Sonia didn’t partner well. She thrived in her authority and command of her office, but trusting a partner only resulted in disaster. She called Trace her partner, but she was technically his supervisor, so she didn’t have to worry about him making decisions without consulting her, or going behind her back to plan an operation that could get agents hurt or worse.
But Dean Hooper had looked her in the eye with a confidence that spoke of unwavering honesty, and she wanted to trust him. She had no choice, really. He’d blindsided her with not only his arrival but his identity. And if Xavier Jones thought that the FBI and ICE had made a major connection in his activities, he’d cut his losses and run.
She’d give Hooper tonight.
Sonia heard her team report that Jones’s black Escalade had pulled to a stop in the driveway. She and Trace sprinted to their original position and she grabbed her field binoculars to observe the scene at the house.
“What’s going on?” Trace asked her.
“A minute.” She watched Dean Hooper on the porch, standing next to Sam Callahan. Dean was an inch shorter, but with a far greater presence, for lack of a better word. She watched as nothing happened for a full minute. Then the driver got out.
Sonia’s mouth went dry. The coffee she’d been drinking all night churned painfully in her gut, and she froze, staring. She had to be wrong. It had been years since she’d seen Charlie Cammarata; how could she instantly recognize him?
As the driver closed his door, she saw part of Charlie’s familiar arm-length tattoo. But her mind filled in the rest of the intricate black cross with vivid, blood-red letters dripping down the center:
La vendetta è mia.
Vengeance is mine.
What was the disgraced, renegade ex-ICE agent doing working for a known criminal?
What are you up to, Charlie?
Charlie opened the back door of the Escalade and Xavier Jones, the devil himself, stepped out. Sonia had half a mind to put him in her sights and kill him. That she also wanted to put a bullet in Charlie scared her. She thought she’d gotten over his betrayal. She thought she’d forgiven him.
The urge was short-lived—going to prison wouldn’t help them find Maya or any of the buyers Jones supplied with a steady stream of young foreign women. She needed the bastard alive in order to identify and arrest every damn one of his business associates. She would go through their files one by one and track down every woman they’d sold into sex slavery or forced labor and give them a future. The ones who were still alive.
She watched Jones walk to his front porch, and his confident stride and arrogant half-smile told her Hooper’s arrival wasn’t a surprise. Sonia noted that Charlie acted like a bodyguard, imposing and fearsome. Greg Vega was there, too, and she sighed in relief. She’d been worried about her spy, knowing the huge risk he had taken in contacting her. But he was safe, at least for now. She hoped he had something solid for her so she could get him and his pregnant wife into a safe house.
Charlie glared at the feds while Callahan handed Jones the warrant. Did Callahan or Hooper or any of the other longtime agents recognize him? Probably not. Charlie’s punishment had been swift, and while it hadn’t involved prison time, he’d lost everything. As well he should have. Before his fall from grace, he’d been primarily undercover, and few agents outside of the then-INS knew his name, let alone his face.
Charlie was here because he had his own vendetta against Jones or someone close to Jones, Sonia was certain. Charlie did nothing without revenge as the motive. It didn’t matter if it was his revenge or that of others—at least, that’s how it had been in the past. But now? Sonia didn’t know. She hadn’t seen him in ten years. Was he the feds’ contact? It made sense. How Hooper knew about the travel, when they left the airport. But Sonia didn’t see a man like Charlie Cammarata giving anything to the FBI. He’d never had an ounce of respect for that agency; he’d barely tolerated his own employer.
Dammit, she wished she could hear what they were saying! Sitting on the sidelines was excruciating, almost as painful as giving up control—and to the FBI, no less. She hoped she wasn’t making a huge mistake giving Hooper the lead.
“Dammit, Charlie, what are you doing with Jones?” she muttered.
“Who?” Trace asked, looking through his own field goggles. “Who’s Charlie?”
