Duane thumped back down onto his pillow himself, no closer to an answer.
“So, do I get my kiss?” Chad asked softly.
“Go to hell, Chad.”
“Aw, bro,” Chad offered his sympathy and, not long after, his snores.
Chapter 11
Sofia couldn’t help admiring Operation Prime Cause’s jump team leader, also OPC’s founder, because he was putting his life and limb at risk for something he believed in. Steve—who was at least former CIA Special Activities Division, if not former Special Operations Group (he wasn’t saying)—looked completely normal. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, Steve embodied the friendly guy next door who was glad to lend you his lawnmower. And the instant talk shifted from introductions to operations, the change had swept over him—pure business. Even sitting in a circle of Unit operators he didn’t pale by comparison: very driven, very committed.
He and Duane also took to each other right away, which she interpreted as a good sign.
Now she was in the jump team’s operations center. It was in the back corner of a warehouse in the Colón, Panama port. Outside, on the next pier over, the disabled cruise ship they’d arrived on stood out ostentatiously along the industrial section of the waterfront across Manzanillo Bay.
Inside there was just enough room in front of the communications gear for her, the OPC’s man, and the lieutenant assigned by the local chief of police. She wasn’t quite sure of her role here, but appreciated a chance to talk intelligence gathering with another professional. OPC’s man was very forthcoming about their field data collection methodology—something she was glad to reciprocate as much as she could. He often made notes on tactics she mentioned that he said he was aware of but wanted to be sure to incorporate in future operations.
The police lieutenant rapidly grew bored, which she didn’t like. In his job he should be as eager as she was for this type of information.
Today was the actual take-down operation. OPC had already been on the ground for several days prior to The Unit’s arrival, making contacts and being careful not to spook the target.
The rest of the team were gathered around in folding steel chairs or standing—they at least were paying close attention. She’d been unable to read Duane’s expression this morning, his dark sunglasses weren’t helping. No man had ever refused her so graciously.
It hadn’t taken much to figure out that Duane was many things in addition to being a Unit Operator. Duane One and Two embodied the aspects of the helpful fellow soldier and the pure warrior. Duane Three was—against all chance—a Southern gentleman. She hadn’t even known that such men existed anymore. If they ever really had. Sofia expected that history had been filled with far more Rhett Butlers than Ashley Wilkes.
She still didn’t know whether to be charmed or irritated.
“We’re going in,” came over the radio.
In moments, everyone focused on the flat-screen monitors fed from the hidden video cameras they’d planted yesterday in a small house just four blocks north of the warehouse. Sofia could see the jump team entering the living room. They were posing as four Americans, fresh off the ships in Colón’s Free Trade Zone and after a little virginal companionship.
Sofia didn’t know if she’d be able to do that—pretend for even a moment that it was something desirable. They set out food and a small gift table in the dining room. Then they sat down to wait.
“We never know if they’re actually going to show,” OPC’s man said. He hadn’t offered any name other than Joe. The way he was so slow to answer to the name made it obviously not his. Who knew what the leader’s real name was. They were all strictly on a first name basis.
“How often do you get no-shows?”
“Roughly one in four. We do a lot of prep before we get to this stage. Typically five hundred dollars or so has changed hands for promises to deliver. Virgins run three to ten thousand. And—” He tapped a monitor focused on the street outside the house.
A car and then a pair of vans pulled up. Four men climbed out, and began opening doors and shooing out girls. Sofia had to put her hand over her heart as she watched. They were of several races, mostly Latina and black with a few Chinese. None of them could have even been sixteen.
“Uh-oh.” Joe didn’t sound happy.
“What?”
“I’m counting fourteen girls so far. This happens sometimes. When the traffickers think they have deep-pocketed buyers on the hook, they’ll try to sell as many girls as they can at once. We bring extra cash, but making a new deal slows things down.”
“Can’t you take them down now?”
