The map he displays shows a network far more extensive than we imagined. Red dots marking known locations, yellow indicating suspected sites, lines connecting them in a web of human misery.
"Burns Harbor is just one hub," I observe, tracing a route that extends north into Washington. "They've got alternatives."
"Multiple redundancies," Ice Pick confirms. "Take down one route, they shift to another with minimal disruption." He zooms in on our region. "What's interesting is this pattern of property ownership. Several key locations are owned by shell companies that all trace back to the same parent corporation: Hargrove Investments."
The name hits like a physical blow. "William Hargrove? The developer?"
Ice Pick raises an eyebrow. "You know him?"
"By reputation." I straighten, mind racing. "He's old money, a big political donor. His company built half the luxury developments in the county. The Hargrove Foundation funds community programs, including the sheriff department's youth outreach."
"Well, his investment arm also funds human trafficking," Ice Pick says grimly, pulling up property records. "These warehouses, including the one where we found Cara? All owned by Hargrove subsidiaries."
I pace the small room, connecting dots rapidly. "If Hargrove is involved, that explains the level of protection the operation enjoys. He's got connections to local government, law enforcement."
"And enough legitimate business to hide the dirty money," Ice Pick adds. "Classic laundering setup."
"What about direct evidence? His name on transactions, communications?"
Ice Pick's expression falls slightly. "That's in the second encryption layer I haven't cracked yet. I've got circumstantial links through the property holdings, but nothing that would directly implicate him personally." He gestures to another spreadsheet. "There's a buyer list with code names, but I can't connect them to real identities yet."
I study the list, noting patterns. "Some of these codes appear multiple times. Repeat customers?"
"The worst kind," Ice Pick confirms darkly. "This one—'Collector'—has purchased eight women over the past decade. All A-category, all fitting a specific physical profile."
The implications turn my blood cold. "A private collection. For personal use."
"Most likely." Ice Pick navigates back to the main database. "The transaction amounts for A-category women range from fifty thousand to over a million dollars, depending on special attributes."
I force myself to think strategically despite the horror of what we're uncovering. "This is valuable intelligence, but not enough to move against someone like Hargrove. He's insulated himself too well."
"For now," Ice Pick agrees. "But I'm still working on that second encryption layer. If I can crack it, we might get the direct evidence we need."
"Keep at it," I tell him, already planning next steps. "And Ice Pick? Lock this down tight. No one outside the club officers sees this until we decide how to proceed."
He nods solemnly. "Already ahead of you. Isolated server, no cloud backups, encrypted local storage only."
I pat his shoulder carefully, mindful of his ribs. "Good work, brother. Get some rest when you can."
"After I finish this next section," he promises, already turning back to his screens.
I leave him to his work, plate of food long forgotten, coffee cold. The information swirls in my mind, pieces of a vast, ugly puzzle beginning to form a coherent picture. If Hargrove is involved with the Kings of Purgatory, if he's part of the organization that took Cara and has trafficked countless other women...
I need to take this to Vulture. Need to formulate a plan that won't get us all killed or arrested before we can bring down these bastards.
I find our president in the chapel, already in session with Osprey and the newly arrived Ghost, our intelligence officer who'd been undercover in Nevada until the Burns Harbor disaster called him home.
"Falcon," Vulture acknowledges as I enter. "Was just about to send for you. Ghost has updates from our southern connections."
I take my seat at the table, nodding to Ghost. "First, you need to hear what Ice Pick found in the ledger."
For the next twenty minutes, I lay out everything Ice Pick discovered—the classification system, the locations, the connection to Hargrove Investments. I explain Cara's designation as debt collection connected to the Kings of Purgatory, and the implications of Hargrove's involvement.
When I finish, silence hangs heavy in the room. Vulture stares at the table, fingers drumming a slow rhythm as he processes.
"William Hargrove," he finally says, looking up. "You're sure about this connection?"
"The property holdings are confirmed," I reply. "Direct involvement is still circumstantial, but the pattern is clear."
