We pull up to the gate, and Rask gives the guard our names and IDs. The guard tells us Agent Hughes will meet us in the lobby. As soon as we get out of the car, Evan and McCoy pull into the spot next to us.
“What’s going on?” Evan asks.
I shrug. “If it is something serious, Cara would’ve never told me over the phone. At least here, it’s more secure.”
“Unless the Feds are knee-deep in this bullshit,” Tucker says.
“I doubt it,” Rask adds. “I think if they were, they’d keep Cara as far away from Nate as possible.”
“True,” Evan says. He leads us to the glass door, which opens automatically as we approach. Cara’s waiting inside, looking like the badass FBI agent that she is. Instantly, my eyes go to her midsection. I don’t know if I’m looking for a bump to confirm she’s still pregnant or if I’m looking at her there in hopes she knows I want this baby.
Evan is the first to approach Cara. He kisses her cheek and then congratulates her on her promotion. McCoy and Rask follow, and then I bring up the rear. As much as I want to kiss her, I don’t. It would be unprofessional, and I know how much she worries about impressions.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
“Hey,” she says in return. We make eye contact for a second or two before stepping away and standing next to the guys. Cara clears her throat and forces a smile. “Thanks for coming. Follow me.”
The elevator ride is short, and when we get off, she gathers us in the corridor. “What I’m about to show you—it’s disturbing, but you need to see it.”
Right then, I know that we’re walking into a nest of filth—that whatever took my brother away isn’t over. We follow Cara. She holds the door for us and then lets it shut after McCoy comes in.
“When I came in today, we had ten boxes to go through. We separated them by victim.” She points to two of the walls. “Each victim on the right has a picture, along with their name, date, and location of disappearance. On the left, we have pictures of exploited women and children that we’ve uncovered from the dark web over the years, but don’t have any other information on them. And in the middle,” she pauses and takes a deep breath. “We have our family tree.”
“Family tree?” McCoy asks.
Cara nods. “What you see in front of you are the pictures of the players we’ve busted, or we know are involved, but haven’t proved it yet. The colored string means they work for the same syndicate, and you can match them to the pictures of our victims.”
“So many young girls,” McCoy says quietly. I don’t even have to ask what’s going through his mind right now. His daughter could’ve easily been one of the photos on the wall if it hadn’t been for Penny running.
McCoy steps forward and looks at the images on the wall. He touches a couple of them and then turns so no one can see his face. Evan goes to him and sets his hand on McCoy’s shoulder. They speak in hushed tones, and then both turn to look at us. McCoy ducks his head and I can only assume he’s wiping away his tears. I don’t pretend to imagine what this team went through, the horrors they saw.
“Why did you bring us here, Cara?” McCoy asks.
Cara moves toward the center of the board and points to an image. Rask and I move closer. Evan gasps. “Son of a bitch.” He points to the board, and then his finger moves from one image to the next. Up and up and over, and so on.
“Renato,” Rask says to anyone listening.
“Where is Lawson?” McCoy asks. “And Frannie? Ingram?”
“We don’t know where they fit . . . yet.” Cara sighs. “And they’re not why I asked you in. This man is.” She points to an image in the middle of the board. “His name is Constantin Samson. He’s a French National and owns property in every seaport and has multiple yachts and jets. We have him dead to rights on money laundering, but we suspect he’s deeper than that.”
“But you don’t know what?” I ask Cara.
She shakes her head. “When we started pulling the files out, we noticed that a handful of females went missing on the same day, in the same general area.” Cara pulls a map out from the corner. “For example, in Portugal, ten girls went missing within a week of each other. By the end of that next week, Samson docked his yacht in Figueira da Foz. Once he left, the police stopped looking for the missing girls.”
“That’s a coincidence,” Rask says.
“I agree. But it’s happened in Texas, Monaco, New Zealand, and Djibouti. This brings me to why I asked you to come in. Does he look familiar? Did Renato ever mention his name?”