Talyssa pushed this depressing fact out of her mind and tried to think optimistically.

She sat on her bed in her little room and told herself it wouldn’t be long now.

She’d see her sister again, and then she’d spend the rest of her life putting things right with her.

* * *

• • •

This house is a shit box. I’m in Bakersfield, sitting in a small living room full of car parts, empty beer bottles, and dirty clothes. If the four men sitting across from me now were fresh-faced kids in their early twenties, I would take this for a frat house that lost its house mom.

But these aren’t kids. Not even close.

The men are all in their late forties. Rodney and Stu are white, A.J. is Latino, and Kareem is African American. They all have beards, they all wear glasses, and they all look like they could stand to drop thirty pounds.

They’re younger and fitter than Duvall, true, but that’s not saying much.

This isn’t exactly the A-Team.

Duvall isn’t here; he’s on his way from Vegas after arranging the helo he promised to acquire. But he’s called his old team from Southeast Asia and arranged for them to meet me at the home of one of them, and he just texted me to tell me to get started without him.

He also hooked me up with a place in LA to stash Talyssa: at the home of the sister of one of the guys here with me, although I don’t even know which one.

There are five surviving members of the Manila team in addition to Duvall, but one of their number told Shep that due to a recent hip replacement, he’d be more hindrance than help.

The four men with me have agreed to nothing; they don’t even know the target or the mission, but they are here, waiting to hear my spiel, and I take that to be a good sign.

Kareem, the African American, opens the discussion: “We all talked to Papa.”

“Papa?”

“Duvall. His call sign is Papa.”

“Makes sense.”

“He tells us you’re legit, your mission is righteous, and it’s time sensitive. But we have some questions.”

“Fair enough. Shep tells me you four are as good as they come.”

Rodney, the homeowner, eyes me suspiciously. “Then that makes me wonder if the shit he said about you was BS, too, because we sure as hell ain’t exactly at our peak.”

A.J., the one I take for Latino, says, “Speak for yourself. I’ve got my shit squared away.”

But the one calling himself Stu replies, “Rodney’s right. Shep didn’t tell you that.”

I’ve oversold the platitudes. Dumb. Quickly I backpedal. “Okay, he didn’t say that, exactly, but he said you guys were solid. Together you ran missions in the Third World rescuing kids caught up in human trafficking.”

“And then what did he tell you?” Kareem asks.

“I heard about Manila.”

The tension in the room increases a little, but no one blinks.

Stu says, “Well, if you did, then you know we’ve been blackballed by the community. No one is going to send us back out anywhere.”

“I’ll send you out.”

It’s quiet in the room for several seconds. I register the hopeful looks on the men’s faces. Yeah, they want back in the fight just as much as their leader does.

“So . . .” Rodney says, “you are Agency?”

“I’m not going to be able to answer that.”

Kareem mutters, half under his breath. “He’s Agency.”

A.J. turns to him. “How can you tell?”

“Look at him.”

“He doesn’t look CIA to me.”

“Exactly.”

It’s a good thing I don’t need Kareem for his grasp of logic.

They are still sizing me up, despite the fact that Duvall vouched for me. Kareem says, “So you want to lead us into certain death?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. Probable death.”

“Oh . . . terrific.”

Rodney speaks up now. “Tell us about your target.”

“It’s called Rancho Esmerelda. It’s the end of the line of something called the pipeline, a sex trafficking network that brings women and girls over from Eastern Europe and Asia to serve wealthy men here in the States.”

Kareem says, “Women and . . . and girls. You mean underage girls?”

“Yeah.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know how many end up in SoCal, but this is a transcontinental organization that makes billions a year.”

Rodney speaks with a whisper. “Thousands of victims, then.”

I just nod.

“Americans do this?” A.J. seems surprised, but Rodney notices this and says what I’m thinking.

“You don’t think we can be just as big pieces of shit as people from other countries?”

Stu adds, “We can be worse if we put our minds to it.”

A.J. nods slowly now. “Yeah, guess so.”

The men look at one another, and A.J. says, “If you know women and girls are being abused right here, why don’t you just go to the cops?”

“Because the cops have been tainted everywhere I’ve been along the smuggling pipeline. I can all but guarantee there are some bad ones here, protecting this operation.” I hesitate, then say, “The guy who runs the whole thing . . . I don’t know his identity, but I have been told he enjoys some federal protection, as well.”

“Shit,” Kareem says; all four stare at me, and the scrutiny makes me uncomfortable. Finally Rodney declares what the others are obviously thinking. “I’m not killing a cop. Not even a dirty cop.”

A.J. adds, “That’s right. Doesn’t matter how dirty he is. The second he’s killed in the line he turns into Eliot Ness. A hero. White as the driven snow.”

“That’s right,” echo the others on the sofa.

“I’m not killing a cop, either.” This is bullshit, and I feel bad about lying to these guys, but I’m not going into detail about all the dirty cops I’ve fragged around this planet. They deserved what was coming to them, and my conscience, such as it is, is clear. I add, “But I’ll expose a dirty one, and we can bring these guys to justice. Shit, if we do this right, we might really make a difference.”

A.J. stares me down now. “I don’t know you, bro, but I know your type. Don’t start getting too rah-rah, there. You’re here because you want to hurt people and break shit. That you’re doing it for a good cause doesn’t change your underlying motivations.”