“We have a situation,” he says without preamble. “Not related to Marco.”
“What kind of situation?”
“How soon can you get to the warehouse district?”
I check my watch. “Twenty minutes. What are we dealing with?”
“Human trafficking ring. Young girls. Our contact in Metro PD says they’re moving the merchandise tonight.”
My jaw clenches. Human trafficking is one business I’ve never touched, never tolerated in my territory. Too many innocent victims, too much collateral damage.
“Local operation or imported?”
“Imported. Eastern European girls, some as young as fourteen. The ring is using one of the abandoned warehouses on Industrial Road.”
“How many girls?”
“At least six confirmed. Maybe more.”
I end the call and lean forward to the driver. “Change of plans. Industrial Road, warehouse district.”
“Alaric?” Kasimira touches my arm. “What’s happening?”
“Business I need to handle personally.”
“What kind of business?”
“You don’t need to see this one, Kasi.”
“If it involves me being dropped off at the hotel while you disappear into the night, then yes, I do need to know.”
I study her face in the dashboard light. Almost four months pregnant, tired from travel and high-stakes negotiations, but still insisting on being part of whatever comes next.
“Human trafficking ring. Young girls are being moved through Las Vegas to God knows where.”
Her expression hardens immediately. “We’re stopping them.”
“I’m stopping them. You’re going back to the hotel.”
“Like hell.”
“Kasimira—”
“These are children, Alaric. Girls who are probably terrified and alone and praying someone will help them.”
She’s right, and we both know it. But the thought of her anywhere near armed traffickers makes my blood run cold.
“You stay in the car. No exceptions.”
“Fine.”
The warehouse district is a maze of concrete and chain-link fences, abandoned buildings that used to house legitimate businesses before the economy shifted everything online. Our driver navigates narrow streets that smell like motor oil and desperation.
“There,” Benedetto’s voice crackles through the radio. “Building with the loading dock. Two guards outside, probably more inside.”
I can see them through the windshield—young men in cheap leather jackets, smoking cigarettes and checking their phones. Amateurs who think intimidation and violence are enough to run a criminal enterprise.
“How do you want to play this?” the driver asks.
