A decision made in silence.
"Fine," Fenrir says. "If you're the boss, then you're the one responsible for everything. For the kids. For the trafficking. For what happened to my daughter."
Womack's face goes white. "Your daughter? I don't—I didn't?—"
"One of your men beat her half to death. Broke her ribs. Cut her arm. Took her engagement ring off her finger while she bled on the floor."
"That wasn't—I didn't order that?—"
"Doesn't matter." Fenrir draws his gun. "You're the boss. You said so yourself. That makes you responsible."
"Wait—please—I'll give you anything?—"
The shot echoes through the room.
Womack slumps.
Dead.
Blood spreads beneath him, soaking into the cheap motel carpet.
I stare at his body.
At the blood pooling beneath him.
At the pathetic remains of a man who destroyed countless lives.
It should feel like victory, like closure, but something nags at the back of my mind.
Something about the way he hesitated.
The fear that seemed directed at something beyond us.
The operation felt almost too easy to take down.
This was it?
This was the whole thing?
Eight guys and a middle manager running a pipeline that moves children across state lines?
"It's done," Runes says. "Let's get the kids and get out."
I push the doubt aside and focus on what matters.
The children.
Room 14.
We approach slowly, carefully.
These kids have been through hell.
The last thing they need is more armed men bursting through doors.
"Let me," Tor says quietly.
I nod.
