He clicked again.
“We’ve tied the alias ‘Red Butterfly’ to two confirmed trafficking operations in the Caribbean. It appears in shipping logs, buyer communications, and medical transfer records.”
Long since healed, the blue ink on her shoulder tingled. Nat’s damn butterfly tattoo. She’d been shocked when her sister got it, still thinking of her as twelve. Aunt May, part hippie and fully supportive, had taken her. And if not for that tattoo, they might still be searching blind.
“But,” Callan continued, “we still don’t have proof Álvarez has Natalie. Or thatFarfalla Rossarefers to a specific victim. It’s all still speculation.”
“Not according to my gut,” Gaby murmured.
“We’ve learned to put weight in hunches,” Dev said, backing her without hesitation. “Especially when missing persons are family.”
Price spoke next, blunt where Keene was measured. “Be that as it may, without strong factual evidence, we can’t get a warrant to move on Álvarez.”
Keene added, “And we didn’t dare go in black before now. We were afraid to tip him off and lose any girls he was holding, permanently.”
Silence settled over the room. Not stunned but heavy with consequence.
Gaby leaned in and whispered to Rhys, “Going in black?”
“Without government backing. If things go south, they deny all knowledge.”
“Leaving our asses hanging out to dry,” Mateo concluded.
Dev broke it cleanly. “That’s not going to happen, which is why Rhys and Gaby are going in.”
Every eye shifted toward them, mostly toward her. She was young, inexperienced, and the only woman in the room. No pressure.
“Do we have the layout of the main house?” Rhys asked.
“When you own the entire island, there are no permits, no surveys, no inspections required,” Callan said, bringing up an aerial view.
Gaby studied the screen. They called it a house, but it was a compound. Three stories at the center, two sprawling wings, twin pools, and a broad courtyard anchored by a fountain and reflecting pool. At least a dozen smaller structures ringed the perimeter. Natalie could be anywhere in what had to be tens of thousands of square feet.
Callan switched the screen again to signal grids and communication arcs.
“There’s another complication,” he said.
Of course there was.
“The island operates in a closed satellite zone. Nothing leaves their internal system. No outbound communicationwithout security authorization. All devices are confiscated on arrival.”
Keene nodded. “Álvarez doesn’t offer privacy. He enforces it. Once you’re on that island, you’re off-grid.”
Gaby felt the air constrict in her lungs as doubt rose within her. The more they talked, the more impossible this sounded.
“You will have a wearable recording device,” Callan explained. “It stores locally but cannot transmit. If you lose it, we lose everything you collect.”
Alec leaned forward. “If they’re compromised?”
Dev lifted one hand slightly, and Alec fell silent. His gaze moved from Leland to Mateo to Rhys, and finally to her, before answering that question himself. “You stay alive long enough for us to get you out.”
That was Dev—no bravado, no false reassurances, just the unvarnished truth.
Price leaned his palms against the table. “Let’s be clear about the plan. Your job is to locate Natalie and record proof that Álvarez has her and others as we suspect. “Once we have that, it stops being a covert op and becomes an international criminal case. At that point, we activate the OIJ to conduct a lawful search.”
“And they are?” Gaby asked.
“Costa Rica’s version of the FBI,” Rhys explained. “They work with the Coast Guard on the maritime side. Once we have proof, they can execute warrants, seize the island, and make arrests.”
