“Direct approach. These aren’t professionals.”
I check my weapon, ensuring the safety is off and the magazine is full. Beside me, Kasimira is silent but alert, her hand resting protectively on her belly.
“Remember—”
“Stay in the car. I heard you the first time.”
The night air carries the sound of distant traffic and the faint throb of music from the casino districts miles away. I approach the warehouse with three of my men, our footsteps silent on cracked pavement.
The guards never see us coming.
Two quick, efficient movements, and they’re unconscious; their weapons are redistributed to my team. The side door is locked but yields to Benedetto’s lockpicking skills within seconds.
Inside, the warehouse smells like fear and industrial disinfectant. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting harsh shadows across concrete floors and metal scaffolding. I can hear voices from the far end of the building—men speaking what sounds like Russian or Ukrainian.
“Six tangos,” Benedetto whispers into his radio. “Armed but sloppy.”
We move through the warehouse like ghosts, using shipping containers and support pillars for cover. The traffickers are clustered around a makeshift office area, counting money and drinking from beer bottles.
The girls are in a shipping container that’s been converted into a holding cell.
Through the partially open doors, I can see them huddled together on dirty mattresses. Young faces, maybe fourteen to eighteen, wearing clothes that have seen better days. One girl who can’t be older than sixteen is trying to comfort a younger one who’s clearly been crying.
The rage that fills my chest is immediate and comprehensive.
“On my signal,” I whisper into my radio.
The assault lasts ninety seconds.
My men move with professional precision, disabling the traffickers before they can reach their weapons or harm the girls. I put two bullets in the leader myself—a fat man with gold teeth who was reaching for a gun while standing three feet from terrified children.
“Clear!” Benedetto calls.
The girls shrink back when we approach the container, probably thinking we’re just different criminals with the same intentions. The sixteen-year-old steps protectively in front of the younger ones, her chin raised despite the fear in her eyes.
“We’re not here to hurt you,” I tell them in English, then repeat it in Russian.
Recognition flickers across several faces. They understand Russian.
“You’re safe now,” I continue in their language. “We’re getting you out of here.”
The brave girl who was protecting the others steps forward. “Are you police?”
“No. But we’re taking you somewhere safe.”
“What about the men who brought us here?”
“They won’t be hurting anyone else.”
She nods, understanding passing between us. In her world, justice is often more direct than courtrooms and lawyers.
“There are more girls,” she says quietly. “In other places. They split us up.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. They moved some to California, some to Chicago. We were supposed to go to New York tomorrow.”
I pull out my phone and call a contact in the FBI who handles trafficking cases. Some crimes are too big for vigilante justice and too complex for simple elimination of immediate threats.
