Chapter 37
Sam snapped another picture as a car pulled up to the gate at the Powells’ warehouse. He and the others, plus Moran and a tech from his unit, were in a utility van parked in the visitor’s parking at the scrapyard next door. This was the tenth car he’d photographed. He glanced back at the technician, Jessica Dorset. “Did that one come through okay? He was speeding.” The fancy camera Moran put in his hands earlier was a marvel of modern technology. It uploaded the images as soon as he took them. Jessica was running license plates in real time.
“It’s fine. A little blurry, but the software will clean it up.”
“There’s another one coming,” Moran said.
Sam aimed the camera out the back window and started snapping as the luxury sports car drove by.
Max whistled. “That’s a nice car. Nicest we’ve seen so far.”
“For sure.” Sam took several shots as the car slowed to turn into the Powells’ drive, giving him a perfect view of the rear license plate. “Let’s hope we can catch them red-handed tomorrow and Moran can seize that car and whatever cash the guy has. It’d go a long way toward stopping more of this kind of activity.” He turned to Audra. “You getting anything from the license plates, babe?”
She let out a soft snort. “It’s a bloody goldmine. A lot of the vehicles are coming back to corporations, but they’re ones we know about that are fronts for illegal activity. What I’m not seeing, though, are ones tied to the Irish mafia.”
“Maybe they didn’t get that far in their relationship,” Dean said. “You did say you thought their meeting was just a feel each other out type of thing.”
“I know. But I missed the beginning, so…” She trailed off and shrugged.
Max’s phone dinged. He looked at the screen. “It’s an email from Asher. He’s done with my new identity.” Opening it, he skimmed it. “Oh, come on, man!”
Sam chuckled. “Let me guess. He gave you a shitty name?”
“Heinrich von Ribbentrop.”
Audra chuckled. “Well, that seems fitting.”
“Why? Do I look like a Heinrich von Ribbentrop?”
“No. I just meant the name is fitting for the op. Joachim von Ribbentrop was a bad dude. He was instrumental in making Hitler the German Chancellor. The man was one of his closest confidantes during World War II. And a filthy rich businessman.”
“How do you know this?” Moran asked.
She shrugged. “I’m English. We know our war history.”
“Wonderful.” Max rolled his eyes. “I’m a Nazi.”
“Better brush up on your German accent,” Dean said with a chuckle.
“Stuff it, Adler. I’m going to be his American cousin.”
“Got another car.” Moran sat forward, peering through the tinted window. “An SUV.”
Sam took more pictures.
“I still don’t know how your guy swung that invitation.” Moran glanced at Max. “Who is he again?”
Max snorted. “Nice try. You don’t get more than his first name.”
Sam frowned at the FBI agent. They’d all agreed that the less the feds knew about them, the better. It was bad enough Moran knew their identities. He’d be able to figure out who the rest of their group was if he really tried. He was hoping they would prove helpful enough—and that Audra had enough sway—that the man would leave it alone, though.
Suddenly, Max laughed. “Oh, this is great.” He had his phone in his hand and looked up from it at Dean. “You’re going with me. As Bernard Almendinger.” He turned to Moran. “You too. As Manfred Ulrich.”
“What?” Dean snatched the phone from his hand and read the email. He groaned. “Ford thinks it’s too dangerous for Max to go in alone, so he made Asher create two more identities.” He thrust the phone back at Max. “That’s just fricking fantastic. Just what I wanted to do. Watch a bunch of sorry excuses for men salivate over scared, traumatized women.”
“Look at it this way,” Audra said. “You’ll get to be one of the first to liberate them.”
Dean grunted an acknowledgment. “I’d rather be a sniper on a neighboring rooftop, taking all the assholes out one-by-one.”
“I can probably get my hands on some explosives,” Sam said, watching out the window. “We could round the fuckers up after we get the girls out and blow up the place. Moran, you should probably turn your ears off for a minute. You, too, Dorset.”
Moran chuckled. “No dice, man. I like that plan, but we can’t.”
Sam sighed. It was a shame they couldn’t. The world wouldn’t miss men like that. “I know.”
Over the next couple of hours, they catalogued close to thirty cars arriving at the compound. It made Sam sick to think how many women were inside, waiting to be sold to some depraved human being. How many had already been sold. It would all end tomorrow, though. The Powells were finished robbing women of their lives.