings of all the special agents was what he had his heart set on. He wasn’t sure what it was—maybe knowing it was a lot of driving around asking questions—but fieldwork didn’t appeal to him.
For darn sure, though, jumping to the head of the line was worth taking a risk on this. And he knew, from his own years of research on the bureau, that by the time you got to ASAC and SAC levels, you had a lot of friends and were owed a lot of favors. So when Harrow said, “And for someone who already has field experience, I can’t see why the age limit would be an issue,” a tow truck couldn’t have held him back.
David, his roommate and best friend since high school, came through the door behind him, wiping his hands dry with a dishtowel. Julian caught the movement in the mirror.
“Oh crap, Dave, I’m sorry. I forgot it was my night for the dishes. I’ll do them for a week when I get back.”
David shrugged and hung the towel over his shoulder. “It’s okay. What do you want me to tell Lyle?”
“Lyle?” What did his ex have to do with this?
“You know, his housewarming party? With his new fiancé?”
Julian winced. Oh, that. “Tell him I’m sorry, but something came up, and I’ll make it up to him.”
Dave made a face. “Yeah, I’m sure he’ll be surprised.”
“It’s not like he’s never done it to me.”
Dave just sighed and shook his head. “When are they picking you up?”
He’d told Dave he was going undercover for the FBI and the bare minimum of why it had to be him, but nothing more. After all, he was going to be gone for anything up to a week—Dave needed some explanation, though Julian couldn’t tell him everything. And Julian tried not to lie to him. He didn’t deserve that. “Soon.” He dropped the eyeliner on the bathroom counter and turned around. “What do you think? Do I look like jailbait?”
The corners of David’s eyes crinkled, and he made a little spinning motion with one hand. Julian shuffled in a circle, thinking it was a shame he and Dave had never made a go of it. But Dave was into kink and control, and they’d discovered way back that Julian was really into not being tied up and told what to do.
Despite being completely incompatible as lovers, they ended up best friends.
Dave stopped him and tidied his guyliner, then tugged the waist of his jeans down so far Julian worried his crack would show. “Easy there.” Julian pulled them back up a notch. “I’m not supposed to be naked at the mall.” His eyes met Dave’s, and he sucked in his breath.
It only lasted a moment, just long enough for Dave to blink in surprise and pat him not-so-gently on the cheek. “If only you were the least bit subby.” The air went hot and still around them; then Dave leered comically, and the tension building between them crumbled.
Julian made a face. “Okay, you’re creeping me out, leatherman.”
Dave laughed, but it sounded strained. “Be careful out there. This scares me.”
Julian shooed him out of the way and went to get the high school hoodie Harrow had given him off the back of the couch. “You don’t think I can do it?”
“I think if anyone can do it, you can. I’m just worried about how far you’ll go to win.”
“It’s not about winni—”
“With you, it’s all about winning. Why do you think— Oh, never mind.”
“No, spit it out.” Someone knocked on the apartment door. “Damn. What, Dave?”
David glanced at the door. “Just remember all the things I tried to teach you, before we figured out you were the anti-sub.”
Julian interrupted him before he could get all preachy about centering himself, staying in the moment, losing was winning, yada yada. “I know, stay away from the holy lube.” He put his hand on the doorknob, then pulled David into a hug. “I’ll be careful. And I’m just there to be camouflage for the real agent. Nothing serious will happen to me.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.” Julian hugged him again for good measure, then opened the door.
“Hello, Julian.” It was ASAC Harrow. He looked over Julian’s shoulder. “Hello, David.”
David stared at him, nonplussed. Julian sighed. “It’s the FBI. It’s not like you have to fill out any background-check forms or anything. They probably know what you had for breakfast.” He stepped out into the hallway. “I’m ready.”
As he followed Harrow down the hallway to the stairs, he yelled over his shoulder, “Don’t you eat my ice cream!”
“You’re abandoning it! I don’t want it to get lonely.”
Julian glanced over at Harrow, who didn’t even bother trying to hide his smile. “He’s going to eat my ice cream.”
“It seems that way.” Then the humor faded. He opened
the door and ushered Julian outside. They didn’t speak again until they were in Harrow’s car. Another man drove, and Harrow turned sideways in his seat to talk to Julian in the back. “It’s a bit redundant to ask again, but are you ready for this?”
“As I can be.” Julian shrugged. “I’ll have the agent to help me, anyway. And it’s not for long.”
“A week at most but hopefully less. Follow the script, and follow Leo’s lead. It’s your best chance to stay safe. Keep your head down, and don’t make a target of yourself. If they say jump, you jump. One day’s briefing isn’t sufficient for you to be making decisions in there.” He passed an envelope between the seats. It was heavy, with a bulge at the bottom, and it crinkled like there was paper inside. Harrow continued, “This is what he looks like now. On the back is a phone number. Memorize it. If you get into trouble and Leo isn’t there anymore to get you out, find a phone, and call that number. We’ll come down on them like a ton of bricks.”
Julian froze, then bent his head and emptied the envelope into his hand. A cheap nylon wallet fell out, then an eight-by-ten photo. If Leo isn’t there anymore to get you out… That sounded ominous, and the faint shadow of doubt settled in the back of his mind.
He checked out the wallet before he looked at the picture. A twenty-dollar bill and some change, an ID from a high school in a better part of town, a library card, and a Rent-10-Get-One-Rental-Free from a video game shop. It wasn’t the kind of stuff Julian had ever had in his wallet, but then again, he’d never been a typical teenager either. Hopefully that meant he was more prepared for this role, rather than less.
He crammed the wallet into the back pocket of his jeans and turned his attention to the photo.
The man in the picture looked like he could take care of business, which made Julian feel better about his decision. Even on paper his eyes seemed to look right through Julian. It made a not-unpleasant shiver run over Julian’s skin. In different circumstances, he’d totally do this guy.
He shifted his gaze from the picture to Harrow. “You’re expecting it to be bad.”
