“Still the same pack and go. Same exchange but a different place and point of contact again.”
Fuck.This guy is good.
How is he able to keep the rotation of associates doing his dirty work for him?
We still haven’t figured that out.
The man doesn’t even have a type.
One week it’s a random teenager off the street and the next it’s a single mom just trying to make some extra cash to feed her kids.
Nothing we can pin on him--no leads we can follow.
We have nothing conclusive to even further our investigation.
Sotnas and his cartel is currently the biggest distributor of illegal goods in the world. Name it and they barter it; drugs and stolen car parts being their primary products.
We managed to figure out that their distribution and manufacturing is mostly done in the US and that’s when I was brought in undercover to try and infiltrate the cartel and get intel on the man in charge. Which was only time we had a break in the case when I stumbled upon a bigger exchange of stolen cars shipped from Asia on a barter.
After that, I was pulled out of the assignment so we could move in and make the arrest, but even then, the handful of his men we managed to bring in wouldn’t sing.
Every single one of them is facing at least ten to twenty behind bars, each with a laundry list so long we couldn’t make out a single charge that would connect to their boss or the cartel.
Since then, it’s been radio silence. He’s been more careful, aside from the occasional drug sell.
Ben looks over his shoulder, motioning for me to come closer.
“There is one thing that stood out to me. Take a look at this.”
Gabe gets up too and we both stand on either side of Agent Walker. Ben points at a series of photos of an older woman who looks to be in her fifties or sixties. She’s carrying the type of tote bag you might get at a grocery store.
The photos show her walking and sitting on a bus bench.
Another series of photos show her looking around, and then setting the tote under the bench.
The same modus operandi as every other transaction but unlike the other drop-offs we’ve seen where the courier is quick to leave after, this woman remains seated.
This time, there are more than a dozen photos of this woman sitting on the bench beside the drop, looking around with her hands folded in her lap.
Our surveillance cameras are programmed to take photos every ten seconds so she must have stayed there for at least ten minutes.
This is odd. Something is off.
“Let’s get to the set where she gets up and leaves.”
Ben grins at me. “That’s the thing. She doesn’t.”
Gabe straightens, quirking an eyebrow at me before looking back down at the monitor.
“Show us.”
The next set of photos show the woman looking up and we catch the moment her mouth opens in surprise, like she says something out loud.
A burly man wearing a wool cap and a scowl can be seen in the next set. He has his shirt collar open to cover his face but his body language indicates he is not happy.
He sits on the other side of the bench, his leg touching the tote.
“Next,” I spit out. I can feel the same burst of adrenaline I experience every time I get close to a break. I can practically feel this man’s anger at this mistake in the transaction.