Page 3 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
Warehouse District, Near the River
Chicago, Illinois
One Month Ago
The wire taped to my ribs itches like hell, but that's the least of my problems right now.
The warehouse smells like rust and river rot, concrete floors slick with something I don't want to identify. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting shadows that make every corner feel like a threat. Three men stand between me and the exit, all armed, all watching me like I'm something they might need to put down.
Dominic Ruiz circles me for the third time, boots echoing in the cavernous space. He's the shot caller for this crew, mid-thirties, scarred knuckles, dead eyes that have seen too much and felt too little. The gun at his hip isn't for show.
"So you're telling me you can move twenty girls through the lakes without customs catching wind." His voice carries an edge that makes my spine straighten.
"That's exactly what I'm telling you." My own voice comes out steady, confident, bored even. Three months of undercover work on this case have made the lie smooth as silk. "I've got dock supervisors in Cleveland and Detroit on payroll. Shipping manifests get filed under agricultural transport. Nobody looks twice at produce trucks."
It's bullshit, all of it. But it's the kind of bullshit men like Ruiz want to believe because it means money, power, and a supply chain that keeps running.
He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell cigarettes and cheap cologne. "You come recommended, but recommendations don't mean shit if you're a cop."
"Do I look like a cop to you?" I gesture at my outfit—tight jeans, leather jacket, boots with enough heel to make me look taller than my five-foot-four frame. Hair down, makeup heavy, playing the part of a broker who's done this dance before.
One of the younger guys, skinny with a patchy beard and nervous energy, laughs. "She looks like she could be in one of the shipments."
Ruiz doesn't laugh. He just stares, and the temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.
"Show her the route maps," he says finally, turning away.
The third man, older and quieter, pulls a tablet from a duffel bag near a stack of pallets. He swipes through images—warehouse locations, transport schedules, photographs of women who don't know they're being cataloged like inventory.
My stomach churns, but I keep my face blank. These are the faces I'm here to save. Three months embedded in this nightmare, three months letting these men think I'm one of them.
Patchy Beard pulls out his phone, scrolling through something. His eyes flick to me, then to the screen, then back to me. The nervous energy shifts into something sharper.
"Hey, Dom." His voice cracks slightly. "You need to see this."
Ruiz takes the phone, and the air in the warehouse changes. It's subtle at first, just a tightening of his jaw, a narrowing of his eyes. Then he looks at me, and I know before he even speaks that everything just went sideways.
"Surveillance photos." He turns the phone so I can see. "Federal building, downtown. That's you coming out of the field office six weeks ago."
The world slows down. My mind races through options, cover stories, exit strategies. The wire under my shirt broadcasts my heartbeat to everyone in the room.
"That's not me," I say, but even I can hear the hesitation.
"Bullshit." Ruiz reaches for the gun at his hip.
Training kicks in before thought. I pivot, kick the metal table between us, and send it crashing into his legs. He stumbles back, and I'm moving, diving behind wooden pallets as the first shot cracks.
Gunfire erupts. Muzzle flashes light up the warehouse. Splinters explode from the pallet next to my head as bullets tear through wood.
I pull my backup piece from the ankle holster, a subcompact nine millimeter that feels too small in my shaking hands. One shot, two, forcing them to take cover.
Then something punches me in the chest.
The impact steals my breath, knocks me flat. Body armor catches the bullet, but the force cracks ribs, sends agony through my torso. Blood fills my mouth where I bit my tongue. The world tilts, sounds going muffled.
Boots pound on concrete. Shouting. More gunfire.
Then the warehouse explodes with noise.
