Chapter 24 #2
“She was brilliant,” he says quietly. “And troubled. Whatever mistakes she made, she paid for them.”
“That wasn’t my question,” Brie says evenly.
“I had no involvement in her extracurricular activities,” he replies. “If that is what you’re implying.”
He leans forward slightly.
“Ms. Thompson. If there is corruption within federal agencies shielding trafficking operations, I would like to know. But you are implying something broader.”
“I’m not implying,” I say. “I’m asking whether anyone approached you regarding Safe Passage. Lobbyists. Donors. Contractors.”
His expression shifts there.
Annoyance—not fear.
“Do you know how many advocacy groups contact my office weekly regarding immigration policy?”
“Ballpark?” I ask.
“Hundreds.”
“Any that pushed for the Safe Passage case to be deprioritized?”
“No.”
No hesitation.
Brie and I exchange a look.
He’s either a generational-level liar…
Or he genuinely isn’t in the operational loop.
I shift tactics.
“Did you speak with Rebecca Hanford in the weeks prior to the DOJ decision?”
He pulls back. Straightens slightly.
But I’m not reading guilt.
It’s familiarity. Possibly surprise that I’d go there.
“I speak with Ms. Hanford periodically,” he says. “She handles sensitive matters for the department.”
“Did she raise Safe Passage?”
“No.”
Immediate.
I study his hands. No tremor. No defensive fidget.
Just age.
“Senator,” I say carefully, “if someone within DHS or DOJ were coordinating transfers to protect a trafficking ring, where would that influence most likely originate?”
He studies me now.
Not like a suspect.
Like a mentee.
“Not here,” he says.
“Then where?”
“Mid-level administrators with enough authority to move paper,” he says. “But not enough visibility to draw scrutiny.”
That hits.
Because it aligns with what Gabe said about Vrell.
He continues.
“Powerful men don’t sign documents they don’t need to sign,” he says. “If someone is protecting criminals, you are looking too high.”
The room quiets.
He stands slowly.
“If you uncover evidence,” he says, “bring it to my office. I will not shield traffickers.”
I believe him.
We exit onto Constitution Avenue. The January air is sharp and brisk.
We walk half a block before speaking.
“Well?” Brie asks.
“He’s not it.”
“Agreed.”
“He’s political,” I say. “But he’s not operational.”
“And he didn’t know about the timing,” Brie adds. “That reaction was real.”
“Mid-level,” I murmur. “Paper movers.”
“DHS chain,” she says.
“Michael Vrell,” I respond.
Brie nods.
We stop at the corner.
“What about your witness? I’ve reviewed her file. Her descriptions of rape. It’s difficult to read but…did you extract the names?”
“We had names. What we didn’t have was a case.
” I don’t need to say more to Brie. She understands, but I explain anyway, because saying it out loud sharpens something in me.
“An ID from a trafficking victim, standing alone, doesn’t survive cross-examination—especially not now, with her gone.
We needed the subpoenas. Financial records, travel logs, hotel receipts.
Something that corroborates her identification independent of her testimony.
That’s what the warrants were for. And that’s exactly what we lost the second the case closed and she disappeared in the same breath. ”
If we’d had six more weeks, we could have built something that didn’t depend on Lina being alive to testify. When she first entered the US, she was thirteen.
“Any other victims?”
“No one willing to testify. At least three have made bank signing NDAs.”
“Any leads from that angle?”
“No. Nothing usable. We didn’t get far in the investigations before preemptive NDAs were signed.”
“Preemptive.”
“Oh, yes. In all three cases, the lawyers maintained the client’s innocence—said an NDA is easier than a public case—all claim the accuser is an extortionist and paint their client to be the victim.”
“Three different men?”
“Happens all the time. And to be honest, these cases are so brutal in court, I can’t blame the women, or men…it’s not a one-gender issue…for taking the money.”
“Do you ever believe these lawyers? That maybe a friend of a victim is taking advantage?”
“Not for a minute. But in a lot of Safe Passage cases, the accused—the buyers, the men paying for access—are wealthy enough that prosecution becomes expensive fast. Not that we can without a witness. Hence those eagerly offered NDAs.” Lina wanted to help us find the men who raped her—more than anything, she wanted to stop them from doing it to others.
Brie presses her lips together and I find myself liking her—she cares. It’s too damn easy to look the other way.
“Well, the individuals we really want are the ones who are running the ring.”
“And enabling it,” I add. In my mind, they’re all subhuman.
“Right.” Brie checks her wrist for the time. “You ready? Car is this way.”
“I’ll grab an Uber,” I say. “You don’t need to circle back through traffic.”
“You sure?” she asks. “I don’t mind.”
“I’m sure. It’s a straight shot.”
She studies me a second longer than necessary.
“Brie. Look around us. I’m good.” No matter what Gabe may have told her, I’m capable. I’ve managed just fine without anyone watching out for me—and we’re in a safe part of DC.
“Gabe would hate it,” Brie says.
“Gabe doesn’t get a vote,” I answer. “I’m fine. You have a flight to catch.”
“Call if anything feels off.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes—because she’s not entirely off base given everything—and force a smile. “I will.”
She squeezes my shoulder lightly before heading back toward the parking structure.
I tuck my hands into my coat pockets and head toward the end of the street where rideshares are easier to grab. But my crap mood mandates that I get some fresh air.
It’s cold, but the sky is remarkably blue and clear for January. My heeled boots click against the sidewalk and my chest loosens with each deep breath.
The neighborhood shifts slightly—less federal, more residential. Brick multimillion-dollar rowhouses. Bare trees. Evergreen boxwoods. A dog barking somewhere behind a wrought-iron fence. The pads of my feet radiate soreness from the extended sidewalk time.
I pull out my phone and request the ride. It’s time to get back—and face Gabe.
Five minutes for the closest ride.
Distant footsteps sound.
I glance behind me.
It’s just a man in a navy coat walking his dog.
I look forward again.
Paranoia.
At the street corner, where it’s easiest to be picked up, I glance back.
He’s still there.
My pulse feels…elevated.
I’m in a safe area.
Mind tricks.
Plus adrenaline from the meeting.
A car door shuts somewhere behind me.
I don’t turn immediately.
But my muscles tighten.
The sounds around me get louder.
I adjust course slightly, crossing toward the opposite sidewalk.
The man with the dog keeps straight.
I fidget with my phone—determine the direction my ride will likely come from and head in that direction.
Footsteps sound.
Heavier.
Steady.
I glance behind me.
No dog.
Different man.
I keep walking.
The Uber icon moves on the map.
Three minutes.
As I watch, the time changes.
Eight minutes.
I curse DC traffic.
And resist the urge to look over my shoulder again.
Turn at the corner.
He does too.
I hear him without looking.
My heart slams against my ribs.
I speed up.
So does he.
My phone is already in my hand. I just have to decide who to call.