“Your next stop,” he says. “We know about them, but not enough to get a warrant. Be careful.”

  He then ushers the girl inside. Cindy lingers, whispers a soft goodbye, and the girl finally drops her backpack and grabs Cindy’s hand. For one heartbeat, it looks like she might not let go. Then she does.

  When the door shuts behind them, the air feels suddenly colder and emptier.

  Cindy leans into me as we walk back to the Jeep. “I so hate leaving her.”

  “Me, too,” I say. “But she’s safe here, and we’re not done.”

  I look east, toward the faint glow where the coast bends north toward Santa Cruz.

  “Now,” I mutter, “we go rattle the bigger cage.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Santa Cruz at night feels like two cities welded together. One side’s the boardwalk, neon lights and fried food with tourists squealing on roller coasters. The other side’s shadows, alleys where deals are made and kids disappear.

  Cindy and I park on a side street, engine ticking down. I watch the boardwalk lights blink against the night sky and shake my head.

  “Ever seen The Lost Boys?” I ask.

  Cindy smirks. “Teen vampires, leather jackets, saxophones? No.”

  “Classic,” I say.

  “I assumed it was filmed right here,” says Cindy, clearly impressed.

  I gesture at the boardwalk. “That’s right. So, if a mulleted Kiefer Sutherland walks out of a corn dog stand, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Cindy rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

  “Do you believe in vampires, Jim?”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard the stories. New Orleans back rooms. Club goers who swear they saw something with fangs and eyes that don’t blink. Half of it’s drugs and neon, but the other half? I don’t know. Creeps me out that they all sound the same, like they’re pulling from the same script. And now you’ve got TikTok turning vampires into a hashtag. Makes it easy to laugh it off. Almost too easy.

  “Thing is, I’ve met someone who makes me wonder if the laugh’s on us. She’s never admitted anything, but… let’s just say I don’t buy that she’s a night owl just because she likes the moonlight.”

  Then, like clockwork, some guy in a thrift-store trench coat drifts by, face powdered white, fake fangs flashing at passersby. He hisses at a couple of college kids and nearly trips over his own boots.

  Cindy leans in. “Wannabe vampire.”

  “Or,” I say, eyes narrowing just a touch, “a real one trying too hard.”

  She swats my arm. “Don’t start.”

  I grin, but inside, something prickles. Because in my line of work, even the ridiculous have teeth.

  We slip from the Jeep, and the vibe changes fast. Away from the boardwalk’s neon, the streets are quieter, darker. Warehouses squat along the waterfront, windows blacked out. A cheap motel flickers with a busted sign. A van idles too long at the curb.

  “Looks like the right kind of wrong neighborhood,” I mutter.

  Cindy crosses her arms. “Where traffickers would blend right in.”

  Exactly. Santa Cruz is more than a tourist town. It’s a hub. And somewhere in those warehouses or motels is the rest of the machine that Fran and Harold feed into.

  I tug my jacket tighter, scanning the shadows. “Let’s find the damn nest.”

  ***

  The address Delgado gave me turns out to be a roadside motel straight out of central casting: peeling paint, buzzing neon, and the kind of clientele who pay cash and don’t ask for receipts.

  It sits just off the boardwalk, neon sign sputtering like it’s giving its last breath: The Seaview Inn. I hate it already, my hands itching to leave a one-star Yelp review with words like avoid and hazmat. Paint peels in sheets, windows fogged with grime. And, to add insult to injury, the moment we step into the front office we’re hit with the reek of stale cigarettes and microwaved burritos.

  Behind the counter is a clerk with greasy hair slicked straight back, sunglasses on at night, and a mustache that looks painted on. He leans over the register like he’s auditioning for Cops: Season One.

  I flash him my best “tourist who lost his way” smile. “Hey there, bud. Looking for a room. Something quiet.”

  He snorts. “Ain’t no quiet here.”

  “Then maybe something… private.” I slide a twenty across the counter, casual-like.

  His hand hovers over it, then pockets the bill. He scratches at his faux mustache. “Depends what you mean by private.”

  “Just me, my girlfriend, no interruptions. And maybe some company staying here already? Men... with children?”

