Page 122 of Inflict

“Nothing,” Connor interjected firmly. “It will fix nothing. There will always be a group of men who will only see the target on my back because of what they want to gain, or for others, the revenge they feel the need to seek out on me. There will always be the ones who push against what I demand, because they’ve been spoiled and accustomed to their business in the trade for too long.”

“You’re taking a huge risk here,” Killian warned.

Connor understood that.

He was still willing to do it.

“It’s more than them,” he explained quieter. “It’s her, too. We can’t ever understand what it was like for Evelyn, or others just like her, who were never given any other option. And for what? Their happiness is sold, a price is put on their soul, for the instant and fleeting gratification of someone else. So, I burned the organization to the ground, and now I can either fix it, or wait until someone comes back for me. I’m choosing to fix it my way.”

Killian frowned. “I get—”

“Respect that.”

Connor didn’t give his friend a chance to respond before he got out of the car, and headed toward the building just a block away from where they had parked. He was sure Killian had parked so far down, just to give Connor the opportunity to think and consider what the ramifications would be for what he was about to do.

He didn’t have much to think about.

He’d already done too much of that.

Connor walked into the Federal Bureau building, and tried not to feel like a million eyes were on him as he strolled across the main entrance. He had already made a call to the number that handled the trafficking taskforce, and was given a date and time to be at the building if he truly had some kind of information that would help the agents.

He had a whole feckin’ life worth of information.

At the reception desk, Connor gave his name, and was directed to sit. He only waited less than five minutes before two men joined him, sitting across from him in the waiting area. Both wore black suits, and neither looked particularly welcoming.

“Connor O’Neil,” one said. “We weren’t sure if it was really you.”

“Who the feck else would use my name?”

The agent shrugged. “You’d be surprised.”

The shorter of the two men leaned forward, putting his clasped hands between his knees. “We noticed your father had gone off the radar a short while ago. Imagine our surprise to find he had met a very unfortunate end in Ireland.”

“Did you get a decent look inside his house in Jersey?”

The taller of the two smirked. “We did.”

“Then you’re really going to want the rest of this.”

Connor handed over the file, and sat back in his seat, waiting. He knew what the agents would find inside, the missing information he had taken about his father, further proof of Sean being the Strangler who had evaded authorities for decades. But beyond that, Connor had also included a lot of other information he had been able gather.

Every single name of each and every man in the O’Neil organization that had a slave currently living in one of their homes or properties. It included information on whorehouses all across the city, which men they could be traced back to, and how exactly their names and involvement might be hidden on the surface.

But the information also went further again.

The agent held up a photo of Sean standing with his good and very old friend, Trevor. One of the two traffickers—major traffickers. “This man is one of the leaders of the largest human trafficking ring in the world.”

Connor nodded. “Seems he is.”

“A picture is nothing, Connor.”

“Also true.” Connor smiled. “However, there are girls in salons and whorehouses all over this city that will point to that man, and a few others who work with him, and name him. Several girls—too many. Forty-three that were delivered to businesses all across New York just last month alone. Most won’t speak English, so make sure you have translators on hand. I gave you the places to find them, now you do the work.”

The agent looking through the file glanced up. “And what do you want, Connor?”

“Well, that’s the fun part for me, isn’t it?”

“Pardon?”