Damian checks the date stamps without touching the photos. "Oldest is five weeks. Newest is four days ago. They were actively surveilling."
"Four days ago she was at that coffee shop with Chesca." The words come out and they sound like they belong to a different man. "Chesca got hot chocolate. She had whipped cream on her nose and Angelina..."
I stop. Close my mouth. Jax is beside me and he's not saying anything, which is how I know it's bad, because Jax always has something to say.
"Get Ghost on comms," I tell Damian. "Now."
"Already called him." Damian's hand is on my shoulder, firm and brief, then gone. "He's pulling Vanessa to trace the photo metadata. We'll find who took them."
Jax, quiet: "We'll find them, brother."
I put the folder down on the table. My hands are still shaking. I press them flat against the surface until the tremor stops, until the metal of the table bites into my palms and gives me something real to push against.
Not yet. Fall apart later. Work now.
Headlights sweep across the loading dock. Black SUV, government plates.
Dennis Holloway steps out. FBI. Suit too clean for two in the morning, expression unchanged as he takes in the medical vans,the evidence tables, Walsh face-down on asphalt with a desk chair still zip-tied to his arms.
"Hell of a tip you called in."
"Anonymous tip. We were never here."
"Twenty-two women. Three kids." The full count, once the other rooms on the second floor were cleared. He surveys the scene like a man counting promotions. "Career-making bust."
"Congratulations."
Holloway's mouth twitches. He knows the arrangement. He moves toward the evidence staging area and Damian meets him halfway, already handing off documentation. The surveillance folders leave the table.
Copies. Damian made copies. He always makes copies.
Kade's voice in my ear: "Holloway's taking point on prosecution. Walsh is his problem now. Your job is done."
"My job isn't done until I know who was holding that camera."
A pause. "Understood. We'll work it tomorrow. Tonight you come home."
One of the rescued women is speaking to Miguel through Xander, who translates in real time. I catch fragments as I pass. Xander's voice, low and careful. "She says before they moved locations, an American man helped some girls escape. Few months ago. Tall, dark hair, spoke enough Spanish to be understood. Checked every door before going through it. Never let anyone walk behind him."
Training or paranoia. Specific enough to flag.
"Note it. Ghost will want to know."
Xander nods, turns back to the woman with gentle follow-up questions, and I file the description away. Something to chase when the sun comes up.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number, but I know the pattern. Three texts in rapid succession, the way Sal communicates when he doesn't want a phone call on record.
First text:Heard about the warehouse.
Second:My niece need anything?
Third:Family helps family, Tanaka.
I look at the screen. Family helps family. Nothing from Sal is free, and Angelina's been paying for his help in compromised verdicts and sleepless nights for years.
I type back one-handed, the photos still in my head:All good. Handled.
Near the medical van, Mira stands beside Jax, who is sitting on a supply crate instead of lying in the van. Mira's hand rests on his forearm, light enough to look casual, firm enough that he's not going anywhere.