Barrow immediately looked panicked. He was up to something, Lucy could feel it.

"Who?"

"Big guy. Tattoos." She tapped her knuckles. "All over. No good."

"Thanks."

"Be careful." She glared at Noah and Lucy, then closed her door.

Barrow led them upstairs. "I'm going to have to disappear for a while," he said as he unlocked the door.

"I don't think so," Noah said.

"You don't understand." Barrow closed the door behind them.

The place was cluttered and Barrow immediately grabbed a bong and small bag of pot and put them in a cabinet. He could do nothing to diminish the scent of weed. He had a high-end computer on a desk that took up half his living room. There were books everywhere, mostly nonfiction.

"I know I haven't done anything to piss off the FBI lately," Barrow said, "but a little while ago I ran with a story that some people aren't happy about. The guy with the tats on his hands? Bet it's Gino Salvatore. I ran a story exposing his brother for taking bribes. Look it up, Salvatore was an ICE agent, turned his back on some nasty shit for money. How did Gino know where I lived? Fuck, I like this place. But I like my face more."

There wasn't much to like, other than it was quiet.

Barrow kept rambling, shuffling things around, seemingly haphazardly, but Lucy suspected he was hiding notes or drugs. "ICE was pissed off, too. Didn't like having one of their own shown to be a bastard. I don't much care, they probably knew about him, turned the other cheek. There's few good feds, but some really rotten ones." He glanced at them. "I'm sure you're fine, being Jack's sister and all."

"Enough," Noah said. He rubbed his head. "Sit. Now."

Barrow sat at his desk and leaned back. "What's up? You said Siobhan, right? Hot. I mean, we're not involved-God, no, I mean, I would totally hit her up, but she's off-limits. But she's totally cool." He looked concerned for the first time. Really concerned. "She's not, like, hurt? You told me she wasn't hurt or anything. She's not in trouble, right?"

"Eight months ago you gave Siobhan a tip that one of the girls she was looking for was seen at a brothel in Del Rio," Noah said. "She took you at your word, but you didn't give her any real evidence. I want the evidence."

Barrow stared at him. He might have acted the airhead stoner type, but he was shrewd and calculating.

"I gave Siobhan everything I knew about Marisol and Ana. I'm no saint, but I wouldn't keep anything from her if it would help."

"Photos," Noah said. "You went undercover, you talked to the girls, you took photos. You didn't get any of Marisol and Ana because the story you told Siobhan was that they'd come and gone by the time you got there."

"It wasn't a story. It was the truth. Someone else told me about Siobhan's lost girls."

"You published photos of the politicians that used the brothel. You must have taken others. We want them for an active investigation."

"No." He crossed his arms.

Lucy stepped forward. "No? Really?"

"They're not going to help you. You're fishing for something. I'm not going to let the feds run around through a back door to get dirt on someone who may not be a total shit. My sources trust me that I'm not going to screw them-people I care about, at any rate."

Noah opened his mouth, but Lucy cut him off. "You are as much of a hypocrite as the people you skewer in the press. We are trying to find not only Marisol and Ana de la Rosa, but also an at-risk pregnant woman who was chained to a bed so she couldn't escape. We know one or both of the sisters was in Freer last week, and you told Siobhan that they were in Del Rio over eight months ago. You have photos of everyone who came in and out of that brothel for weeks. If the girls are still in the area, they are in danger. I want the pictures and I want your notes, now."

Barrow opened his mouth, then closed it. He finally said, "Look-"

"No excuses. Either you're one of us or you're one of them. There is no middle ground in this war. Those girls are being trafficked, abused, tortured. They trust no one because they were likely abducted in another country and taken far from their homes, their families. Statistics say that they will be dead before they're thirty, and if you don't share what you know, you're as much responsible for their deaths as the bastards who took them."

Barrow was torn. Lucy saw it in his eyes. He looked at Noah, almost as if to plead with him, but Noah maintained his cold cop stare.

"It's not that simple," Barrow said. "You're not going to know what you're looking at. These people don't play in the same pool. The FBI is all domestic shit, these are the international bastards, and really, you can't trust ICE. Not all of them. That report I did on Salvatore was just the tip of the iceberg." He smiled. "Hey, that's good." He scribbled something on a piece of paper.

"Don't worry about what we're looking at," Noah said. "We have our own resources."

Barrow grunted. "Right. As soon as you put their faces into your precious database, somebody's gonna know. You guys just don't get it. There's a mole in every fucking office. You think not? Look what just happened in San Antonio this summer! DEA gutted from the inside out by one of its own. Poetic justice."

Lucy wanted to hit him. "You have no idea what happened in San Antonio."

"Yeah, I do. A fucking corrupt agent went in and cleaned house. How many in all? Someone in the FBI, couple in the DEA, couple in SAPD, you think they got them all?" He snorted. "Hardly."

"I'm from the San Antonio office," Lucy said. "And you know shit."

"I call them as I see them."

"Then you're blind."

"How do I know you're not here trying to protect someone? Grab my pictures to protect some fucked agent?"

"Because I told you why we're here."

"Why not have Siobhan ask me herself? Maybe you're just using her like your people use everyone else."

"Knock the chip off your shoulder, Barrow," Noah said.

"Then you won't care if I call her."

"Go ahead," Noah said.

Barrow hesitated, just for a moment, then pulled his cell phone from his pocket, scrolled through contacts, and dialed.

"Hey, Siobhan, it's Eric ... all's well. I'm here with two feds, Armstrong and Kincaid. Know them?" He was silent for well over a minute. "But, don't you think-" He was quiet again. Then his face paled and he stared at Lucy. "Oh. No, sugar, I just wanted to make sure they were legit. They want some of my photos from Del Rio." He turned around and mumbled something Lucy couldn't hear.

