I’m just another guy with business. That’s the story anyway.
The CI did his job. “Name’ll get you through the door,” he told me earlier, eyes flicking everywhere but to mine. “But once you’re in, you’re on your own. We’ve got no eyes inside.”
Nothing new there.
I approach the entrance at an even pace, not too fast or too slow. The smoker glances up first, surprisingly, and his eyes narrow scrutinizingly. “Can I help you?” he asks, sounding like an inconvenience during his otherwise tantalizing night.
I nod once. “Here for work,” I say.
The name hangs in the air.
The second guard straightens just slightly. That’s the tell. “Who sent you?” he asks.
I don’t hesitate. “Rivers.” A name the CI pulled from the money transfer records and narrowed in on as someone suspected of not just being involved financially, but also in the transferring of women in the organization.
A silent beat passes, then the smoker exhales, stepping back just enough to clear the door. “Alright,” he mutters. “Go on in.”
Just like that. For such a layered organization, this really shouldn’t be that easy. That mistake will be their downfall.
I step past them, through the door, and into hell. The smell hits first, chemical and sterile. Wrong for a place like this.
Then the sound: low voices and movement, something metallic shifting somewhere deeper in the building.
The interior is cleaner than it should be. The concrete floors are swept, tables arranged with purpose, and equipment that doesn’t belong in a rundown warehouse. And suddenly, everything Mason and I talked about clicks into place. A medical supply front, and this is one of their hubs.
I keep walking, steady and controlled as my mind races, taking it all in. My eyes move just enough to look around withoutlookinglike I’m purposefully looking around. There are rooms sectioned off with temporary walls and doors that don’t quite match the structure. One of them is slightly ajar. And for a split second, I see inside. There’s a metal exam table with wrist and ankle restraints. My jaw squares.
Don’t react, Alex. Don’t slow down.
I keep moving. The bastard’s gotta be in here somewhere or those two bozos at the front door wouldn’t have let me in.
A man steps into my path, keeping me from going further. Mid-thirties and clean, too clean for this place.
“New face,” he points out.
I nod. “Rivers sent me,” I repeat.
His eyes flick over me like he’s assessing me.
“You’re late,” he says automatically.
Can’t be late when I wasn’t expected… and was never actually sent by Rivers in the first place.
“Traffic,” I reply.
He’s quiet long enough to make me worry that he’s figured me out. Just as I’m mentally verifying that my pistol is still along the waistband on my backside, he finally speaks.
“Figures.” He jerks his head toward the back. “Come on.”
I follow, every step deeper into the building feels like stepping further away from safety and sanity. Like I’m walking right into the pits of hell.
But that’s the job.
We pass another room with the door closed this time. But I hear something from inside, muffled movements like someone pacing around.
I don’t know if it’s a trafficking victim or just some worker, the dilemma warring in me and needing resolution. Do I blow my cover when I don’t actually know what’s going on in there?
No. I stick with it even as my stomach turns.
