Chapter 34 Cole #2
He didn't get free from the zip ties. He got free with the chair.
The chair was on wheels. He somehow rolled himself through the second-floor hallway, into the freight elevator, and out to the parking lot, still zip-tied to the armrests, expensive Italian shoes scuffing against concrete as he tried to push himself along.
Made it maybe fifty feet before a wheel caught a pothole.
Facedown on asphalt with the chair on its side, arms still bound, suit torn at both shoulders.
Xander standing over him with his arms crossed, looking at me as I approach. "Fifty feet. I'm almost impressed. You think he practiced?"
"With what? His Peloton?"
"See, that's what I'm saying. Upper body strength like that, he's been training. This was premeditated chair escape." Xander nudges the toppled chair with his boot. "Do you think the FBI will charge him with fleeing the scene? Because technically..."
"I know people." Walsh's voice, muffled by concrete. "Do you understand me? I know people. This is a misunderstanding, I have connections at the highest..."
The girls in that room couldn't make it to the door. He made it fifty feet.
I walk over. Crouch beside his head. He's still talking, something about lawyers, something about diplomatic contacts, and I drive my knee into his kidney.
Walsh crumples. The sound that comes out of him is high-pitched and wet, all the self-importance knocked loose in one compressed exhale.
That's for the chains.
"Hey." Xander, quiet now, not joking. "You good?"
"Fine."
"That didn't look fine. That looked personal."
"It was."
He holds my gaze for a second, then nods once. Doesn't push.
Jax appears from the direction of the medical van, moving carefully, one arm braced across his ribs.
He looks at Walsh gasping on the ground. Then at me. "That was center-mass. You're not getting soft."
"Shouldn't you be lying down?"
"Probably. Want to tell Mira that? Because I'd rather take another two rounds to the plate."
I don't laugh. But the knot behind my sternum loosens at the sound of his voice, raspy and pained but his, and I let myself look at him for a real second. Upright, breathing, color wrong, posture wrong, but alive and bitching, and that's enough for now.
"Come on," I say. "Damian's got something."
Damian has set up under the work lights near the loading dock.
Laptops, phones, and whatever Walsh didn't manage to shred spread across folding tables in labeled rows.
He's logging items with the same unhurried care he brings to everything, like a man filing taxes instead of processing evidence from a trafficking warehouse.
He sees me coming. Sees Jax behind me, moving slowly. Doesn't comment on either of us.
"Third box," he says, pushing a cardboard box across the table. "Bottom folder. I flagged it."
"Flagged how?"
He just looks at me. "Open it."
Manila folders. I open the first one and the faces are familiar. Judges from Kade's briefings, the ones who died. Surveillance photos, professional work. Telephoto lenses, patient observation. Courthouse steps, coffee shops, parking garages. Each judge documented before they were killed.
My fingers slow down. I know what's coming before I turn the page, and there's a tab divider after the dead judges that I can't read from this angle.
Second folder.
Angelina. Courthouse steps on a Tuesday, mid-stride, briefcase in her right hand.
The coffee shop on Fourth Street where she goes during lunch recess, sitting alone at the window table she always picks because it's closest to the exit.
Her car in the federal parking structure, third level, the spot she parks in every morning because it's nearest the elevator.
Each photo dated, recent, within the last month.
Third set, same folder.
Chesca. School entrance, backpack with the origami crane stickers she put on herself.
Playground, hanging upside down from the monkey bars with her hair flying.
Walking toward Xander's truck, smiling up at him like he hung the moon, completely unaware that someone with a long lens was sitting in a parked car capturing every frame.
My daughter. My daughter smiling in a surveillance photo taken by someone who chains people to floors.
The folder trembles in my hands.
My hands don't shake. They never shake.
My hands are shaking.
"Blade." Damian's voice. Close. He's moved beside me without my noticing, and the fact that Damian got that close means I'm not tracking anything right now. "Breathe."
Seven years I watched her. And I missed this. Someone else had a camera on my family, and I missed it.
