I roll my eyes, failing at holding back a grin. When my gaze returns to Andrea, her mood has changed. She’s staring at the laptop screen, face closed off. When I look, I understand why. The first of Becker’s guests is leaving.
His suit isn’t as crisp as what we saw earlier, his tie hanging on each side of his neck. In the span of half an hour, they all leave one by one, their drivers picking them up near the elevators.
Six hours. They stayed up there for six hours, doing God knows what to those three women. Disgust churns in my stomach as I watch them, noticing the contented expressions on their faces. We were just there. Maybe we could have gone in, done something to stop this, and protected those women.
But we’re playing the long game, and stopping one of those depraved evenings from happening won’t prevent the next one, or the ones after.
Andrea and I are both tired, eager to go to bed, but we wait to see the women come down and appear again. We have to know what state they’re in and gauge the extent of the issue.
When they appear, the four men from earlier are with them. One of the women limps while another one can barely walk on her own, being supported by a handler. Their dresses are gone, and they’re all wearing the same unbranded tracksuit instead. They seem to have gone through hell, and anger rises in me.
At least fifteen men took part in this, between Becker, his guests, and the handlers, and not one of them intervened? What kind of men are these? How can they watch harm being done to a woman and not only let it go, but participate in it?
Even if we weren’t fully ready for it, we knew this wouldn’t be a simple evening of poker, alcohol, and prostitutes. Given what Andrea overheard when Becker was talking to Horvat in his office, we guessed it would involve something similar to what Lorelei Madsen endured. We didn’t realize the women would leave this harmed, and that so many men would be involved.
This isn’t just about Becker anymore. It’s about all the men around him who indulge in the same vices as he does. It’s about dismantling whatever trafficking ring this is, about exposing their abuses to the world, and about getting them arrested.
“I can’t wait for us to nail all these motherfuckers,” Andrea practically growls next to me, having the same thoughts as me.
“We’ll get them. Every last one of them,” I promise.
Tomorrow, we’re risking it all to get that evidence. Not only for ourselves, but for those three women and all the ones who have gone through this before. Consequences are coming for those men. And they have no idea.
Andrea’s gloved hands fidget, betraying her anxiety as we wait for our turn with the hostess at her high console table. Hoping I can help soothe her nerves, I take Andrea’s hand and entwine my fingers with hers.
She looks up at me with an apologetic smile and thankful eyes, tightening her fingers around mine. She’s sumptuous in a shimmery dress that’s a faded shade of pink, draped around her beautiful curves before flaring down to the ground. A slit reveals her left leg when she walks, and I’m impressed she found such a perfect dress in so little time. Her black satin gloves go all the way to the middle of her upper arms, a clever accessory that not only looks good but will also ensure she leaves no prints behind. I myself have a pair of black rubber gloves waiting in my chest pocket.
As she said, she looks nothing like she did when she infiltrated Becker’s staff. I doubt he would recognize her. Even I see little of the dork I love, hiding somewhere behind those smoky eyes and red lips. Her hair is gathered at her neck in a stylish and complex bun. It doesn’t look complex as it is now, but the stylist spent an hour working every curly strand into position, so I gather there’s more to it than meets the eye.
We’re still holding hands by the time it’s our turn to be checked by the hostess.
“Welcome,” she greets with a practiced smile. “May I have your names, please?”
“Alexander Coleman. I’m here on behalf of my father, Richard Coleman, who couldn’t be here tonight and sends his apologies.”
She nods, gazes down at the list on her iPad, and clicks on the name, which pulls up a photograph. When she looks up again, she says, “You look a lot like your father, Mr. Coleman. Please, you may wait for the next elevator up.”
Andrea’s hand squeezes, as if she knows what it does to me to be compared to my father. We’re silent as we wait for the private elevator to come down again, along with a few other guests. It looks like wearen’t the only ones arriving fashionably late, though I doubt they also did it to blend in better and attract less attention.
Some of them seem to know each other and are talking, but Andrea and I keep to ourselves. Even once we’ve made it to the penthouse, we don’t talk to anyone. The entry hall, as well as the grand living room and the reception room—the closest thing to a ballroom one can get in a penthouse—are crowded with designer-clad guests. The catering staff swerves among them with trays of food or drinks, discreet and efficient.
We each take a glass of champagne, but don’t drink from it. Our clear-mindedness is essential tonight, and we can’t risk it. “Okay, an hour of mingling,” Andrea whispers. “Then we get into action.”
I nod. We agreed it would look extremely suspicious if we were caught in Becker’s office so soon after arriving. So, we’ll walk around, make small talk, and then find an opportunity to disappear.
It might be some degree of paranoia, given what’s on my mind, but I feel as though we attract more eyes than we should. But then, the most stunning woman in attendance is on my arm, so maybe it’s only normal.
We come across a few people I know but haven’t seen in a long time. They ask how my parents are doing, and because I haven’t spoken to them in months and might never again, I answer with mundane bullshit. It’s not like they actually care, regardless. Half an hour into this, someone mentions the “terrible misunderstanding” I went through earlier this year, with that “nonsensical arrest.” The topic quickly attracts the interest of other attendees, and I’m soon regurgitating more bullshit.
I fucking hate this. Small talk makes my skin crawl, and having to do it with these people is insufferable. The conversation has switched to the state of our Department of Justice when a distraction comes. The quintet has stopped its music, and Norman Becker is in the center of the room, tapping his crystal glass with a spoon.
“Now?” Andrea asks, voice tight with anxiety.
In our effort to remain under the radar, we haven’t made our way too deep into the room. We can slip out the door while everyone’s attention is on Becker. “Yes,” I answer, taking her hand again.
We step out of the room quickly but not rushing, and I pull my phone out. As planned, I push a button to send Iris a command andwait for her confirmation. When it comes, I tell Andrea, “She’ll anticipate our route and loop the camera feeds as we advance. Let’s go.”
Discreetly, we make our way to the office. Andrea leads, knowing this place far better than I do, and we’re soon at the door. Her hand trembles when she tries to open it with the duplicate key, but she manages. I push her in as soon as the door is open and close it behind us.