“No. They will just say these are all sisters and cousins and they were invited to bring them to a party. The food and gifts support that. We need the deal itself, on tape, before we can act.”
Sofia zoomed in the images, zeroing in on the men herding the girls up the front walk. “They’re armed. Handguns in their waistbands under their shirts.”
“All four?” Joe didn’t question her. Just took it at face value. “I only spotted it on the leader and one other.”
“All four,” Sofia confirmed. “See how this one bends strangely at the waist when he leans forward, the hammer is jabbing him in the gut. These two carry it in back, you can see their untucked shirts aren’t sliding freely across their backs as they walk. The leader in the jacket either has a very strange chest or he is wearing a twin shoulder rig.”
Joe transmitted all of the information softly to the team.
“What is your team armed with?”
“Their wits.”
Sofia could only stare at him in disbelief.
Joe grimaced, “Firefights on foreign soil isn’t what we do anymore. Also, we can be fully frisked if the sellers get paranoid. Which is almost always.”
In moments the girls, some so young that they probably really were virgins, went in to the “party” set out in the dining room. Even after a confirmation by one of the OPC gugys that it was all for them, they were very hesitant about touching the food or gifts. Finally, the smallest girl reached out and pet a small stuffed dog. That seemed to break the ice as much as anything.
With the girls safely isolated. The men got down to business.
“Where are your men place—” Sofia turned to the police lieutenant, but his seat was empty.
“Maybe he had to hit the bathroom.” Sparing only a quick glance, Joe kept his eyes on his team.
She spun around to look at the Delta team. Duane shook his head and pointed toward the open door.
“The boss seller’s cell phone is ringing,” Joe spoke up.
Duane didn’t even hesitate. He slapped Chad and they both sprinted to the door.
There was a loud yelp of pain from close outside the warehouse.
Sofia turned back in time to see that the bad guy’s leader was just reaching for his phone. His hand stopped inches away from it, then he visibly shrugged when it stopped ringing.
She saw Chad and Duane dragging the battered police lieutenant back into the warehouse.
“Ring his captain,” Duane called out. “We need to know where his men are and how to reach them. Hope to hell that he’s not bent as well.”
Chad turned to Duane. “Twenty and that kiss you owe me says there aren’t any police on station.”
Duane’s grimace said he’d lost some kind of strange bet. He then dug into the lieutenant’s pockets and came up with a badge.
“You,” he pointed at Sofia. “Call the captain and get a squad there on the double.”
She grabbed her phone and had to hunt around for the number. Joe finally found it and handed it to her. Lesson: next time have all essential contacts on speed dial.
“Everyone else,” Duane called out as he tied and gagged the lieutenant, “you’re with me.”
Even before the captain picked up his phone at the station, the entire Delta team was out the door.
This is what Sofia did: live intelligence in the field. But it felt wrong to watch her team sp
rint out the door and not be with them. Her team?
The captain answered and she’d have to think about that later.
“He was one of my best,” the captain sounded furious. “How did those bastards get to him?”
She didn’t need to remind him to focus on the immediate problem because, in between imprecations, he was screaming for a strike team.
At the lieutenant’s van in the warehouse parking lot, Duane paused. It would help if they had some more authentic gear than one measly badge.
It was locked.
“I should have grabbed the keys.” A Delta team’s flexibility meant that he was the mission leader because he’d taken first action. It was part of their deeply-trained unpredictability.
He glanced at Chad, and then at the side window on the van.
Chad rammed a rifle butt against the window—and it bounced off. Bulletproof glass. With a curse, Chad whipped a jimmy tool that he just happened to have in his thigh pocket—there was a reason he liked teaming with Chad; who slid it between the glass and the door. The van unlocked with a snick. In moments they were loaded up with handcuffs and bright yellow jackets that said Policía across them in large letters.
When they’d come up to the van, there had been a couple of forklift operators in the area, running cargo from one warehouse to the next. In the twenty seconds they spent rifling through the lieutenant’s vehicle, this whole area of the warehouse yard had emptied.