Trace had been in high school when Charlie was fired. He wouldn’t have known him. “Charlie Cammarata,” she said reluctantly. “My partner when I was working out of El Paso.”
She breathed easier when Trace didn’t comment, thinking he didn’t know about what happened. Her relief was short-lived.
“Why is a former INS agent working for Jones?”
Trace sounded like Charlie had gone to the dark side, become one of the bad guys. And while Charlie was no saint, he wasn’t trafficking in humans. “If I had to guess, he’s working a job.”
“For us?”
“No.” For himself.
“We have to report it.”
“I know.”
“I can do it,” he said quietly. “Considering your history with—”
“I’ll do it,” she snapped. Trace didn’t know half the history she had with Charlie Cammarata. Most of the closed-door disciplinary hearing ten years ago with the Office of Professional Responsibility was still classified or sealed, and Sonia would make sure it remained so as long as she breathed.
But Charlie’s involvement with Jones was one big-ass fucking wrench in the works.
CHAPTER
THREE
Towering was the only word Dean Hooper could think of to describe the Jones residence. With three-story ceilings, a sweeping staircase, and an excessively large great room with floor-to-ceiling windows, during the day it would have a view of Devils Lake and the San Joaquin Valley beyond. The decor was dark, rustic, and minimal, with a cloying scent of Pine Sol and wood polish. Not a speck of dust or a cobweb in sight.
Jones had his fingers in many, many pies outside of his consulting firm. He owned enough property to make Donald Trump jealous, and enough toys to send up red flags to the IRS. Had Dean not already been looking at Jones after taking down Thomas Daniels and finding Jones’s name in Daniels’s records, the IRS would have launched their own investigation. But Jones had been audited twice in the last eight years, and the IRS could not find anything illegal.
His longtime friend, a U.S. Treasury Department analyst, had told him, “My gut tells me the guy is dirty, but every path I follow somehow ends up legitimate. I’ve been working on this for months and I’m no further along. You’re the whiz kid. Maybe you can find what I’m missing.”
Dean didn’t always like his reputation; it put him in a place with few friends and lots of people waiting for him to screw up. But he did see patterns of illegal behavior in the numbers that others missed, including computers. It was the human element. Putting the information together in different ways and factoring in human psychology, coupled with the personality of his target. That experience, and intuition, couldn’t be replicated by a computer.
This was the first time Dean had met Xavier Jones in person, and he wasn’t wasting a moment. Already he had better insight into his character and personality. Clean to a fault. Sanitary. Uptight that strangers were in his house touching his things. Extremely confident that the FBI would find nothing incriminating, irritated and arrogant at the same time. There was nothing personal—no photos, diplomas, or awards of recognition. If he had any of these things, they were hidden from guests.
“I’m happy to assist in your investigation, Agent Hooper,” Jones said, “but I’m afraid you aren’t going to find what you’re looking for.”
“What am I looking for?”
Jones shrugged, his smirk arrogant. “Who knows? A businessman does well, and the government thinks I don’t pay my fair share. I can assure you, Agent Hooper, my tax returns are squeaky clean.”
And that, Dean knew, was his biggest obstacle. As far as he could figure, Jones was paying
his taxes. Jones’s main business enterprise was his consulting firm—he lobbied both state and federal governments on behalf of a huge number of clients, mostly the big-money players like city government, Indian gaming, and labor.
Jones glanced at the armed goon standing at his side and Dean said in a preemptive move, in case Callahan didn’t see the weapon strapped to the goon’s belt, “You do have a permit for that gun.”
The hulking man stepped forward. His tattoo bulging ndetta mia on his arm. Vendetta? Interesting.
Jones stopped his bodyguard with a glance. “He doesn’t need one. He lives here.”
“And did he bring the gun into Mexico?”
“You’re beginning to irritate me, Agent Hooper.”
I’m sure I am.
“Just want to make sure your gorilla doesn’t make any sudden moves.”
The gorilla comment made the goon scowl.
