"Be careful with that shoulder," she adds, already turning back to the stove.
I carry the food and coffee down the hall, mind shifting gears. Whatever Ice Pick has found, it's significant enough to warrant all-caps urgency. After last night's conversation with Cara, I have a growing suspicion about what might be in that ledger.
Doc intercepts me halfway to the tech room, medical bag in hand. "Let me check that wound before you get wrapped up in whatever crisis is brewing."
"Later, Doc," I try to move past him, but he blocks my path with surprising agility for a man in his seventies.
"Now," he insists. "Unless you want me to bench you entirely. Infection's not something to mess with, son."
I relent, following him to an empty room where he quickly examines the stitches. "Cara did good work," he comments, applying fresh antibiotic ointment. "Clean, even. Minimal scarring if you don't tear them out doing something stupid."
"I'll be careful," I promise, impatient to get to Ice Pick.
"Sure you will." Doc doesn't bother hiding his skepticism as he rebandages the wound. "Take these," he adds, pressing antibiotics into my palm. "Every six hours, with food. Non-negotiable."
I swallow the pills with a bite of toast to appease him, then continue to the tech room as soon as he releases me. The space that used to be a storage closet has been transformed under Ice Pick's reign—computer equipment occupies every available surface, cables snaking across the floor in organized chaos, multiple monitors casting blue light over the cramped quarters.
Ice Pick himself sits hunched over a keyboard, eyes bloodshot from what I suspect is an all-night session. Despite three broken ribs from Burns Harbor, he's fully engaged, fingers flying across keys.
"Tell me you've got something," I say, setting my plate and mug on the only clear corner of the desk.
He looks up, a manic grin spreading across his face. "Better than something. I broke the first encryption layer." He gestures to the leather-bound ledger beside him, pages covered in what appear to be meaningless strings of numbers and symbols. "It's beautiful, actually. Multilayered substitution cipher with a rotating key."
"English, Pick," I remind him, not in the mood for technical jargon.
"Right, sorry." He turns one of the monitors toward me. "This ledger isn't just bookkeeping. It's their entire operation manual. Client records, acquisition details, inventory tracking—" He catches himself. "Sorry, I mean women. Not inventory."
I lean closer, studying the screen where rows of decoded data have been organized into spreadsheets. "How'd you crack it?"
"That tip from Cara about the physical key? Got me thinking about old-school decryption methods. The symbols weren't randomly generated—they're based on a physical cipher wheel." His fingers tap the desk excitedly. "Once I figured out the base algorithm, I could reconstruct the key sequence."
"And you're sure this translation is accurate?"
"About sixty percent confident on this layer. There are still sections I can't access—appears to be a secondary encryption for the most sensitive data." He rolls his shoulders carefully, wincing at his injured ribs. "But what I've got is solid. And damning."
I pull up a chair, settling in for what I suspect will be a long and disturbing review. "Show me everything."
Ice Pick navigates through his files, pulling up the first decrypted section. "This is their classification system. Each woman is categorized by physical attributes, age, nationality, skills, and... specific appeals to clientele." His voice hardens on the last words.
The clinical categorization turns my stomach. Women reduced to merchandise, sorted by features like you'd sort livestock. "Any names?"
"Not of the women. They're assigned numeric identifiers with letter prefixes that appear to indicate status or category." He scrolls down. "A-series seem to be high-value, exclusive offerings. D-series are more... mass market."
"And Cara?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
Ice Pick hesitates, then navigates to another spreadsheet. "She was A-379. Premium category. Listed as 'exclusive contract' for the first three years, then transferred to 'specialty training' program."
I clench my jaw, fighting the rage that threatens to overwhelm my focus. The thought of Cara—brilliant, vibrant Cara—reduced to a code number and inventory classification makes me want to burn their entire operation to the ground.
"There's more," Ice Pick continues, seemingly oblivious to my reaction. "Her acquisition is specifically noted as 'debt collection' with a reference code: KP-278."
"KP," I repeat. "Kings of Purgatory?"
"That's my guess. There are multiple references to KP throughout the ledger, usually in connection with high-value acquisitions."
I process this information, pieces falling into place. "So the Kings provide the women, and someone else handles distribution and sales."
"Looks that way." Ice Pick pulls up another file. "This section contains location data. Warehouses, processing centers, distribution points. They've got operations in at least seven states, plus routes into Canada and Mexico."
