Chapter 13 Network
Network
The warehouse sprawled across three city blocks in Queens, a cancer disguised as commerce. From our vantage point on the adjacent rooftop, Nathan and I watched trucks roll in empty and leave heavy with human cargo. My stomach turned, but I kept the binoculars steady.
"Twelve guards on rotation," I murmured. "Four at the main entrance, two at each loading dock, two rovers. They change shifts every six hours."
"Security cameras?"
"Minimal. They're relying on bribes and reputation more than tech." I lowered the binoculars. "Cocky. Or very well connected."
"Both, according to our intel." Nathan checked his tablet, scrolling through data his FBI contacts had provided. "This hub feeds six major cities. Conservative estimate puts their monthly trafficking at fifty women, mostly Eastern European, some Asian."
Fifty women. Fifty rabbits for new cages. The math made me want to scream.
"The assault team's planning a dawn raid," Nathan continued. "Full tactical, shock and awe. Should have the element of surprise."
"It won't work."
He looked at me sharply. "Why not?"
"Because they have contingencies." I pointed to the northwest corner. "See that shipping container? The red one that hasn't moved in three days? That's their panic room. First sign of cops, they'll stuff the most valuable assets in there and burn the rest of the evidence."
"Assets." His jaw clenched. "You mean women."
"I mean what they mean." I turned away from the view.
"We can't think like rescuers here. We have to think like them.
And to them, some cargo is worth more than others.
The young ones. The pretty ones. The already broken ones.
" My voice went flat, clinical. "Those go in the container. The rest are acceptable losses."
"How do you know?"
"Because it's what Gabriel would have done." I started packing up our surveillance gear. "He consulted for operations like this sometimes. Teaching them psychological conditioning techniques, how to break subjects faster. I sat in on some of those meetings."
Nathan's hand found my shoulder. "I'm sorry."
"Don't." I shrugged him off. "Save the sympathy for after. Right now, I need to be useful, not pitied."
"Bunny—"
"They need a new plan," I interrupted. "One that accounts for the panic room. One that gets someone inside before the raid, someone who can disable their contingencies."
"We'll get an undercover in. Michael is good at—"
I met his gaze steadily. "Me."
The silence stretched between us like a wire about to snap. I could see him processing, weighing options, arriving at the inevitable conclusion he didn't want to reach.
"Absolutely not."
"I fit the profile. Eastern European features, right age, already have the victim body language programmed in." I ticked off points on my fingers. "Plus I speak Russian, Polish, and enough Ukrainian to pass. Michael is six-foot-two and built like a linebacker."
"There are other options."
"Name one that can be in place by tomorrow night."
"We'll delay the raid."
"And let fifty more women disappear while we debate?" I shook my head. "You know I'm right. You just don't like it."
"Of course I don't like it!" The words exploded out of him. "You're talking about walking into a trafficking ring. Alone. As bait."
"As an asset," I corrected. "High-value enough they'll take me to the panic room when things go sideways. I'll have a tracker, subdermal. Once I'm inside, I disable the locks, neutralize any guards, and signal the team."
"Neutralize." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You make it sound simple."
"It is simple. Just not easy." I started for the roof access. "Come on. We need to brief the team."
He caught my arm. "We're not done discussing this."
"Yes, we are." I looked at where his fingers circled my wrist—gentle but firm, restraint disguised as concern. "Unless you're planning to physically stop me? Chain me up for my own good? That sounds familiar."
He released me like I'd burned him. "That's not fair."
"No, it's not." I rubbed my wrist though it didn't hurt. "But neither is asking me to sit back while women suffer because the rescue might be dangerous. I'm not made of glass, Nathan."
"I know that."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're trying to protect me from my own choices." I moved closer, into his space. "I thought you were different. Thought you understood that keeping me safe and keeping me caged aren't the same thing."
"They're not—" He stopped, ran both hands through his hair. "Fuck. You're right. I know you're right. But the thought of you in there, with those people..."
"I've been with worse people." I touched his face, feeling stubble and tension. "I survived Gabriel fucking Mire. I can survive one night playing rabbit."
"Playing," he repeated. "Like it's a game."
"It is a game. Just one with very real stakes." I dropped my hand. "I'm doing this, Nathan. With or without your support. But I'd rather have it with."
