The sheer mountain of corruption and hate, of slavery and despair, and Charlie was a small nothing compared to all the evil in the world.
He wasn’t sure exactly when he snapped, when he decided working within the law wasn’t helping. There had been crime scenes he would never be able to forget, that came to him not only when he slept, but when he was awake. The prostitutes with syphilis who were shot and buried in a mass grave-unmarked and unremembered. The young teenage boys kidnapped and forced to fight in wars they had no hand in creating, in countries not their own. How many of these child soldiers had Charlie buried? But the one pivotal moment, when he knew they’d lost the war, was in New Mexico on a scorching August afternoon.
The big rig had been left by the side of the road when it broke down on Highway 10. It was a refrigerated rig that had air holes drilled into each corner because the truck wasn’t being used to transport food. It held thirty-six women, young and old, who had been left in the hot sun while the driver fled because he’d brought them into the country illegally to work in a sweatshop in Southern California. Charlie knew that because he’d tracked down the driver and extracted the information from him.
When the truck broke down, so did the cooling system. The compartment became an oven. Eighteen hours in a slow cooker. The coroner said they’d suffered for eight to twelve hours before dying. While alive they endured heat stroke, their core body temperatures quickly rose to over 110 degrees, at which point they suffered brain damage and hallucinations, and severe-fatal-dehydration.
The hot, moist environment sped up the rate of decomposition and insect activity. Their bodies were fully bloated with bacteria and gases, and the skin had begun to slough off.
The cop who opened the back of the truck and first witnessed the morbidity quit that day.
Charlie couldn’t stop them, and when he thought about the masses of people who were bought, sold, tortured, abused, and murdered each and every day, he couldn’t breathe. So many times he had wanted to kill himself, moments when the burden of memory stripped him of all sanity.
Then he’d think of Sonia.
She had escaped. One of the few, she had fought back and won. She was a survivor, refused to be a victim. She turned around and became part of the solution, using her knowledge and skills to take down those who traded in human lives.
If Charlie focused on saving individual victims, he could make it through each day. Ashley Fox had become his salvation. If only he could find her, reunite her with her mother, he’d be a hero to two people. He could point to Ashley as someone he’d saved. He could put her pretty face in his mind when the dead and dying haunted him. Like he’d done with Sonia until he’d hurt her.
“I didn’t mean for any of it to happen, Sonia,” he whispered, his voice raw and dry. “I never wanted you to be hurt. Please believe me. Please understand why I had to do it.”
He’d saved hundreds-thousands-of people over the years, but it all blended together. The bloodshed still outweighed the souls he’d salvaged. He was drowning in it.
Charlie slowly rose to his feet. He drank half a water bottle and ate a tasteless protein bar. Then he started the hike back to his car.
He was close to breaking the code in Jones’s journal. He just needed some time at the library. The main library in downtown Sacramento was large enough to have the information he needed, and discreet enough that he didn’t worry about anyone paying him any attention. He’d put on a long-sleeved shirt to hide his recognizable tattoo, and he looked average enough that no one should remember him. As soon as he had it all figured out, he’d give Sonia the rest of the information.
And if he didn’t figure it out, he’d still tell her where the girls were being exchanged. He’d lied to her last night, but it hadn’t been the first time.
He had indeed recognized one of the killers last night: Sun Ling, a Chinese American who Charlie knew to be a player. Ling was a vicious killer who could snap a man’s neck in two without expending much effort or showing any remorse. Charlie had gone up against Ling in the past and the bastard had slipped away. But Ling was always the number two. An enforcer. Charlie hadn’t recognized the man who had shot Jones, though he was confident
But the information was in Jones’s journal, Charlie was certain of it. By the time this was over, he planned on killing both of them. First, he needed to find Ashley.
A few hours at the library and he would have the answers he needed.
When he shared those answers with Sonia, maybe she’d forgive him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Vegas’ sprawling, secluded ranch-style house was located in the farming community of Galt, on the Sacramento-San Joaquin County border. The privacy probably made the Vegas feel secure, but it also gave their killers freedom to kill.
Kendra Vega had been tied to a straight-back chair that had been pushed onto its side. By the look of the blood spatter, she’d been on the ground when she was shot in the head.
Compared to her husband, her suffering had been mercifully short. Greg Vega had been grossly tortured and beaten. Blood had soaked his entire shirt so none of the original color showed. The deputy coroner-a tall, slender woman in her fifties-said that he’d likely bled to death from the stab wound in his abdomen.
“The autopsy can confirm, but it took him several minutes to die. The hilt of the knife kept some pressure on the wound to prevent rapid blood loss, but the internal body damage is severe.”
“You can tell how long he was alive?” Sonia asked.
“We’ll have a scientifically sound estimate, but it’s still a guess. He probably went into shock after a few minutes and then his body would begin to shut down. The whole process could take three minutes or an hour, depending on a variety of factors. He wouldn’t have been conscious the entire time.”
Sonia touched Dean’s arm to whisper something. His muscles were taut, his entire body tense.
“What?” she asked.
“They shot his pregnant wife first. Made him watch her die, then stabbed him and left him to slowly die.”
“They couldn’t be certain he’d die from the wound,” Sonia said.
The deputy coroner disagreed. “I think they probably could-there would be no surviving this without immediate medical attention. Immediate meaning within minutes. Even then, I doubt he’d make it to surgery.”
“They probably waited for him to die,” Dean said.
The deputy coroner was still examining the body. She frowned when she looked into his mouth.
“What’s wrong?” Sonia asked.
“Someone cut out his tongue.”
Sonia’s stomach rolled and she became light-headed. Dean grabbed her arm. “Let’s go outside.”
It wasn’t the crime scene itself that disturbed Sonia so much-she’d seen other death scenes that were more grotesque. But she’d been responsible for the Vegas.
“Oh God, Dean. This is my fault. I should have-”
“You are not to blame,” Dean interrupted. He found a semi-private spot on the back patio.
“How did Jones find out-” she stopped. “But Jones is dead. The Vegas weren’t killed before midnight.”
“It’s looking more and more like Cammarata was right,” Dean said. “There’s no sign of Jones at home, his offices, or his known haunts. His Escalade is in the garage and his plane is in the hangar.”
“Did the killers think Jones was going to turn state’s evidence?” Sonia thought out loud.
“Or the murders had to do with a territory battle and not Vega’s agreement with you.”
“They cut out his tongue! They knew he’d talked to the authorities.”
Dean didn’t respond. He was looking beyond her into the house as if trying to recall something