As they started running out of the warehouse district, Duane clicked on his radio and called Sofia.
“I’m here,” she responded immediately. “The deal is going fast. Hurry.”
“Already hustling, ma’am.”
The light traffic at the edge of the residential district didn’t even flinch at the sight of a phalanx of six heavily-armed individuals in yellow police jackets, sprinting across the road and racing up the sidewalk. Kids playing soccer in the street were soon a noisy band following along behind them to see what happened.
“Young boys got no sense of self-preservation,” Chad huffed out from close behind him.
“Don’t we know it.”
“Too bad so many of them survive anyway,” Sofia added in one of her punchline tones that forced a laugh out of him.
“Just make sure that the real cops, when they get here, don’t shoot us.”
“Worry. Worry. Worry,” Sofia teased him even though they were in the middle of an operation.
It was the most heartening thing he’d heard all day. Last night he’d turned her down cold. She could have easily decided that he was a jerk and she wanted nothing to do with him.
He’d worried more as she’d descended into her element with the OPC team. She and “Joe” were soon talking about things they never taught mere Unit operators—at least not in any parlance that he recognized. Was it just a subject they were both passionate about, or was she trying to make him jealous as both she and the OPC guy got wound up about intelligence operations? He was finally hoping it was the former, but it didn’t stop one bit of the jealousy.
“Hold short,” Sofia called. “The deal isn’t closed yet. Police are still eight minutes out.”
“No sirens ’til it’s done.”
“I have told them this, but I am not one to be making any promises.”
At the end of the block, he turned to the crowd of boys who’d followed them and pointed emphatically at the ground. “No pasado aquí!”—Not past here! The eldest nodded and stopped the younger ones from following.
He held up three fingers and flagged them to the right around the corner. Half the team split off to go up the next street and cut off any escape that way.
Their team of three continued along the block until they were just two doors from the target house. They quickly ducked down behind a trio of trashcans. Chad and Carla had followed him. That meant Kyle, Melissa, and Richie were covering the back.
“So why are you scaring the daylights out of Sofia?”
Duane twisted around to see Carla watching him from the next garbage can over.
“He’s not scaring her,” Chad spoke from behind his own trash can to Carla’s other side. “She threw herself at him and he totally dissed her. Not nice, bro.”
“I didn’t—” Why was he even trying?
“No woman likes getting all wound up and then being told her man doesn’t want her.”
“I didn’t dis her! I just—”
“—didn’t take her to bed,” Chad pointed out, happy to hoist Duane on his own petard.
“You don’t want her?” Carla glared at him.
“Of course I do.”
“They why did you say no?”
“Yeah, bro, why?”
Duane leaned out from behind his can just long enough to glance at the target building that had once been white but was now a mildewed gray. He begged them to get the damn deal done.
Chad hit him in the head with a wadded up ball of old newspaper that smelled like it might have once been wrapped around a fish. Carla pinged him with an old sock.
This wasn’t happening.
He checked his six—back along the block—but the young boys were still down at the end of the street. The more bored ones had restarted the soccer game while they waited for some action.
His watch said there was at least five more minutes before any cops would be arriving, so they weren’t going to save him from Carla’s interrogation either.
“Hey, I’m the good guy here!”
Duane barely managed to duck an old sneaker that Chad threw at him. Which earned him Carla’s toss of the other dirty sock square in his face.
“Because I like her too much to risk hurting her! Okay?” It snapped out of him hard enough to make his two attackers freeze even though there arms were cocked back with more ammunition.
“Was that so hard?” Carla asked softly.
“Yes. No. I don’t—”
“Go! Go! Go!” Sofia called over the radio.
The other two dumped their garbage and the three of them sprinted up the street side-by-side, unslinging their rifles as they ran.
