step out here for a moment?”
Dean led her down a long hall past closed doors and wide openings with eight to ten cubicles set back in a work group arrangement. He opened a back door and led her outside to where the garage was bustling with activity around a burned-out SUV.
Dean took her hand and walked her around the side of the garage to where they had a modicum of privacy. It was dark; the sun had completely set. Sonia hadn’t realized it was nearly ten at night. External lamps lit the entire area.
“Victoria Christopoulis is going to cooperate in exchange for immunity.”
“Thank God. It’s about time we had a big break. Does she know where the women are? What did you say about a mine?”
“She doesn’t know the specifics, but she said they were taken to a mine. If we are right in our analysis and they are on Rio Diablo land, we’ll have some major issues, but-”
“Homeland Security has jurisdiction in matters of national security. I’ll take the heat. I’ll take anything if we get to them in time.”
“No need to do that. I think we have cause, and at this point, I’d rather ask for forgiveness than permission. I’m going to play with the time line a bit, contact the tribal council as we approach Rio Diablo boundaries, tell them what’s happened and hope the council doesn’t have huge loyalties to this little tribe.”
“Charlie came through?”
“I hate to admit it, but yeah, he scared her half to death. It put her in the right mind-set to cooperate.”
Sonia took Dean’s other hand and squeezed. “We’re close, so close, why the long face? She didn’t tell you they were already gone?” She tensed. “Or worse?”
He shook his head. “No, no, no. Not that. I have every reason to believe they’re still alive. It’s about your father.”
Sonia stifled a cry. “My dad? What’s wrong? Is he okay? Is it his heart-”
“No, not Owen. Sergio Martin.”
“Oh.” She glanced down, breathed deeply. She was going to have to get used to this. Once it all got out- She’d just have to develop a thicker skin, a stronger spine than she already had. She looked Dean in the eye. “Just spill it. I need to know.”
“He’s Noel Marchand.”
Sonia stared at Dean blankly at first, then the information-the name
She slowly shook her head. “I don’t believe you. Marchand is the most notorious human trafficker in the hemisphere. Some people in ICE don’t think he exists, at least as one individual. Some think the name represents a gang, not a person. It’s not-not-not possible,” she stumbled over her words.
“Victoria Christopoulis confirmed it. She met him that day in the photograph. She’s scared to death of him, believes he’ll kill her. Believed he was capable of killing Jones and Greg Vega. I’m sorry, Sonia, but I wanted you to hear it from me.”
She turned and dry heaved, covering her mouth to hold in a sob.
Her father had sold her. Why was she surprised that he was infamous? But the knowledge that his blood ran through her veins chilled her, humiliated her, made her feel tainted and dirty. How could she face his victims? How could she look at herself in the mirror?
She braced herself with both hands on the cinder-block wall of the garage and took deep breaths as silent sobs of anger and sorrow wracked her body. She wanted to forget, she wanted to disappear. Self-pity invaded her mind.
“Sonia, you didn’t know. You couldn’t have known. But I had to tell you, even if you hate the messenger.”
She shook her head wildly back and forth, her chest tight. “Why would I hate you? I hate myself. Hate that I didn’t know!”
Dean took her by the shoulders and spun her around. “I never want to hear that again. You’re not God. You’re not all-knowing. You are Sonia Knight, a top-notch investigator, a compassionate cop, a beautiful woman. You are Owen Knight’s daughter, and that man is a damn good dad. Don’t forget it.”
She wrapped her arms around Dean and held on tight. She sobbed, releasing the pain and anguish. Dean absorbed it, shared it. She loved him for it. He had reminded her of what was truly important. Her family wasn’t the man whose genes ran through her cells, but a mother and father who wanted her, who’d taken her into their home and loved her unconditionally, treated her as much as their own as they did their two sons. Owen and Marianne were her true family.
She whispered into his chest, “Thank you … for reminding me.”
“I love you, Sonia.”
She breathed in sharply, holding his declaration inside, felt his love and devotion. He’d already shown her how much he cared. She’d shared her secrets, her fears, her frustrations, and he not only understood but made her stronger by telling him. As if he’d made her past his own. She never realized how much she needed to have someone in her life to trust explicitly, to love beyond family. That she could be this lucky amazed her, but she wasn’t a fool. She wasn’t going to turn Dean away.
They heard voices in the courtyard around the corner. “Has anyone seen Hooper?”
Dean called, “Over here, Sam!”
Sonia let him go.
Sam ran around the corner. “We found it. I’m certain it’s where they are, if Christopoulis can be believed. It’s an abandoned mine right on the edge of the Rio Diablo property. And get this: it’s not tribal land. They bought it along with several other adjoining parcels over the last few years, probably with Jones’s illegal money.”
“Good work, Sam. Let’s go.”
Mr. Ling approached Noel as he finished loading his favorite gun.
They were both dressed in black. Once they were out in the night they could blend into the surroundings.
“They agreed,” Noel said. “We have one hour.”
“Mr. Marchand, the news.” Ling turned up the volume of the television with a remote.
“… Bob Richardson earlier this evening,” the newscaster was saying.
The shot cut to film of FBI headquarters, evident from the seal on the podium and the American and California State flags behind him. The ticker moving along the bottom of the screen repeated:
Richardson said, “Tonight the FBI has learned that notorious human trafficker Noel Marchand is in the greater Sacramento area. We have a witness who puts him at the scene around the time philanthropist and lobbyist Xavier Jones was shot and killed near his restaurant in Clarksburg.”
An old picture of Noel was put on-screen and Richardson’s voice-over said, “We’re releasing the first known photograph of Noel Marchand, taken seven to ten years ago in Mexico.”
Noel turned red. Where had the FBI obtained that photo? He never allowed himself to be photographed, but it appeared posed. Then he remembered. He’d been fishing with friends in Tres Palos. On his own property. Tobias had a new camera. A present from their father as the old man died, half out of his mind with syphilis. Noel had let Tobias take pictures, but he’d destroyed the film every night. The hobby lasted less than a month, when Tobias broke the camera. Who had kept the film?
Jones. It had to be. The FBI was at his house, they’d found it. Not for the first time, he wished he’d made Jones suffer.
A computer-generated enhancement came on-screen with the voice, “An FBI forensic artist has aged the picture to what Marchand may look like now. Marchand is between five foot nine and five foot eleven inches tall and approximately one hundred seventy pounds. He has light brown or graying brown hair and blue eyes. He’s approximately fifty-five to sixty years of age. He may be traveling with a Chinese American using the name Sun Ling.” An old, shaded photograph of Ling popped onto the screen. “If you see either of these men, do not approach. They are armed and dangerous. Call the FBI or your local police department. A special tip hotline has been set up