“You may leave now, Agent Hooper.”
“I’d love to, it’s certainly past my bedtime, but the subpoena states that you are required to turn over all financial documents immediately to my office. Agent Callahan will go with you and provide a receipt for everything we confiscate. We’ll also require your hard drive and any other computers, flash drives, or disks you have.”
Anger and annoyance crossed Jones’s face. He didn’t like being told what to do. So Dean pushed, refraining from showing too much satisfaction. He loved his job.
“We can wait for your attorney if you like, but I’m not leaving until we have everything we came for.”
“You’re fishing, Agent Hooper. I’m not giving you anything. My attorney will be fighting this subpoena in court first thing tomorrow morning.”
Dean showed a concerned, understanding expression. “I understand your frustration, Mr. Jones, but you can’t refuse to comply with this subpoena. The judge agreed that to leave the documents in your possession could potentially cause said documents to disappear or be altered. We have the authority to seize everything in this warrant now, and I only offered to wait for your attorney as a courtesy.”
A fire lit Jones’s eyes and Dean caught a glimpse of the criminal underneath the facade of a respected businessman. Cold, calculating, and criminally brilliant. Dean saw his own head on a platter held by Jones, and that pleased him. He was getting to this guy, which was the whole purpose of this exercise.
I will put you in prison, Xavier Jones. That’s a promise.
Dean kept a level head and let Jones quietly fume. Patience was, fortunately, Dean’s strong suit. Jones quickly got himself under control, showing Dean that while he was a narcissistic racketeer and suspected human trafficker, self-preservation was at the top of his list. He wouldn’t slip up because he lost his temper. He was too sharp for that.
Yet Jones’s methodical approach to business might also be his downfall. Criminals like Jones need to keep all of their accounts balanced, all the dollars counted and recounted. Dean could use that. Already, after ten minutes in Jones’s presence, he had new ideas to pursue using Jones’s financial history as the foundation for his case. Watching his reaction had proven hugely beneficial, as Dean had suspected.
Finding ICE Agent Sonia Knight involved with this character could prove to be a real break. She might see something he didn’t because she knew far more about the money trail in human trafficking than he did.
Sonia Knight had testified in no less than five major human trafficking cases in the last two years. Dean had watched one hearing on closed-circuit television after Knight’s squad had taken over an FBI case and arrested a husband-and-wife team who lured women from China to be domestic servants. Only “servant” meant “slave” to those who held the contracts. The women, here illegally, were stripped of all their papers and identity, and then subjected to forced sex, long hours of labor, and no pay—all “earnings” were used to repay the “fee” to bring them to America in the first place. They were kept in line with threats and their illegal status. Sonia’s team had uncovered the operation and took all the players out. It was a major coup for ICE. Sonia’s written report on how the investigation played out was now used as part of ICE and FBI undercover training.
Dean had long admired Sonia Knight, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to control her. A case like Xavier Jones required delicacy.
Jones said to his gorilla, “Watch them closely. They take nothing that isn’t explicitly on this warrant. Understood?”
“Yes, Mr. Jones.”
“I’ll be in my bedroom.”
“I’ll join you,” Dean said. No way was he letting Jones out of his sight until Callahan had everything in their possession. “Call in the rest of the team, Sam. It’s going to be a long night.”
Dawn broke over the Sierra Nevadas, tracing the mountains in bright orange. Any other person would have paused to stare at the awesome vista, but Xavier Jones had no use for pretty scenery. He’d been quietly fuming at the way his possessions had been handled by the FBI. Pawing through his personal belongings, touching his clothing—everything would have to be laundered.
He wasn’t surprised when his phone rang before six A.M., not thirty minutes after the FBI left. Nor was he surprised that it was Marchand.
“I heard about your trouble.”
“It’s not a problem.”
“It had better not be.”
