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Could today possibly lead me to the man who wreaked havoc and hell on my family and so many others? This has to be the place. June saw the pictures online. She remembered it. Mentioned something about drugs, too.
Luis Navarro and Branko are partners. It makes sense that they’d both be involved with this place. A rush of anger floods my chest. I can get them both.
Quinn’s face flickers in front of my eyes. He’d think this is stupid, me going in here without any backup. Part of me knows he’d be right, too. But the other part of me can’t let this whole thing go. I should walk away, grateful to escape alive last night after destroying Denis Stepanov. But an inkling of a thought festers in my gut, warning me I’m not finished.
That Branko’s not finished.
So here I am. By myself to avenge my family and everyone else whose lives were poisoned by the low-life scumbag.
I grasp the door handle to El Mariachi, a dingy Mexican restaurant in East Las Vegas. My stomach roils at the pungent smells of spices and herbs deep fried with beef and beans. Dark-brown ceiling fans spin lazily above my head, whisking the stench of grease around the room.
There are a few tables scattered around the restaurant. Looking around, it’s pretty clear that the word “restaurant” is really overstating this place.
Patrons are bent over their plates of food. They stare at me and talk quietly, as if they know something I don’t.
But I already know everything.
That’s why I’m here.
I step toward a thin wooden easel, which I guess is supposed to be the hostess podium. An eerie quiet settles over the place, and a shiver slithers down my spine when my eyes meet the young girl’s terrified, sunken ones. Her stringy hair doesn’t look like it’s been combed for days, and her clothes are spotted with dark stains.
Classic signs of sex trafficking victims.
June was right.
Blood pulses hard against my throat, my gut wrenching harder with each step I take. Even though I’ve walked into plenty of places just like this over the past few years, it never ceases to make me physically ill.
Because it could have been me standing at that cracked wooden stand.IfI was lucky, unlike Charly.
I clench and unclench my fingers, my gaze sweeping over the cracked linoleum tile floor toward a set of double red doors that lead to the basement of the restaurant.
The others have to be close.
My self-imposed instructions are clear.
Find the rest of the girls who are being held here. Rescue them. Kill Luis Navarro and Branko Ivanova, the two missing links.
But I need to get inside those doors first.
“El baño?”
The girl nods and points to the doors. Her teeth clatter together, her skin pale and sallow, a contrast to the dark circles under her eyes.
Those motherfuckers. I’m going to dunk their heads in the deep fryer when I get my hands on them.
The Glock 19 stuck in the waistband of my jeans presses insistently into my spine to remind me of what we’re here to do. A trickle of sweat drizzles down my back, and my halter top clings tight to me.
I’m coming for you guys.
For years, we’ve been cutting off heads of a hydra. More always grow back, none ever lead us to the man responsible for the murders of countless, innocent victims. Every time I ambush one of these human trafficking cells, I pray Branko’s there, that I can be the one to end him and his reign of terror.
I will find him. And when I do, he’ll die an excruciatingly painful death for what he did to us. Him, Luis—every last one of those evil bastards.
Because Charly was only one of his victims.
And the rest need to be avenged.
I slowly walk toward the doors, and with one look back at the restaurant patrons, I push through them. Creeping past the signs for the bathrooms, I plunge myself into the darkness at the end of the hallway. The broken wooden floorboards creak under my feet. My head jerks left and right. The door to the basement has to be here somewhere. I run my hand against the tattered paneling and move past the empty office. A door opens behind me, and a young guy in a torn red t-shirt pops out of the refrigerator.
