"Hargrove's got half the county in his pocket," Osprey points out. "Police chief plays golf with him. Judge Harrison presided at his daughter's wedding last year."
"Which means we can't go through official channels," I say. "Not until we have irrefutable evidence."
Ghost leans forward, his perpetually calm demeanor unshaken by the revelations. "My contacts in Nevada picked up chatter about a high-level meeting. Reapers leadership and someone referred to as 'the Investor.' Scheduled next week at a private hunting lodge outside Burns Harbor."
"Hargrove," Vulture concludes.
Ghost nods. "Seems likely. The timing aligns with quarterly business reviews mentioned in their communications."
"If Hargrove is meeting with Reapers leadership, that's our chance to get confirmation of his involvement," I say, mind already plotting surveillance options.
"And potentially discover who's feeding them information about our movements," Osprey adds. "The Burns Harbor ambush was too perfect. They knew exactly where we'd be."
Vulture considers this, his expression grave. "We need to approach this carefully. Hargrove isn't some street thug we can intimidate. Man's got resources, connections."
"And he's responsible for what happened to Cara," I say quietly. "To all those women."
"We'll get him," Vulture assures me. "But we do it smart. No half-cocked revenge missions."
I nod, acknowledging the warning for what it is. "We need surveillance on that lodge. Photos, recordings—anything that proves Hargrove's direct involvement. Then we take the evidence to federal authorities, bypass local corruption."
"I'll handle surveillance setup," Ghost offers. "Already have contacts in Burns Harbor area who can help position equipment."
"Take Zip with you," Vulture instructs. "Watch your backs. Reapers will be on high alert after Burns Harbor."
The meeting continues, strategies formed and assignments distributed. Throughout the discussion, my mind keeps returning to the ledger's cold classifications. A-379. Debt collection. The systematic dehumanization of women like Cara, reduced to commodities for purchase.
After we adjourn, I return to my room, needing space to organize my thoughts. On the wall above my desk, I create an evidence board—photos, names, locations, connecting them with strings and notes. Hargrove's newspaper clipping from a charity event at the center. The Kings of Purgatory insignia I sketched from memory. Notes on Cara's abduction timeline.
As I step back to assess the growing web, a knock sounds at my door. I open it to find Cara, holding a fresh mug of coffee and a sandwich.
"Doc said you didn't finish breakfast," she explains, offering the food. "Said to remind you about the antibiotics."
I accept the plate, strangely touched by the gesture. "Thanks. Come in, if you want."
She hesitates before stepping inside, her eyes immediately drawn to the evidence board. "You've been busy."
"Ice Pick broke part of the ledger encryption," I explain, setting the food down. "It's bigger than we thought, Cara. Much bigger."
She approaches the board slowly, studying the connections I've mapped. "Hargrove," she reads, looking at the central photo. "Why is that name familiar?"
"William Hargrove. Real estate developer, philanthropist. His foundation sponsors half the charity events in the county."
Recognition dawns in her eyes. "The man in the suit. The one who visited monthly. They called him 'the Investor.'"
I move beside her, careful to maintain a respectful distance. "You're sure?"
She nods, gaze fixed on Hargrove's photo. "He never... participated. Just observed. Checked the merchandise." Her voice is detached, clinical, a defense mechanism I recognize all too well. "I only saw him a few times, but it's him."
"That's direct identification," I say, adding this information to the board. "We've connected him to property holdings used by traffickers, and now you've placed him personally at the scene. That's enough to bring to the feds."
"No," she says firmly. "It's not. It's my word against his, and I'm..." She trails off, but I can fill in the blanks. Damaged. Traumatized. Potentially unreliable in the eyes of a court.
"There's more evidence," I assure her. "Ice Pick is working on the second encryption layer. And we have a lead on a meeting between Hargrove and the Reapers next week."
She turns to face me fully, arms crossed protectively across her chest. "You're going after him."
"We're building a case," I correct. "Doing this the right way."