  The clerk’s sunglasses slide down his nose. His eyes are small, beady. “Ain’t my business who brings what.”

  “Funny. You’re richer, and I’m no smarter.”

  His upper lip curl. “Try the boardwalk, pal. Plenty of kids there.”

  Before I can lean across the counter and introduce his teeth to my knuckles, the door jingles open. Sanchez strides in, jacket still smelling like jet fuel, grin sharp as a switchblade.

  Sanchez steps in, jacket smelling like jet fuel, smile sharp as ever. “Miss me, Knighthorse?”

  I grin. “Like a burrito forgotten overnight in my car.”

  He claps me on the shoulder. “That sounds racist.” He then eyes the clerk. “Is this joker giving you trouble?”

  The clerk stiffens. “I told him I don’t know nuthin’.”

  Sanchez flips open a badge. “Then maybe you’ll remember for me. I want names. Who checks in with kids. Who pays cash. Who doesn’t stick around. You start talking, motherfucker, and maybe your motel doesn’t get shut down by morning.”

  The clerk swallows. He looks from Sanchez to me, then to Cindy, who’s got her arms crossed with the kind of glare that could strip paint.

  The clerk swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. Beady eyes dart to the “vacancy” sign buzzing weakly outside. He knows Sanchez means it. Places like this only stay open because no one looks too close.

  Finally, he mutters, “Warehouse down by the pier. Trucks come and go at night. Lots of ‘deliveries.’ Here, and to other places.”

  “Other motels?” I press.

  “I don’t ask questions.”

  Sanchez leans across the counter, close enough the guy smells jet fuel and aftershave. His voice drops, smooth but lethal: “Smart man. Keep being smart. We’re off the clock and pissed off.”

  The clerk nods, quick and jerky, like a dashboard bobblehead.

  I make a mental note to update their Yelp page with a new category: Complicit in trafficking.

  Yes, I’m a Yelper. Don’t judge

  We leave the clerk sweating behind the counter. Outside, the fog wraps around us like a funeral shroud.

  Sanchez grins. “I knew this town was rotten. Now let’s see what’s in that warehouse.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  It squats on the pier like a grotesque toad, corrugated siding streaked with salt and age. Sodium lights buzz overhead, drenching the lot in a sickly yellow glow. Trucks idle in a crooked line, their exhaust mixing with the fog that drifts in off the bay. The whole place feels like a bad dream you can’t quite wake from.

  We hunker down in my Jeep, four deep. Me behind the wheel. Cindy beside me, her eyes sharp behind the binoculars. Sanchez sprawled in the back, grumbling about legroom. And beside him, Detective Rosa Marquez, Santa Cruz PD. She and Sanchez go way back to a mutual case, a drug bust that spanned the entire state. He vouched for her tonight, said she’s no-nonsense and, more importantly, not on the take. Around here, that’s as high as praise gets.

  She’s compact, dark hair tied back, eyes that don’t miss much. Her badge hangs on a chain around her neck, but her posture says she’s the one running this show.

  “Appreciate the assist,” I tell her.

  Marquez doesn’t look at me. She’s too busy scribbling notes in a battered pad. “Sanchez vouches for you. That buys you one night. Don’t make me regret it.”

  Sanchez smirks. “She’s always this warm.”

  Marquez lifts the binoculars. “Trucks don’t usually run this late. And that’s not a produce lot. That’s freight marked for offshore.”

  Cindy leans closer. “You mean shipping containers?”

  “Exactly,” Marquez says. “You want to move bodies without anyone noticing? You put them in the same crates as shrimp or electronics. Nobody checks twice. Or even once.”

  A forklift rumbles across the lot, its squeal piercing through the fog. We watch as two men in hoodies unload crates from a truck. They move fast, efficient. Too efficient.

  Then it happens.

  A smaller figure stumbles between them, shoved from out the back of the truck. For half a second, the fog clears, and in the sodium light we see her: a child, maybe twelve, hair tangled, wrists bound.

  Cindy gasps. “Oh, my God…”

  Marquez curses under her breath. “That’s it. That’s our proof.” She snaps her radio up. “Units on standby, prepare to move—”

  Sanchez catches her wrist. “Not yet. We need the head, not just the hands. Let ’em lead us up the chain.”

