Twelve girls. Three high-value targets. Two shipments that were supposed to move to Miami and Vegas.
Gone.
And the worst part?
Silence.
No news coverage. No police report. No federal raids. No bodies turning up.
It’s too quiet. Too fucking quiet.
My father sits at the head of the conference table, his fingers steepled, his expression unreadable. Cesario stands beside him, tablet in hand, scrolling through footage for the hundredth time.
“Anything?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.
Cesario doesn’t look up.
“Nothing new.”
I slam my hand on the table.
“That’s not good enough.”
My father’s eyes flick to me, calm and cold.
“Jenna.”
His voice is a warning.
I don’t care.
“We lost twelve girls, two shipments, and millions in product,” I snap. “And you’re telling me we havenothing? No leads? No suspects?No—”
“We’re working on it,” Cesario interrupts, his tone measured.
I turn on him.
“Work faster.”
He doesn’t flinch. He never does. That’s what makes him valuable. But right now, I want to put a bullet in his skull just to feel something other than this gnawing panic in my chest.
I pace back and forth, my heels clicking against the polished concrete floor while my mind spins.
Who hit us? How did they know? How did they get in and out without leaving a single trace?
It was professional. Military-grade. Precision timing. Explosives. Extraction. No casualties on their side. Just ours.
And the girls.
Gone.
I stop pacing and turn to my father.
“What if it’s federal?”
He doesn’t react.
“It’s not federal,” he says calmly.
