Page 3 of Identify
I regrouped.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
Reviewed the steps.
Step Four - Identify the mark.
Step Five - Get into position.
Squeezed through a group of people to a small clearing, I stood tiptoe, but saw nothing.
“Excuse me.” I’d pushed past another group, all of whom had been standing way too close together to be normal, which finally afforded me a clear shot to the front of the room. No pun intended.
And then everything really went to hell in a handbasket.
I realized I knew who the speaker (and my mark) was at the same time a deep, sexy voice whispered in my ear, “What in the hell are you doing?”
Startling me.
Except the more accurate description, instead of startled, would have been: made me jump and shriek with my hands flying in the air sending my clutch in one direction and my gun in the other. Disarming and dis-positioning me in one move.
Which about brings me to now. . .
3
Reed – One Week Before
ONE WEEK BEFORE
“Roberts, you and Murphy track this down, see if it has any bite to it.”
The FBI director drops a file on my desk, a huge “Confidential” stamped in red letters on the front. I flip open the front cover and skim the overview and the pages that follow.
Human trafficking, otherwise known as HT.
Makes me sick.
These fucks who have little to no value for human life. And will profit off whatever they can. I’d kill them all if I could. Slowly, while extracting great pain.
Mack Murphy, my partner, a cup of fresh coffee in each hand, takes a seat across from me, his chair groaning in protest. Our desks butt up against one another, so we are facing each other as we work. In theory, we take turns getting coffee refills, but damn if Mack doesn’t make a helluva good cup of joe. I don’t know how he does it. I mean, the little single-serving cup goes in the machine the same way for everyone, but his always tastes better. And he agrees with my assessment, so it’s not like I’m blowing smoke up his ass just to get him to fetch me coffee.
“Thanks, man.” I nod at him, then toss the file over so he can look.
“What have we got?”
“HT. Looks like all women.”
He sighs and leans back in his chair, propping his biker boot clad feet up on his desk. Coffee in one hand, he opens the file now resting on his thighs and begins skimming the contents the same way I did. “Jesus, they’re using a dating app?”
“Not just one app, it looks like all the apps. And the profiles are one and done. Profile goes up, the guy gets a date, profile comes down, moving on. Another date, another app, another girl, another dollar.”
Mack rubs the back of his neck while he peruses the file. I’ve figured out it’s his tell when he’s stressed; he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Murmurs of disgust escape him as he turns the pages. It’s a new file and there’s not a lot to go on yet, but what’s there is disturbing.
“So, it could be anyone, anywhere anytime. Fuck me.” He closes the file and brings his feet back to the floor with a thud. His massive forearms come to a rest on his desk, torso spanning the entire width. “I hate these fucking cases. How did we get this intel?”
“Girl woke up in a room full of drugged, tied up women and escaped the house before they got to her. She ran, doesn’t remember which direction or how far, and doesn’t know where she was or who took her. Just that she met the guy on an app.”
“Shit. Not a lot to go on, is there?”
