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1
JUSTICE
Apparently, camo doesn’t make me invisible to thorns. Pulling free of another grabby claw in the brush-choked woods, I squat by the tree line and pull down my night vision goggles. A green-tinged version of the so-calledmassage parlor—a battered, white-shingled two-story—whirs into focus. The bleak-home-turned-bleaker-business sits on the poorest edge of a rural Pennsylvania town.
Rural as hell. Perfect for bad guys. No local police force. People here rely on Staties. That is, if they decide it’s even worth their time to call the state police.
A press of a button on the side of my NVGs sets up automatic photos. I hear the click as I scan the gravel-and-stone backyard, the rust-coated propane tank propped on wooden legs like a mini-submarine dry-docked after fifty years at sea, and the unlit outline of a steel back door.
Dingy, dirty, and depressing.
Given the choice, any decent person would steer clear. Guess that makes me indecent. I want inside. Call it a childhood dream, making good on a vow. Call it redemption, making it up to Hope. Call it revenge, making them pay for Hope’s death.
Patience, Justice. Reconnaissance always comes first.
Grrr. Just what I need, Momma’s oft-heard mantra popping up like a jack-in-the-box to wave a scolding, white-gloved finger at me.
Got it, Momma. I’m doing recon. That woman would double-check NASA’s calculations. And she has the degrees to do it.
I zoom in on the back door as my breath wafts across my glasses like a green fog. No exterior handle. We’ll have to pop it.
I scan up. My auto-shutter snaps photos of barred and blackened windows.
I scan over to a rickety fire escape leading to a metal-gated door secured with thick, elephant-proof chains.
These guys aren’t taking any chances. Probably because they have no security cameras. See no evil or, at least, record no evil.
I unclench my grinding jaw. Not long now. After two years of planning, the mission as dear to me as my own heartbeat—breaking up the human trafficking ring this home is part of—is only a few weeks away.
My earpiece clicks, and my brother’s voice whispers into my ear. “Justice, youse… uh, you in position yet?”
Tony. He works so hard to weed out his South Philly. I like his accent. But being adopted into my big, diverse family has shown me people can have some weird issues.
“Aw, Tone, can’t spot me? Is it my expert camouflage or that stealth gene you’re missing?”
Truth? Even though I know he’s close, I can’t spot him either.
Tony snorts. The sound tightropes between amused and annoyed. “Yeah, you know as much about being a Choctaw as I do about being a chihuahua.”
A sharp and unexpected knife of pain slices my heart. I rejected that part of myself, my heritage, after my father’s abandonment of me and my sister. I try not to think about the loss or acknowledge it out loud. “It’s in my blood. Only thing in your blood, paisano, is cement shoes and boosting cars.”
Laughter feathers through my headphones. “Just get the pic—”
Bam! The back door crashes open and a dark-haired teen, maybe fifteen, sprints out.
I watch her run, all gangly arms and desperate action. She’s wearing a too-loose bustier and a thong as inconsequential as her chest.
Another bang of the door and a man breaks out after her. He hauls back with a belt thick enough to double as a swing.
Fuck. “Tony.”
“No. Think larger mission here. Not one girl. All of ’em.”
The heavy slap of leather across flesh ricochets like a gunshot.
Soundless, the girl keeps running, toward the woods, toward me.
Tony’s voice, tight and fierce, “Stay put, Justice.”