He didn’t even bother slowing down, but hit the front door at full speed with his shoulder. The frame blew apart as he dove and rolled to a kneeling position, his rifle tucked against his shoulder and aimed at the circle of men and the small knapsack overflowing with money.
Chad dove through an open window as Carla stepped in from the next room that she must have reached through a side window.
The B team came in the back before the bad guys could even brace to run. The girls’ screams shattered the air as Kyle turned aside to make sure they stayed put. But Melissa and Richie were there with rifles at the ready.
By the time the real police arrived, the Delta Team had everyone disarmed and cuffed: the four traffickers and the four American “buyers” from the OPC jump team.
The Carla used her rifle butt to crack the lead trafficker in the balls, hard. He crumpled.
“Resisting arrest,” was all she said.
Duane didn’t argue.
He tasked the others with escorting the jump team outside (with believable shoves and curses). Chad grabbed the knapsack filled with OPC’s seed money and dumped it into an evidence bag that he took away from one of the real police. He and Carla hung back until the aftercare team arrived to transport the frightened girls to safety. No way was he relinquishing anyone other than the traffickers to the real police. Duane dragged the police captain aside when he complained.
Once they were out of sight of the captain’s men, Duane slammed him against the wall. “You said that the lieutenant who tried to betray our team was one of your best. You want to impress me, get him and those four bastard traffickers, who think selling underage girls for profit is a good time, incarcerated. Maybe I’ll trust you after you’ve sent me the balls of all five of the bastards in a baggie. Comprendes?”
“Sí,” the captain looked almost as pissed as Duane felt.
He hadn’t even been aware of
pulling his sidearm and ramming it up under the man’s chin. He reholstered it. “Mis disculpas.” But not very sorry. “I’ll be sure that your bosses and the justice department are notified if you let any of them slip through your fingers.”
The captain straightened his uniform. And glared at Duane before stalking out of the room. By the time Duane reentered the room, the head trafficker had to be carried out, now his face was bloodied as well. Maybe he really hadn’t known about the lieutenant—who’d jolted to his feet the moment the traffickers’ faces had come on screen. Should have been Duane’s cue. He wouldn’t miss it again.
Sofia rolled up in the corrupt lieutenant’s police van and they hustled the jump team into the back before driving them all back to the warehouse.
They did this for five setups over two days, all within a ten-block radius around the warehouse to either side of the Free Trade Zone.
Sofia tried to take some reassurance from the fact that Panama was a Tier 2 country on the US government’s human trafficking categorization—which meant not the best, but making an effort to fight and prosecute it. It was the tier in which the United States ranked forty percent of the world’s countries. An almost equal number of countries’ citizens lived in Tier 2 “Watchlist” or Tier 3 conditions. Tier 3. The twenty-seven worst countries in the world for human trafficking. A level that Venezuela recently had fallen into after a long and painful slide. Much worse and they’d end up joining the three “specials”: Libya, Somalia, and Yemen.
The US average of four trafficking cases per hundred thousand of population sounded awful—roughly four thousand per year. Then Joe had showed her Venezuela’s and other Tier 3 numbers, mostly in the one-to-three hundred per hundred thousand.
“And you guys are going after them one trafficker at a time?”
Joe had shrugged and replied, “It’s what we do.”
Seeing the terrified girls they’d rescued over the last two days made her ill. And this was a good country? An ally in the war against trafficking humans?
Operation Prime Cause had arranged five separate “buys” while in Panama. Twenty-three traffickers in jail and one-third of them were women, which was beyond comprehension, selling off other people’s children. Fifty-three girls and eleven boys rescued—none of them over sixteen and many with over three years “experience” in the trade. Plus one goddamn police lieutenant who she’d been promised wouldn’t see the light of day again in his natural lifetime—apparently a first cousin to one of the traffickers. The captain had personally overseen all the successive OPC missions himself, earning him a handshake and a “well done” from Duane after the last one.
Wild Justice (Delta Force Book 3) Page 12