I finish the file and realize that I’ve read everything Shelby gave me. But there’s still no explanation as to why he knows where the kidnappers are or what their tentative schedule is. I flip over the paperwork and take another long drag on my cigarette.
“We’re here,” Miles announces.
The car comes to a stop, and I glance up. We’re at some industrial district in Noimore—how long had I been reading?—but the early afternoon sun gives me reassurances. I doubt any guys will be wandering around at this time of the day. Thugs and shadows go together like peanut butter and jelly.
A trucker warehouse sits before us. The sign out front reads Under Construction. But there’s no date for the estimated finish. There’s a chain-link fence and a few pole-mounted cameras, but the rail yard had all of that and more. If these kidnappers are going to use this site for drop-off or pickup, they’ll need to prep the area first.
“You think they’ll use this spot?” Miles asks, keeping his voice low, for whatever reason.
“Yeah,” I reply. “They used the trains to ship bodies when I first saw them. It doesn’t surprise me that they’d use trucks too. They must be pickin’ up people here in Noimore or the nearby area, maybe even Chicago, and takin’ them elsewhere.”
Miles leans back in his seat and sighs. “Why would anybody do this?”
“People love spendin’ money,” I mutter. “It’s too bad injustice comes so cheap.”
“So, do you think we should stake this place out until they show up?”
“We’ll be waiting forever if we do that.”
“I thought Shelby said they would be here any day? That’s why he had you go instead of waiting until he was out of the hospital.”
I open my mouth to offer a retort, but Miles holds up a hand to quiet me. I glare at him, confused by his gesture. His gaze is glued to something in the distance, and he grabs my shoulder in an attempt to get me to look in that direction. I squint and spot a car on the far side of the construction zone—a plain-looking white four-door car with tinted back windows.
“So?” I say. “They’re likely construction workers.”
Miles settles back down. “Maybe. But no one is here. No one is working.”
I stare at all the cold equipment locked down by the portable office. There aren’t any men in hard hats, nor does there seem to be any open gates around the fence, at least not on our side. But the white car must have gotten in somehow.
Miles and I watch in silence as two guys get out of the car and start walking around. It’s hard to see them properly—especially when they walk behind stacks of wood or pipes—but they both head off in different directions, a purpose to their gait. One guy, large and sloppy about his weight, stops at the nearest camera pole and cuts the wire. The other guy does the same to a different camera.
“I don’t think they’re construction workers,” Miles whispers.
One man turns in our direction. Miles and I both duck down into the car, and I feel my body get numb with adrenaline. I exhale a line of smoke and snuff the cigarette out in the car’s ashtray.
“Do you have a pair of binoculars?” I ask.
Miles nods. He slithers back in his seat and reaches into the back, pulling up his academy school bag and withdrawing a handful of useful objects, including five pairs of zip-tie handcuffs. He hands over the binoculars, and I risk peeking over the dashboard.
The big guy with the gut, I don’t recognize. The other guy—a gaunt motherfucker with a spray tan—I do remember seeing at the rail yard. He was the guy giving the orders, the one in charge of the situation when it got out of hand. He must be the one who handles shit. An enforcer, so to speak. The guy I used to be.
“These are the guys,” I say, handing Miles back his binoculars. “The same ones. They’re here to prep the place.”
“So what’re we going to do about it?”
“We’ll get out of the car, skulk our way over to theirs, and then jump their asses.”
Miles turns to me with a furrowed brow. “Why not call the cops?”
“They’ll run when they hear the sirens. That’s what they did last time. And even if the cops came quiet, it’s not like these guys are gonna be here long. If we catch ’em, the cops can interrogate them.”
“We can’t go in and attack them,” Miles states. “That’s against the law. It would be trespassing, assault, and battery.”
“Can’t citizens arrest criminals? Ya know. Citizen’s arrest?”
“They would’ve had to commit a felony—”
“Which they did,” I interject. “Human trafficking.”
“—and citizens making the arrest can only use reasonable force—”
“So we won’t shoot them.”
“—and the arresting citizen is liable for tortious injuries, like false imprisonment or wrongful death—”
“What’re you trying to say?” I snap.
Miles exhales. “I’m trying to say that we can get in a shit ton of trouble if you’re wrong about this. Plus, we don’t have the kind of protection cops do. Again, we could both lose our careers before they even start if we get in trouble.”
Goddamn. He really has been studying, hasn’t he? He knows all those legal elements like the back of his hand.
“I’m certain that’s the guy,” I state. “And if we don’t act fast, they’re going to get away.”
Miles meets my gaze with a hint of uncertainty.
“I got your back,” I say with a smirk.
That’s all he needed to hear, apparently—his determination overrides everything else. “Let’s do this.”
I open the car door as slowly as possible to avoid the creak. Miles does the same, and we keep ourselves low to the ground as we hustle over to the fence. Before I find a place to climb over, Miles hands me a set of the zip-tie handcuffs. I nod to him.
Once I’m out of sight of the kidnappers, I grab the fence and haul myself over. It’s more difficult than