We stared at each other, wills clashing like swords in the dark. Finally, his shoulders dropped.
"What do you need from me?"
"Trust," I said simply. "Trust that I know my limits. Trust that I'll signal if I'm in real danger. Trust that I'm not the same broken girl."
"You were never broken," he said quietly.
"No. But I was caged. There's a difference." I headed for the stairs again. "Come on. We have planning to do."
The briefing was a exercise in controlled chaos. Nathan's FBI contacts ranged from skeptical to outright hostile about using a civilian asset. I sat through their objections, their alternatives, their thinly veiled implications that I was too damaged to be reliable.
"She has a point about the panic room," Michael finally said. He was younger than the others, less invested in protocol. "Our usual undercovers won't pass for trafficking victims."
"We could use a female agent," Commander Phillips suggested.
"Who?" I asked. "Davidson's six months pregnant. Cathy's in deep cover in LA. Maxine broke her leg last week." I'd done my homework on the ride over. "Unless you have agents I don't know about?"
Phillips's silence was answer enough.
"The tracker's state of the art," Nathan said, surprising me with his support. "GPS accurate to three feet, with vital monitoring. Any spike in heart rate or drop in body temp, we'll know."
"And if they scan for bugs?" Phillips demanded.
"It's organic polymer," I answered. "Reads like scar tissue on scanners. I've used similar tech before."
That was a lie. But they didn't need to know that Gabriel's trackers had been much more primitive. Or that I'd learned to dig them out with kitchen knives.
"She'll need a handler," Phillips said finally. "Someone on comms—"
"Me," Nathan said.
"You're too emotionally involved."
"Which is why I'll be motivated to keep her safe." His tone brooked no argument. "She's my asset. I brought her in. I'll handle her."
I bit back a comment about being handled. Not the time.
Two hours later, we'd hammered out details. I'd go in tomorrow night, just another piece of cargo delivered by freelance suppliers. The raid would hit at dawn, giving me eight hours to get inside and disable their escape routes.
"Eight hours," Phillips repeated as the meeting broke up. "Can you maintain cover that long?"
"I handled myself for twelve weeks," I said evenly. "Eight hours is nothing."
Nathan didn't speak during the drive back to his apartment. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, jaw clenched so tight I worried about his teeth. When we finally parked, he killed the engine but didn't move.
"Say it," I told him.
"Say what?"
"Whatever's eating you alive. Better out than in."
"I hate this." The words came out raw. "Hate that you're right. Hate that it makes tactical sense. Hate that I'm sending you in there like—"
"Like bait," I finished. "Because that's what I am. What I'm choosing to be."
"I'm supposed to protect you."
"No." I turned in my seat to face him fully. "You're supposed to respect me. There's a difference."
"Can't I do both?"
"Not always." I unbuckled my seatbelt. "Sometimes respecting me means letting me make dangerous choices. Letting me be more than just your rescued rabbit."
"You're not—"
"I am though. Part of me always will be." I got out of the car, needing space. "That's what you don't understand. I can't just shed that skin. I have to integrate it. Use it. Transform it into something that serves me instead of him."
He followed me to the elevator, crowding in beside me. The tension rolled off him in waves, filling the small space like smoke.
"I could lose you," he said to the closing doors.
"You could lose me crossing the street." I hit the button for his floor. "At least this way, the loss means something."
"Not to me."
The elevator dinged, doors sliding open. I stepped out first, anger building with each step toward his apartment. He unlocked the door and I pushed past him, needing distance but finding only walls.
"So what then?" I whirled to face him. "I should stay here? Hide? Let other women burn while I play house?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." My voice cracked with frustration. "Every time I try to use my skills, my knowledge, my experience for something good, you look at me like I'm made of spun glass."
"That's not—"
"It is!" I moved into his space, backing him against the closed door. "You say you see me as feral, not broken. But then you try to cage me anyway. Just with nicer bars."
"Wanting you safe isn't caging you."
"It is when safety means inaction." My hands fisted in his shirt. "I need to do this, Nathan. Need to prove that everything he put me through can serve a purpose beyond his sick games."
"Prove to who? Me? The FBI? Or yourself?"
The question hit like cold water. I released his shirt, stepping back.