Checking the video screen one more time, Terry updated the team of four hidden around the house. “Ten heat signatures gathered in the back room. Two in the kitchen. One parked in front of the television.”
“Roger that,” Jax, one of X’s guys, said. “Cargo van turning onto Prospect Place in three, two, one…”
Terry switched the camera feed and watched Miguel Trejo’s second-in-command maneuver a black Econoline around the rear of the house. By his estimation, six young women would be in the back, returning from the first shift at one of Miami’s seedier hotels. The driver would drop them off and pick up another half dozen girls for the overnight hours.
“One minute,” Xavier whispered, and the two mercenaries with Terry slipped out the van’s back door. He followed, his prosthetic ensuring his footsteps weren’t quite as silent or as smooth as the rest of the group’s. He could have worn the sleek, carbon fiber running foot, but though it let him move faster, it wasn’t as steady—or as durable—in a fight.
Close enough now he could hear the Econoline doors slam, he pulled his pistol from the holster at his waist and flipped off the safety. Pointing it at the ground, finger off the trigger, he stayed close to the rest of the team. Xavier and his three guys were headed through the front door, while Terry and the other two would breach the back where hopefully they’d find less resistance—and a whole lot of scared kids.
“On my mark.” X’s cool, confident tone made Terry feel like he was still on active duty. With his team. Like he hadn’t been blown up, lost three of his men, and watched Mac—the only other survivor—go through complete hell trying to recover some semblance of a functioning life. “Three. Two. Mark.”
Flynn kicked down the back door as shouts came from the front of the house. Entering in standard formation and clearing the mudroom, Terry brought up the rear.
“Hands on your head, motherfucker! Now!” Jax ordered. Before he’d even finished, Xavier fired on the large man drawing down on them. The asshole collapsed—almost in slow motion—with a single, smoking hole in his forehead.
Screams—the girls huddled together, half dressed, bruised, dirty, some of them high—filled the room, and Terry held up his hand. “We’re here to get you out of here. Stay down, and you’ll all be okay!”
A couple of them quieted until more gunfire came from the front of the house and footsteps pounded down the hall. Terry took aim, and the second he saw Miguel Trejo’s tanned face and shaggy black hair, he put a bullet in the man’s shoulder.
A beat later, Jax tackled Trejo, taking him down to the ground and zip tying his wrists before Terry could holster his weapon.
“Clear!” came shouts from the rest of the house. “Six hostiles, five secured, one dead.”
Terry counted the ten girls—and six boys—huddled in the corner of the room. “All targets accounted for.”
The men whooped it up for all of three seconds before turning their attention to the kids. Terry had a list of those he’d hoped would be here—compiled from missing persons databases, security camera footage, and a damn good facial recognition algorithm—and he called each one in turn. Every time one answered “here” or “me” he relaxed a little more, and when he heard the sirens approaching, he blew out a long, slow breath.
It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. But these kids—they ranged in age from fourteen to twenty—wouldn’t be raped, sold, or beaten by these assholes again tonight. Or tomorrow. Or ever again.
2
Terry
A little after 8:00 a.m., Terry ambled through the door of Artists’ Grind coffee shop. “Morning, Devan.”
The petite woman with a smattering of freckles across her nose grinned at him. “Terry! We’re not used to seeing you this early. Mac?” Devan called up the stairs. “Get down here, sexy man!”
A series of uneven thuds sounded from the back corner of the coffee shop, and former Lieutenant MacDonald Fergerson—the man who’d saved his life—came into view.
“Terry? Is everything okay?” Mac frowned, slinging his arm around Devan’s shoulders and giving her a squeeze.
“A man can’t want coffee first thing in the mornin’?” Terry grinned, but Mac and Devan weren’t amused. “I know, I went dark on you.”
“Never thought you’d be the one to ghost me,” Mac said. “Where’ve you been?”
“Vegas. Atlanta. Orlando. Miami.” Terry leaned a hip against the counter and ran a hand through his thick black hair. It was too long, but it’d been months since he’d had time for a haircut. “After the OneFund closed down, I took a few months off, you remember?”
“You were here every day,” Devan said with a smile, offering Terry his usual Magic Bullet—a pourover with a shot of espresso. “We talked about putting a plaque on your favorite table.”
It felt good to laugh. Hell, to be back in Boston with at least a week before he was due anywhere else. “Took a job with Rescue International—the anti-trafficking non-profit?”
Mac frowned. “Didn’t they make the news a few weeks ago? Big raid in Miami?”
“We saved sixteen kids from forced sex work.” Terry’s chest puffed out, his shoulders straight as he nodded. “One of the biggest arrests in a decade.”
“We…” Mac’s brows shot up. “You mean you were in on that raid?”
“Might have been. Not that you’ll ever get me to admit it to the media. Or the cops.”
