“Callan,” Rhys murmured. “South hall. Sixth door on the left. What’s inside?”
Through her earpiece, Gaby heard the response. “A private dining room. Connecting suites on either side. Service exit in the back.”
“Dev?”
“We’re in position,” he confirmed. “Feds too. Standing by.”
Gaby and Rhys reached the door. One panel hadn’t latched. Through the narrow gap came Viktor’s voice, smooth and vile.
“When payment clears, she’s yours.”
They both stiffened at the sound of a broken sob.
Gaby angled to see. A girl stood near the wall, wide-eyed and shaking. She looked barely out of high school, if that. Before she realized it, her hand was on the door handle.
Rhys caught it and pressed her back against the wall, body caging hers, his mouth near her ear as if murmuring an intimate secret instead of op details.
“Not yet,” he murmured.
“I brought the cash.” He was out of sight, but from the drawl, it had to be Tex.
A higher voice, smooth, cultured, and all the more chilling for it, said in response, “Two-fifty, as agreed?”
She heard a metallic click, money rustling, and another sob rent the air.
“Take her. I can’t stand the constant sniveling,” Viktor ordered, his tone dripping with cruelty. “The little bitch should be grateful she’s going home to Texas.”
That was it. The illicit offer, money changing hands, coercion evident by the girl’s visible fear and obvious lack of consent, and the transfer of custody. There was also an additional felony: intent to transport across state lines. Every element of a trafficking charge had been met.
Rhys’s voice cut like a blade. “We have confirmation. Move in. Now.”
The corridor erupted. FBI task force agents and Devlin’s contracted operatives surged forward like a tide. Gaby drew her weapon from its thigh holster, braced on the other side of the door, and nodded at Rhys.
With a bang, he exploded through the doorway ahead of her.
Agents flooded in behind them in a coordinated wave. “Federal task force! Hands where we can see them!” one barked.
Tex raised his hands, blubbering already. Viktor and his guards did not. Three men in black reached for weapons. Gunfire cracked, splintering wood and shattering glass.
Gaby sprinted low and fast toward the girl. Protecting her was all she could think of.
One of Viktor’s thugs moved on the same trajectory, closing fast. She had the shot, but the girl was too close. So she improvised, veering into his path. While he was still registering her movement, she clasped her hands and drove them upward beneath his extended arm, knocking his aim skyward. As his balance faltered, she followed hard with a fist to the throat. It was enough to stun a man twice her size. But she needed him down.
She pivoted and drove the pointed toe of her borrowed Manolo into his groin with vicious precision. He folded with a strangled grunt and hit the carpet face-first.
One threat neutralized, but the room was hardly contained.
Bullets and shouts rang out as Viktor’s men, now at least a half dozen, fought to secure their boss’s escape.
Gaby grabbed the terrified girl by the wrist to pull her to safety, but all the exits were blocked.
On the fly, she came up with plan B. Take cover.
She flipped a heavy dining table onto its side with a grunt, wood thundering against marble. She yanked the girl behind it, just as a wall fixture exploded and rained down on the spot where she had stood.
“Stay down,” Gaby told her, taking a knee behind the barrier, gun raised, braced and ready.
Across the room, she caught a blur of a gray suit. Rhys bobbed and weaved, trading blows with a man the size of a refrigerator.
