"Two weeks," Vulture repeats after I explain Walker's timeline. "While they ship more women overseas."
"Federal cases take time to build properly," I acknowledge. "Especially against someone with Hargrove's connections."
"And in the meantime, we just let it happen?" Osprey demands, voicing what we're all thinking. "After everything we've seen, everything we know?"
"That's what we need to decide," I respond, laying out the options clearly. "We can let the feds handle this completely—build their case, make their arrests, follow proper procedure. That gives us the best chance of Hargrove facing actual prison time."
"Or?" Ghost prompts.
"Or we intervene in the transport operation," I continue. "Stop the shipment, free those women. But in doing so, we alert Hargrove that we're onto him. He could disappear, destroy evidence, eliminate witnesses."
The room falls silent as everyone considers the implications. This is the moment where our club's values face their ultimate test—our desire for justice within the system versus our commitment to immediate action against evil.
A knock at the door interrupts our deliberation. Cara stands in the doorway, expression resolute.
"You should hear what Miranda has to say," she announces. "Before you decide."
Vulture nods, and Cara enters with Miranda following close behind. The young woman looks terrified but determined, her hands clasping and unclasping nervously.
"Tell them what you told me," Cara encourages gently.
Miranda takes a deep breath. "The shipment next week—I know which women are scheduled for it. Twenty-three of them. I worked in administrative support for three months before escaping." Her voice trembles slightly. "They're from the Burns Harbor and Seattle operations. Some as young as sixteen. They're being processed now for overseas transport."
The clinical term "processed" hangs in the air, its implication clear to everyone. Preparation for sale. Training in submission. Breaking of will.
"Where are they being held?" I ask, already knowing we can't ignore this information.
"A warehouse outside Chicago," Miranda replies. "It's called Maritime Solutions on paper. I've been there. I can identify it."
The room erupts in discussion, opinions flying about our responsibility, our options, the risks involved. I listen to all sides, weighing the moral imperative against strategic considerations.
Finally, Vulture raises his hand for silence. "This is a club vote. But before we cast, I want Falcon's recommendation. You've been leading this investigation from the start."
All eyes turn to me. The weight of the decision settles across my shoulders—not just the fate of our club's involvement, but the lives of twenty-three women and the future of countless others if Hargrove's operation continues.
I think of Cara, of what she endured for five years while the world continued turning. Of Miranda, who escaped only to find herself hunted. Of the women we've rescued and the ones we couldn't save.
"We do both," I say finally, the clarity of the decision crystallizing as I speak. "We provide everything to the feds, let them build their case against Hargrove and the entire network. But we don't wait on the shipment. We hit the warehouse, free those women, make it look like a rival organization rather than a coordinated law enforcement action."
Murmurs of approval ripple through the room.
"Hargrove will suspect, but he won't know for certain it's connected to the federal investigation," I continue. "He'll be focused on his shipping operation while the feds quietly build their case."
"That's walking a fine line," Ghost observes.
"It's the only line I can live with," I reply honestly. "I can't ignore women being shipped overseas as sex slaves while we wait for the justice system to grind forward. But I also want Hargrove to face full legal consequences, not just our brand of justice."
Vulture nods slowly. "All in favor of Falcon's approach?"
The vote is unanimous.
As the meeting breaks up with assignments being distributed for both evidence handling and warehouse reconnaissance, Cara approaches me in the hallway.
"Thank you," she says simply.
"For what?"
"For finding a way to do both. Justice and rescue." Her eyes meet mine, understanding passing between us. "It's what I would have chosen."
