Page 10 of Tag
The girl’s gaze darted to the door, the street, then back to us. “I—I’m not telling you anything. You’re cops.”
Aponi didn’t flinch. “I’m Aponi. He’s Tag. This is a community center. We help people.”
The girl snorted. “No one helps girls like me.”
“Try us.”
Silence.
Then she whispered, “My name’s Kaylie. I was just… looking for a place to sleep. I heard there’s beds upstairs sometimes. I wasn’t gonna take anything.”
Aponi nodded. “You’re safe here. Come inside.”
But as the girl stepped into the light, I noticed something that made my stomach twist.
There was a faded, bruised tattoo on her wrist. A simple symbol I’d seen before—burned into case files, stitched into the memories of survivors. A symbol linked to the trafficking ring Aponi was chasing.
I glanced at Aponi. She saw it too.
Kaylie noticed us staring. She yanked her sleeve down. “You don’t know anything. Nobody does.”
She turned and bolted.
Aponi started after her, but I caught her arm. “Let her go.”
“She could be the lead we need.”
“She could also be bait. If someone sent her here to test your reaction, they’re watching.”
Her jaw clenched, fury rippling across her face. “You think this was a warning?”
“I think this is the calm before the storm.”
Aponi looked back toward the alley, where Kaylie had disappeared into the dark.
“She’s not the only one who needs help,” she whispered.
“No,” I said, my voice low. “But if we’re going to help them, we need to be smart. We move now—before they bury that building in silence.”
Her eyes locked on mine. Fierce. Unbreakable. “Let’s go.”
10
Aponi
The warehouse squatted like a sleeping animal at the edge of the city—dark, silent, and surrounded by razor-wire fencing that was more for keeping people in than keeping them out.
We parked a block away and made the rest of the way on foot, cutting through alleyways that reeked of oil, piss, and something far worse.
Tag moved like a shadow beside me, his expression tight.
We crouched behind a broken stack of pallets across the street, using an old delivery van for partial cover.
“There,” I whispered, pointing to a flicker of movement behind one of the shattered windows.
Tag raised his binoculars. “Infrared lights just kicked on. Someone’s inside.”
I pulled out my phone and tapped through the department database again. “That building is still listed as unoccupied. The LLC hasn’t filed a tax return in two years. This place is off-grid.”