Everything I built has a hole in it.
"When were these taken?"
Damian checks the date stamps without touching the photos. "Oldest is five weeks. Newest is four days ago. They were actively surveilling."
"Four days ago she was at that coffee shop with Chesca." The words come out and they sound like they belong to a different man. "Chesca got hot chocolate. She had whipped cream on her nose and Angelina..."
I stop. Close my mouth. Jax is beside me and he's not saying anything, which is how I know it's bad, because Jax always has something to say.
"Get Ghost on comms," I tell Damian. "Now."
"Already called him." Damian's hand is on my shoulder, firm and brief, then gone. "He's pulling Vanessa to trace the photo metadata. We'll find who took them."
Jax, quiet: "We'll find them, brother."
I put the folder down on the table. My hands are still shaking. I press them flat against the surface until the tremor stops, until the metal of the table bites into my palms and gives me something real to push against.
Not yet. Fall apart later. Work now.
Headlights sweep across the loading dock. Black SUV, government plates.
Dennis Holloway steps out. FBI. Suit too clean for two in the morning, expression unchanged as he takes in the medical vans, the evidence tables, Walsh face-down on asphalt with a desk chair still zip-tied to his arms.
"Hell of a tip you called in."
"Anonymous tip. We were never here."
"Twenty-two women. Three kids." The full count, once the other rooms on the second floor were cleared. He surveys the scene like a man counting promotions. "Career-making bust."
"Congratulations."
Holloway's mouth twitches. He knows the arrangement. He moves toward the evidence staging area and Damian meets him halfway, already handing off documentation. The surveillance folders leave the table.
Copies. Damian made copies. He always makes copies.
Kade's voice in my ear: "Holloway's taking point on prosecution. Walsh is his problem now. Your job is done."
"My job isn't done until I know who was holding that camera."
A pause. "Understood. We'll work it tomorrow. Tonight you come home."
One of the rescued women is speaking to Miguel through Xander, who translates in real time.
I catch fragments as I pass. Xander's voice, low and careful.
"She says before they moved locations, an American man helped some girls escape.
Few months ago. Tall, dark hair, spoke enough Spanish to be understood.
Checked every door before going through it. Never let anyone walk behind him."
Training or paranoia. Specific enough to flag.
"Note it. Ghost will want to know."
Xander nods, turns back to the woman with gentle follow-up questions, and I file the description away. Something to chase when the sun comes up.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number, but I know the pattern. Three texts in rapid succession, the way Sal communicates when he doesn't want a phone call on record.
First text: Heard about the warehouse.
Second: My niece need anything?
Third: Family helps family, Tanaka.
I look at the screen. Family helps family. Nothing from Sal is free, and Angelina's been paying for his help in compromised verdicts and sleepless nights for years.
I type back one-handed, the photos still in my head: All good. Handled.
Near the medical van, Mira stands beside Jax, who is sitting on a supply crate instead of lying in the van. Mira's hand rests on his forearm, light enough to look casual, firm enough that he's not going anywhere.
"You should be lying down."
"I've had worse."
"I know." Her voice drops low. Whatever she says next is between them, too quiet for me to catch, but Jax goes very still. Then he reaches up with his free hand and covers hers. Holds it against his arm. She lets him.
Walsh is loaded into the FBI van. Damian supervises the transfer and Walsh is still talking about lawyers as the doors close.
I pick up the folder from the table. Look at the photos one last time under the work lights. Angelina on the courthouse steps. Chesca's smile. The origami crane stickers.
I close the folder. Hold it against my side.
The little girl is in the medical van now, wrapped in a blanket three sizes too big, legs disappearing into the fabric. She sees me through the open doors. Small hand comes up and waves.
I wave back.
You come back?
Yeah. I will.
I'll find out her name.
My phone buzzes.
Kade: Blade. Angelina wants to...
Her voice cuts through before he finishes typing, breathless and shaking through the phone speaker: "Chesca had a nightmare. She's asking for you."
I'm already moving.