Noah stepped closer to her and whispered in her ear, "Want to bet she mentioned that you're marrying a Rogan?"

"He should help because it's the right thing to do," Lucy said.

"Fear is a more powerful motivator."

"You know I'd do anything for you, Siobhan-you just have to ask. But-you know, it would help if you told him I helped you out. I want in on a raid ... I won't screw him, you know that, scout's honor ... Okay. Thanks." Barrow hung up. He started typing on his computer, then stuck a CD into one of the drives. "I'm copying all the photos to a disk. It'll just take a minute."

"Why the hell do you want in on one of Kane's raids?" Lucy asked.

Barrow looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "It'd make a good story."

"You would screw him over in a heartbeat for a story, wouldn't you?"

"I wouldn't."

Lucy didn't believe him.

"Luce," Noah said in a low voice.

She walked out.

Five minutes later, Noah joined her. "What was that about? You had him, then you nearly blew it."

"Because I know exactly what he wants. He wants in so he can expose mercenaries. The good, bad, and ugly."

"You don't know-"

"I spent the thirty-minute car ride skimming a dozen articles that he wrote. He hates people like us, and people like Jack and Kane. Jack was a good soldier and a good mercenary. People like Barrow want to make them all out as being corrupt or corruptible. He might be able to play the game for a while, and he might have some redeeming qualities, but I don't trust him."

"Do you honestly think that Kane would take him on any of his operations?"

Lucy opened her mouth, then closed it and shook her head.

"Siobhan would know that, too, don't you think?"

"Probably," she admitted.

"Your future brother-in-law can take care of himself, especially with a guy like Barrow. Let's get back to Siobhan's hotel and look at these pictures, see if there's anyone we recognize. If not, we'll send them out."

"Do you think he's right about ICE?"

"He could be. I don't know. But Rick has a few people he trusts that he can go to on the QT, so that's where I'll start."

The drive back to downtown Laredo went faster with commuter traffic easing up, and they made it to Siobhan's hotel twenty minutes later. Noah was itching to get back to San Antonio, but he wanted to make sure that Siobhan didn't start investigating on her own. "I don't care what you have to say to her," he told Lucy, "but we have to contain her. This is dangerous, and she is friendly with that ass of a reporter."

"I'll take care of it," Lucy said. "We're coming back tomorrow, right?"

"I don't see how we can avoid it," he said.

"Why do you sound skeptical?"

"Because we don't have much yet. I want to run the photos Barrow gave us, and we may have a drive to Del Rio ahead of us. I wish I could pull in the Laredo office, but Barrow was right about one thing-there's a problem with ICE here, and our office is providing assistance. Headquarters is well aware of the problem, and they're handling it. The last thing we need is to tip their hand and jeopardize their internal investigation."

"How'd you find out?"

"I've known since I got here." He glanced at her as he pulled into a parking slot. "Part of being not only the boss, but tasked with cleaning house. But what it means for us, if Rick wants us on this investigation, I have to pull from my squad-and that means shifting and prioritizing other cases. I don't have to tell you we're severely understaffed."

Not only were they down an agent, but the Violent Crimes Squad in every FBI office had been cut back drastically when the FBI reprioritized counter-terrorism as their number one focus.

As soon as they got out of the car, Siobhan exited the hotel and ran up to them. "I just got back from the hospital. Someone broke into my hotel room and stole my computer. And my camera. But we're going to find those bastards. I have GPS tracking on both."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Marisol was sleeping in an old barn when a sound woke her. She didn't know what time it was; she didn't know how long she'd been sleeping. She feared she had an infection. She was hot and achy and had no energy. Everything she'd planned was falling apart. She didn't know how long she'd walked, how many miles, but she'd found this barn after two nights and knew she needed to sleep.

Light flitted through the beams. Either the sun was rising or the sun was setting. She didn't know which way she faced.

Two men were talking outside the barn. She froze. They'd found her.

They spoke English, clear as day.

"The damn tractor broke down again Friday. I just said what the hell, but I can't afford a new one."

"I can fix it, Dad. I wish you'd called me earlier."

"You're busy, son. I didn't want to bother you."

"I'm not so busy I can't fix your tractor. What do you think is wrong with it?"

"I thought the alternator, but that's not it. Checked the oil and fluids and all that. It turns on, but it doesn't have any umph."

"So technical." The younger man laughed.

The doors of the barn opened and more light came in. Marisol didn't move. She was partly buried under the hay; maybe they wouldn't see her.

They were chatting, a father and son who cared for each other. Metal clanged against metal. The tractor started up. It sounded as sick as she felt. "I see the problem," the son said. "I'll just need to get a couple parts. I'll pick them up tomorrow after work. Won't take me more than an hour or two."

"I appreciate it, Johnny. Really, I do."

"Next time, call me before you start dicking around with the engine. I don't mind. It feels good to get my hands dirty again."

There was some rustling. "Dad, did you cut yourself?"

"No."

"This is blood."

Marisol began to shake. Oh God, they were going to find her. How could she save her sister if she was in jail? Or what if the bad police sent her back to those people? She couldn't trust anyone. Who would believe her? Who would know the truth when the truth was so difficult believe?

"Dad."

The voice was right there, right in front of her. She opened her eyes. Everything was blurry, but she saw him. The son. He was tall, so very tall. He dressed well, had his sleeves rolled up. There was a grease mark on his white shirt. His dad stood behind him. Also very tall. Dressed in old jeans and a faded plaid shirt.

"We're not going to hurt you." The son squatted. "My name is John Honeycutt. This is my dad, George."

"I'm sorry," she said. She used English, because she didn't want these people to think she was an immigrant. That she needed to be deported. She wanted to be deported, she wanted to leave this country as soon as possible, but not without Ana. She couldn't leave without her sister.