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FBI New York Field Office
26 Federal Plaza, New York City
March 24
It had taken some doing, but the Asian Criminal Enterprise Task Force—C-6 as the squad was designated in the New York field office—had finally gotten a Title III so they could wiretap Chen Long Hua’s phone. A damn good thing, too, considering what they’d intercepted and pieced together from his cryptic Friday-night call. A third prostitute had been killed. Same MO, different location, according to what the Bureau had learned from the NYPD. The second prostitute had been killed in Manhattan, the first and third in Queens. No tangible link between them other than their occupation and the fact that they were Asian. Except that they all had been taken to an abandoned building, drugged, and subjected to repeated, violent sex, then killed, their throats slit with a combat knife. In all three cases, the only thing left behind had been a copper coin with a python on one side and a Greek goddess on the other. Probably the killer’s sick idea of payment for services rendered.
And there was one other connection. All three women worked at one of three Fukienese brothels the Bureau had linked to Chen—who was known on the streets as Xiao Long or “Little Dragon,” the leader, or Dai Lo, of the Red Dragons.
Chen had been ripping mad in his Friday-night phone call to his enforcer. He was convinced that Lo Ma, a.k.a. “Old Horse” and his gang, the Black Tigers, were responsible for killing his girls and trying to put him out of business. He wanted revenge. And he wanted it now.
Special Agent Derek Parker took a gulp of lukewarm coffee and turned back to his computer. His squad had kept an eye on the Red Dragons all weekend. The gang had been suspiciously quiet. That meant they were planning something. If C-6 wasn’t all over this like white on rice, an all-out turf war could erupt. Proactive measures had already been taken. Derek had alerted the NYPD’s Fifth Precinct in Chinatown and the 109th Precinct in Flushing to flood the areas with patrol cars. Reinforcements were ready to move in if Chen’s guys showed up in numbers.
Scanning his monitor, Derek continued typing up the FD-302 that detailed Friday night’s surveillance. He ignored the bing that announced the arrival of another e-mail. He’d already made a conscious decision to ignore all of them, even though his in-box was exploding in typical Monday-morning fashion. What he was doing took precedence over everything else. He was working a volatile case, with links to international organized crime. This pissing match between Xiao Long and Lo Ma could screw up years of hard work.
The Bureau had invested a lot in this investigation. They’d sent Derek down to Quantico for two weeks of specialized training. When he returned to the New York field office, he was reassigned to C-6. With one special agent out on maternity leave and another two transferred to counterterrorism, C-6 was short-staffed at a time they couldn’t afford to be.
Derek had been a logical choice to move to that squad. He’d worked just about every kind of violent crime, from kidnapping and extortion to bank robberies and murder for hire. His previous investigations had led him to cross paths with the key gang members currently under surveillance. He knew the players. He knew the turf.
And now he knew the drill.
With a quick glance at his watch, Derek saw he was running right on schedule. Eight-thirty. Early for this squad, who worked the streets till all hours of the night. Not for him. His Ranger training had taken care of that. The army had taught him leadership, respect, loyalty, and discipline. Those traits had stayed with him—discipline included. Up at six-thirty. Workout from seven to eight. Shower and dress. Grab a quick, high-protein breakfast. Then report for duty.
“Derek, good, you’re at your desk.”
Derek swiveled around to see his squad leader, SSA Antonio Sanchez, standing beside his cubicle, elbow perched on the divider.
“Hey, Tony,” he greeted him. “I didn’t know you were in yet.”
“Ditto. I thought you might show up a little late, since you worked half the weekend. Besides, your targets are first heading off to bed.”
“Yeah, but after what we heard Friday night and an eerily quiet weekend, it feels like we’re perched on a keg of dynamite. We can’t afford a full-scale gang war. I’m getting things in order for the U.S. attorney’s office. Early this afternoon, I’ve got a couple of interviews with our informants. They’ll be wired and hitting the streets to pick up on any neighborhood vibes. The NYPD is doing their thing. And the squad and I will rotate shifts in the van, listening.”
Tony gave an emphatic nod. At forty-five, he’d been with the Bureau for sixteen years. He was tight with his squad, but he was every bit a leader. He was shrewd. He was intense. And he knew his team. Including its newest member.
“There’s no doubt that a strike is imminent. Do what you have to. But plan on a short interruption around ten. There’s a meeting I need you to take.”
Derek’s brows rose. “When did this come up?”
“Over the weekend. It’ll only chew up half an hour of your time.”
“What’s it about, and who’s it with?”
“It’s about the Penelope Truman case. You’re the case agent of record. The Trumans requested that you meet with the new consultant her parents just hired.”
The Truman case? That was the last thing Derek had expected. That case had been cold for nearly a year. Plus, it was a missing persons case, unrelated to anything handled by C-6. So why was Tony inserting himself, especially when it wasn’t his style to volunteer one of his team members without any forewarning?
“I don’t get it,” Derek stated bluntly. “Is there some new lead I don’t know about? Did the Trumans hear from their daughter?”
“I wasn’t given any specifics.” Tony straightened and turned back toward his office. “Just call up the file, print out the related paperwork, and take the meeting. Answer whatever questions you can, as cooperatively as you can.” A pause. “Consider it a personal favor.”
“A personal favor,” Derek repeated slowly. “For who?”
“Me. The Trumans. And a couple of our people down in CIRG.”
It was almost time.
Sloane wandered around the table in the small meeting room on the twenty-second floor, rolling her bottle of Poland Spring between her palms and steeling herself.
