Chapter 31 #2
The intel situation hadn’t changed much since he and Daphne left earlier, but in the last six hours, they’d learned that Adam Gareth, a fourth member of the Sweet Dreams ownership team, was the “face” of the service—the thirty-seven-year-old with a baby face, blond hair, round blue eyes, and a dimple gave the appearance of being harmless.
Being the one responsible for identifying and recruiting the predators who subscribed to Sweet Dreams services, he was anything but.
They’d also gleaned one additional, salient piece of information, thanks to Weeks’s confession and the wiretaps they’d been authorized to place.
Every morning at 4:00 a.m., after all the clients left for the night, Chanel, Malcom, Ken, and Adam met to discuss the night’s events, their clients, and any potential new ones.
They referred to it as their belly-up meeting.
Lovell didn’t know why they named it that, doubted the FBI did either, and he had no inclination to spend any mental energy on the question.
No, what most interested him was the next belly-up meeting. The one he’d walk in on once the team neutralized both the human and electronic security.
“Khafra’s and Charnette’s teams will wait outside while you go in,” Hershorn said. “When you’ve gotten everything you think you can from those four without putting your life in more danger than it will already be in, give the signal and we’ll take over from there.”
Again, he nodded. He wouldn’t mind going in guns blazing.
Chanel and Malcom and possibly the other two had sent people to kill him.
And they’d kidnapped Daphne. They deserved to rot in hell for that alone.
Add the trafficking and sex crimes on top of that, and he hoped they had a long, uncomfortable stay in a maximum-security prison.
He might even let it leak through his contacts what they were in for.
People who sold people, especially young ones, didn’t tend to fare well in general population.
But even from the beginning, when he first started considering the possibility of joining the op, he’d accepted that his role would be limited to gathering intel only.
That he had this opportunity at all was a gift horse he wasn’t going to question or fuck up.
He’d do everything in his power to encourage the foursome to talk about the small empire they’d built.
“Did Tologodor kit you out?” Hershorn asked.
He cast a look at the agent. The man raised a dark eyebrow. Lovell had made certain decisions about his equipment that Tologodor hadn’t been shy in telling him Hershorn wouldn’t approve of.
“All I’m going in with is a vest and a wire,” he said.
She blinked. “A vest and a wire.” One of her springy curls fell over her ear as she tipped her head.
“Your team will manage everything outside that room, but other than the fact that the meeting occurs, we have no intel on what happens inside,” he said.
“They may have more security with them. Even if it’s only the four owners, though, we should assume that at least Malcom will be armed.
Ken, too. They won’t let me through the door if I’m carrying. ”
Hershorn’s lips tightened as if she’d sucked a lemon. Everyone in the room remained silent. “A knife,” she said.
“Bring a knife to a gunfight?” he asked, unable to keep the hint of humor from his voice. “I could hide that better than a gun, but they’d still find it.”
Her eyes shifted to her team. “Is there anything we can send him in with?”
While some agencies might have superspecial gadgets reminiscent of James Bond and Q, for the most part, the FBI relied on the standbys, pistols, drones, and other explosive ordnances.
Or so Callie had told him. At least HICC—who’d brought him on as a temporary “consultant”—had kitted him out with an undetectable wire.
And a gold chain that felt heavy and awkward around his neck, but one Chanel and company wouldn’t look twice at.
That little bit of jewelry contained a camera, allowing everyone on the team to see the room in real time.
Khafra shook his head; the other two followed.
“I don’t like it,” Hershorn said.
“We’ll be right outside,” Charnette said.
“He won’t go in until we’ve cleared everything else.
” Meaning there wouldn’t be anything left to distract them or pull them away from their position outside the door.
A little voice inside his head said Charnette was tempting fate by making that claim, but he kept his mouth shut.
Hershorn heaved a sigh that seemed too big for her petite body. “Fucking Stella,” she muttered, although no one missed the affection in her voice.
“Okay, we have the plan then. We head out at midnight. Our tech team, with the help of HICC, will take over the Sweet Dreams security system at two. Team A will tail and intercept all cars that leave the premises. Team B will move in and neutralize the two-legged security.” She paused. “Did anyone check for dogs?”
“No dogs,” Tologodor said.
Hershorn nodded. “Once the outside security is handled, you three move in with your teams.” Her gaze swept over her three reports, who all nodded in response.
They’d spent an hour assessing entry points and memorizing the sweeping patterns they’d use once inside.
Lovell had paid enough attention that he wasn’t going to surprise or be surprised by anyone when he joined the party, but the details weren’t relevant to his role, so most had washed over him.
“You.” Hershorn pinned him with a look that wasn’t quite a glare but made him wonder if she had kids or dogs or any kind of dependent creature living with her and if so, whether they were ever afraid of her.
“You don’t move until Charnette gives you the green light.
It will take you three minutes to jog from your position in the woods, where you will stay until told otherwise.
” Again, another look that he acknowledged with a nod.
“Once you reach the house, Khafra will escort you to the door of the room where our targets meet. You will only walk through that door on Agent Charnette’s go-ahead. Is that understood?”
He’d been on enough missions and ops that he knew the drill. The minutiae mattered. The repetition mattered. The details mattered. His part in this theater might be small, but he didn’t want to give the team any reason to change their mind about his presence. “Understood,” he said.
“When you enter the room, follow the script you discussed with the psychologist. When you reach the point that more time isn’t going to yield more results, say the word and our teams will take it from there,” she said.
It wasn’t a complicated plan, but balancing what he wanted, personally, with what he needed to do for the FBI could get tricky.
Not to mention the fact that the second he walked into the room, his siblings and their cohorts would know something was wrong.
No way would their security just let him waltz in.
There wasn’t much he could do about the latter, but he’d spent two hours that afternoon talking with a psychologist on the HICC payroll about ways he could tease information from the Sweet Dreams crew, goad them, if needed.
But whatever else those four were, they weren’t entirely stupid.
Even if they didn’t find the wire on him, which he’d been assured they wouldn’t, they still might not talk.
He’d take the chance, though. And he had every incentive to make it out alive, so he’d follow Hershorn’s plan to a T.
They reached the end of the briefing, his part anyway. Anticipation hung in the air, thick and heavy, buzzing across his skin. In five hours, they’d leave for the small northern New Jersey enclave where his siblings ran the Sweet Dreams house. Five hours.
He planned to spend four of those with Daphne, leaving no question for either of them about the benefits of him staying alive.