With a dip of his head, Colt walked across the room, vanishing through a doorway to her right.
The next several seconds ticked by so slowly it was enough to make her reconsider the decision to stay. She was about to say screw it when he reappeared with a manilla folder clutched in his hand.
“Here.” He closed the distance between them and held it out for her to take. “Go ahead. See for yourself.”
“See what?” Alex took the folder from him with a huff.
“That Gordan Crawford isn’t the man you’ve been led to believe.” When she tried handing him back the folder, he barked out at her with frustration. “Read the damn file, Alexandria.”
Immediately she found herself in a total state of compliance, hearing this man say her name in that tone. Why? She didn’t know. But she sure as hell didn’t like it.
Alex flipped open the folder’s front cover to discover several glossy photos of Gordan Crawford. Some were grainy, and they were all in black and white. Each image of the man appeared to have been taken of the man without his knowledge from somewhere in the distance.
“Are these?—”
“Surveillance images?” Colt nodded. “Keep looking. There’s more.”
Alex slowly moved away from the door. Before she knew it, she was lowering herself back down onto the couch.
“I don’t . . .” She continued scanning the documentsinside. “I don’t understand. What am I looking at, exactly?”
“That file contains the most recent intel we have on Crawford’s operation.”
Intel?
The next page she came to was a long list of names. First, middle, and last with dates typed out beside each one. Some were recent, within the last few months. Others were older by two years or more.
“Those are the names of the woman and girls we suspect Crawford’s already sold,” Colt explained. “Their pictures are in there, too.”
Alex found the images he was referring to when she turned to the very next page. All females, each of them different in their own, unique way. Different hair. Eyes. The shapes of their faces. But what struck her the most was the vast range of ages.
So many.
Alex abandoned the haunting images, her stuttering gaze lifting up to his. “What do you mean they were sold? Surely you can’t think Gordan Crawford is actually?—”
“A sex-trafficking piece of shit?” Colt shook his head slowly. “I don’t think it, Alex. Iknowit. And we have a treasure trove of circumstantial evidence to back it up.”
A loud slap echoed around them as she tossed the folder onto the coffee table and stood. “This is crazy, Coulter. Even for you. Gordan is a world-renowned professional art dealer with over a dozen highly successful auction houses and galleries scattered across the globe. Not to mention, the guy donates literallymillionsto organizations fighting against thevery thing you’re accusing him of. But I’m supposed to believe he’s into . . .” She couldn’t even say the words. “And that you’re some sort of government spy?”
“You don’t have to take my word for it.” He blocked her path to the door and offered what appeared to be a small, leather ID case. “You wanted the truth; there it is. It’s even in black and white and everything.”
Her back teeth crunched together as she did her best to keep her cool. How was it possible to want to slug the jerk and kiss that smart mouth of his at the very same time?
Alex stared down at the sleek, black rectangle, unable to take it from his hand. This was crazy. Coulter Morgan didn’t work for the CIA any more than she was the Queen of England. And Gordan Crawford certainly wasn’t some sort of sex-trafficking freak.
But what if he is? What if you’re wrong about Gordan? What if everything Colt just said is the actual truth?
She took the ID holder and flipped it open. Her lungs froze when she saw what was inside.
On the left half of the holder was a shiny gold badge that both looked and felt official. On the right was a plastic ID card bearing a picture of Colt in its upper left corner. The wordsCentral Intelligence Agencywere in bold print above his stoic image.
It’s not possible. This can’t be real.
And yet?—
Below the picture, Alex found a nine-digit employee identification number. To the right of that was what she assumed to be the agency’s official emblem. At the bottom of the ID was a horizontal barcode, and above that was Colt’s supposed status:Active CIA Field Agent.
“I’m not an idiot, Colt.” She tried handing him back the damn thing. “I know full-well the CIA doesn’t operate on U.S. soil.”
