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She pushed to her feet.
Felicity watched her go.
And just like that, the idea of being alone sat wrong. “Ruth.”
The woman paused. Turned back.
Felicity exhaled, shifting forward, elbows on her knees. “You don’t have to go.” She huffed a laugh. “We can … share lunch.” She nudged the basket with her foot. “The wrap’s actually not bad.” Her mouth twitched, almost a smile. “And I’m partial to chocolate muffins.”
30
Takedown
It took Felicity a week to get a sense of the routine on Caleb Voss’s farm. The man made three major mistakes. The first was his lack of cybersecurity. The second — he tracked his own vehicles. And the third — routine.
Once she identified the cellphones that moved in lockstep with the vehicles leaving the farm, she cast a line. A harmless-looking text. Two numskulls took the bait. That gave her access to plant tracking software so she could keep an eye on them beyond the farm.
All of that led to her picking Ronan up in Galina’s car and heading for a neighboring town. They arrived fifteen minutes ahead of the minivan’s scheduled stop. For four days in a row, the driver followed the same routine. Farm. Here. Back to farm the next day. She parked a block over, easing in along the curb in front of a church. Choir practice was underway. Voices carrying through open doors, people coming and going. If anyone got curious, they were just waiting.
She glanced at the time. Two minutes late.
Ronan straightened and tapped her arm. “Showtime.” He leaned forward, flicking on the small video recorder mounted to the dash.
Felicity lifted the camera, settling the weight of the lens into her left hand. She zoomed in and started shooting.
An expectant silence filled the car as they watched the minivan pull into the driveway. The driver hopped out. His passenger joined him on the driver’s side.
They paused, scanning the street — waited for a passing vehicle to clear — before sliding the door open.
“The hell?” Ronan growled.
For a moment, she stopped shooting. “That’s—”
The word caught. She swallowed it and snapped back into motion, firing off frame after frame as six women hurried from the van and up the steps under the watch of two men, their hands hovering near where concealed weapons might be.
She kept shooting until they disappeared from view.
Lowering the camera to her lap, she murmured, “The packers.”
Ronan exhaled. “It just gets worse. Forced labor?”
“Possible.”
She leaned back against the seat, eyes fixed on the house. It was a copy of dozens on the street, mid- to low-income, nothing remarkable. There had been no reports of suspicious activity at the address. She’d checked.
And yet…
What went on under that roof? Were those women undocumented workers? Shielded illegals? Or worse — forced laborers, like Ronan said.
A heavy silence settled in the car. Ronan broke it. “What do we do?”
She could feel his urge to storm the place and pull those women out. “We keep our heads. Gather more intel.”
Her words were barely out when a sedan — a BMW — pulled in behind the van.
She lifted the camera and started shooting.
A man climbed out. A woman from the passenger side.