His anger at what the FBI had put him through simmered. They would find nothing in his records; did they think he was an idiot? They were fishing, nothing more, but the knowledge that they had a grand jury giving his finances a rectal exam infuriated him. He was quite good with his money and he knew no one had talked. Everyone had as much to lose as he did, but more than that, no one had all the information necessary to do him serious damage.
“You have no need to worry about your shipment,” he said.
“We’re not going to talk about this here.”
“I have protection.” No way was the FBI wiretapping his phone. He had state-of-the-art security to prevent it.
“We’ll meet. Tonight.”
Xavier didn’t like Noel Marchand, but he was one of his best customers, on both ends—importing and exporting. In this business, one didn’t have to like one’s business associates. As long as they paid and did their job with discretion, Xavier was happy to do business with them. Besides, he wasn’t in it to make friends. He’d buy whatever friends he needed through his philanthropic donations.
“Here?” Xavier asked, loath to bring the man into his sanctuary, but it was a gesture of goodwill, and right now Xavier needed to keep Marchand happy.
“Of course not. Midnight. Your restaurant.”
Xavier had purchased a riverfront restaurant last year and was renovating it. The place was convenient and private, off the west River Road. It was Xavier’s turf, so Marchand wasn’t overly upset.
“I’ll be there.”
He hung up and stood on the balcony of his bedroom. Marchand was a minor annoyance compared to what had just happened with the FBI. They had gone through his things. Pawed everything with greasy fingers. Pictures were crooked, drawers misaligned, dirty footprints on his polished wood floor.
He dialed his secretary on her cell phone. She worked out of his consulting office, but handled both personal and professional appointments. And while he had no desire to screw her, Denise provided him with a weekly blow job that was satisfying. He refused to stick his dick into any man or woman; what other men had been there before him? Disgusting.
“Call in the cleaning service,” he demanded. “I need them to come early—I want the house cleaned top to bottom, before noon.”
He next called Craig Gleason, the attorney and head lobbyist who ran the day-to-day management at XCJ Consulting. “I’ll be coming by late this morning for a briefing. Have you had any strange calls or visitors?”
“Define strange.”
“This isn’t a joke, Craig. There’s been some excitement here at the house. I want to make sure that reporters and other vultures aren’t cir
cling.”
“It’s a Wednesday during the middle of a budget crisis in the California capitol—business as usual.”
“Good. Just put everything I need to know together and the status of the key bills we’re pushing. I’ll give you one hour; use it wisely.”
“Yes, sir.”
More often than not, for the last twenty-some years he had called himself Noel Marchand. He stood on the balcony of his penthouse suite at the Hyatt Hotel across from the California State Capitol. He rarely came to America, and when he did he took a great many precautions. Of course, he was registered under a false identity: Pierre Devereaux, a French Canadian from Montreal. It amused him to remember that he had, in fact, been born in Montreal and was part French Canadian. But his life as Franz Corbert had ended when he was nine, when his father killed his mother and fled to South America with Franz and his younger brother Tobias. He’d never returned to Canada even after his father died; he had no attachment to the country.
Nor did he care for the United States. He could not be king here, no matter what he did or who he controlled. He preferred places where he could wield power so great that when he killed, no one questioned his action. Where, when his car drove past, people cowered. Where, when he walked into a room, the women did what he said, and if he had to punish them, no one asked why.
Americans had money, and rich Americans liked their toys. He provided the toys; Xavier Jones provided the buyers.
His business certainly wasn’t limited to the States, but Americans usually overpaid for everything, and considering the risks of importing under the federal radar, Noel felt justified in charging his North American buyers far more than he needed to cover his expenses.
He paced his hotel room, antsy, yet well aware that keeping to himself until the Saturday-night exchange would protect him. The less time he spent in the States, the less opportunity that a savvy cop might recognize him. He wasn’t worried about just any cop—there were only a handful who could identify him as Noel Marchand—but one of those called Sacramento home. He wouldn’t have come here this early at all, except for the situation with the Zamora kid.
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