Thompson silenced her phone with a sigh and stuffed it into the glove box. Thirty seconds later, she heard it vibrate-rasping against the van’s registration like a rattlesnake’s warning.
“Lovers’ quarrel?” Garfield quipped, his eyes glinting with mischief. He’d been making pointed comments like that all day long. She wondered what he’d heard-how much he knew. But she didn’t want to get into it with him, especially in a van full of potential witnesses. Besides, they had a job to do. Bad guys to catch. That’s what her dad, now a captain with the Hartford PD, told her as a kid every time he left for work. It had never failed to make her smile back then-and much to her father’s consternation, it turned out to be the only thing she’d ever wanted to do when she grew up.
The surveillance van was parked on one of the narrow side streets off Allegheny Avenue, in the Port Richmond neighborhood of North Philly. It was a working-class neighborhood-Polish, mostly, though the Albanian population had been on the rise of late, as had that of the Latvians, Ukrainians, and Lithuanians-and, in contrast to the swanky, condo-studded neighborhoods that’d been popping up all over Philadelphia, the only concessions to luxury in sight were the ass-ends of several windowmounted air conditioners, dripping onto the concrete below.
The sign in the storefront window declared Little Louie’s closed, but there’d been two men inside all day. Armed men, if the outlines of their tracksuits were any indication. Mostly, they just sat and drank, the better part of six hours spent shooting the shit about soccer, vodka, and assorted sexual conquests both real and imagined.
It wasn’t until Petrela showed up that their conversation turned to the missing girls.
Luftar Petrela was perhaps the single unlikeliest proprietor of an Italian restaurant who’d ever lived. Ghost-pale and wire-thin, he looked as though he’d never felt the kiss of the Mediterranean sun on his cheeks or experienced the warm comfort of a bowl of spaghetti Bolognese. His hair and eyebrows were thick and dark, but in a manner that suggested Slavic, not Italian. And of course, there was the fact he’d never actually learned to cook-he’d been too busy hurting people at the behest of his uncle, Tomor Petrela, local capo of the Albanian Mafia.
None of which mattered much to the clientele of Little Louie’s, who to a one worked for Petrela, and mostly showed up so his list of people who needed hurting didn’t include them.
A burst of rapid-fire Albanian, followed by Bashkim’s uninflected translation.
Petrela: “Have they eaten?”
Purple Tracksuit: “They claimed they were not hungry.”
Petrela: “They must eat. They will not fetch a decent price if they’re malnourished.”
Lime-Green Tracksuit: “The blonde was acting up again. Gouged at Enver’s arm when he opened the door.”
Petrela: “We’ll raise her dose. Soon she’ll decide she likes the junk more than she likes fighting back. And there are some who’ll pay a premium for such feistiness.”
Bashkim looked to Thompson, as if to ask if this was enough. Thompson removed her headphones-her hands trembling slightly from anger and adrenaline. The moment was three months in the making. Three months spent canvassing homeless shelters, arresting pimps and street thugs, and chasing wire transfers-all to connect a dead runaway from Duluth to the men who used her until there was nothing left to use.
Thompson gave the order.
In moments, the sidewalk was alive with agents, armed for battle and wearing body armor head to toe: FBI SWAT. They moved into position with silent precision. The three men inside had no inkling and no chance.
When the battering ram connected with the door, Petrela and his men scattered. Purple Tracksuit broke left, diving behind the faux-mahogany bar as if three-quarterinch medium-density fiberboard was going to protect him from a fully automatic Heckler & Koch. If he hadn’t fired on the agents as they fanned out through the dining room, he wouldn’t have needed protecting. But he had, and was quickly silenced.
Lime-Green Tracksuit had better instincts, if not more smarts. He took off for the back door at a sprint. Why the idiot thought a team of highly trained federal agents would neglect to cover the alleyway behind their intended target, Thompson had no idea. Maybe she’d ask the guy someday, since he was apprehended without a shot.
Petrela, though, was another matter. He didn’t stick around to shoot it out. He didn’t flee. True to his reputation, when the SWAT unit made its move, he beelined for the girls, determined that if he was going down, he’d take as many of them with him as he could.
“Ma’am,” the call came over the radio, “Petrela’s retreated into the basement! The door’s reinforced steel; it’ll take a sec to cut through!”
Thompson swore. “He armed?”
“Affirmative!”
But by the time the answer came, Thompson didn’t need it. The distant pop-pop-pop from somewhere below street level was answer enough.
Thompson dashed from the van, the other agents close behind. She leapt onto the street, the stiffness in her limbs momentarily forgotten, and wheeled around, frantic to find some way to reach the girls while there were still some of them left. Her eyes lighted upon the sidewalk basement door.
The door comprised two dented, rust-streaked panels of checkered steel, set into the sidewalk a few feet from the front entrance-intended to allow direct basement access for deliveries. There were no handles or other outside access points, but thanks to frost heaves and foot traffic, the seam between the panels was far from flush.
“Hey!” Thompson shouted to one of the tactical agents nearby. “You carrying a Hallagan?”
The man removed the tool from his belt and tossed it to Thompson. Hooked at one end like a fireplace poker, with a flat, forked end like that of a pry-bar, a Hallagan is a favored tool of SWAT and firefighters both. Thompson jammed the hooked end into the space between the panel doors and yanked. Rusted hinges shrieked, and one panel moved, but not enough to get a man through. Two SWAT agents joined her, wrapping gloved hands around the ex
posed edge, but the damn thing wouldn’t budge.
And that’s when the new guy had a bright idea.
Hank Garfield had only been with the Organized Crime Section a couple weeks-he’d transferred over from the MS-13 Task Force, where he’d been working undercover. He’d spent the past two years trying to infiltrate the brutal Mara Salvatrucha street gang, followed by six months rehabbing from a shoulder through-and-through after someone loyal to the gang spotted him meeting with his handler at a sidewalk café two hours north of the gang’s turf. It was a wrong-place, wrong-time bit of bad luck that illustrated just how far Mara’s reach extended, and it nearly cost him his life. Garfield’s handler wasn’t so lucky-he wound up in the ground. Word was that the two of them were close.
It probably would have been better had Garfield asked-or, failing that, warned her at least. But he hadn’t; he just yanked a flash-bang grenade off one of the SWAT guy’s belts and lobbed it through the narrow aperture of the jammed sidewalk door. Thompson barely had a chance to shield her ears and turn away before the thing went off, loud as a firework and bright as the goddamn sun. Even though she’d closed her eyes, a ghostly green afterglow danced in Thompson’s field of vision for a good five minutes afterward.