  The girl disappears into the warehouse, swallowed in the shadows. The men follow, the doors slamming shut behind them.

  The car goes silent. All we can hear is the ocean, restless and relentless against the pilings.

  Finally, I mutter, “We just watched a kid disappear. We’re not waiting long.”

  Cindy nods, jaw set. “The next time those doors open, we go in. And by ‘we’ I mean you three. I’ll happily come in later and knock some heads.”

  I grin. “That’s my girl. Safe, but deadly.”

  She shrugs, half-smile. “I’ve got class Monday. Wouldn’t want to show up with a black eye, or worse.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The mist thickens, swallowing the pier until the warehouse is little more than a hulking shadow in the sodium glow. Hours slide by, broken only by the growl of engines and the scrape of forklifts. Each new truck that arrives feels like another nail hammered into my gut.

  Cindy’s in the passenger seat, arms folded, chin resting on her knees. She’s been watching as hard as any of us, but I can feel the tension rolling off her in waves.

  “You okay?” I murmur.

  She doesn’t answer right away. Finally: “I keep thinking about Juliette. How many others didn’t escape?”

  The silence in the Jeep stretches on, and when the next truck backs up to the warehouse, I make a decision. I ease the Jeep away from the curb, headlights off, rolling slow down a side street. Sanchez sits forward.

  “Where you going, Jim?”

  I glance at Cindy. “Police station. She doesn’t belong here.”

  Cindy bristles. “Don’t you dare sideline me.”

  “Cindy,” I say gently, “this isn’t anthropology 101 or sea-glass jewelry anymore. This is guns, knives, and kids being smuggled like cargo. If things go south, I can’t be worrying about you while I’m throwing fists.”

  She glares at me, but she gets it.

  “Drop me at the station,” she mutters.

  I nod. Ten minutes later, we pull into the lot of a Santa Cruz PD substation. Fluorescent lights inside cast everything in sterile white. Cindy unbuckles, pauses, then leans over and kisses my cheek.

  “You’d better come back alive,” she says. “Because if you don’t, I’ll make your eternity a living hell.”

  I smile. “Now that’s love.”

  She shakes her head, grabs her bag, and disappears into the station. Marquez joins her briefly, no doubt giving the officers inside a head’s up. Back in the Jeep, Marquez exhales and nods to me. “She’s all set.”

  “Smart move, Knighthorse,” says Sanchez. “Cindy is tough, but this ain’t her kind of fight.”

  I start the engine, eyes on the distant pier. Marquez in the backseat leans forward between the two front seats. “Let’s just make sure it’s a fight we win.”

  We head back to the warehouse. The trucks haven’t stopped coming. And somewhere inside, children are waiting to be rescued.

  ***

  The warehouse doors grind open once again.

  Forklift headlights cut through the night, beams sweeping across the lot like searchlights. Two men in hoodies step out, cigarettes glowing, rifles slung casually on their shoulders.

  Marquez whispers into her radio. “On my mark. Nobody fires unless fired upon.”

  Sanchez leans forward in the back seat. “That’s the kind of order people follow right up until the first shot’s fired.”

  I crack my knuckles. “That’s when we go to work.”

  The thugs outside shout something, then wave another truck back. Its brakes hiss, the engine growls, and that piercing beep-beep-beep cuts through the night as it crawls into the loading bay.

  The Jeep goes silent with us holding our collective breaths. Over the engine rumble and screech of hydraulics, a thinner sound slips through: faint, high, carried on the mist. Not men. Not workers, but the cries of children.

  It knifes straight into my gut. That’s all I need.

  “Mark,” Marquez hisses.

  Everything happens at once.

  Squad cars roar to life, lights off, engines screaming as they flood the lot from both sides. Doors slam, boots hit pavement, and voices bellow: “Police! Drop your weapons!”

  The two guards freeze, then swing their rifles up. Gunfire cracks, muzzles flash, strobing the fog. Bullets ping off corrugated siding.

  I’m out of the Jeep before my brain can argue. Sprinting low, I slam into the first guard, fist crushing his jaw. His rifle clatters, and I boot it away into the dark. He spits blood and tries to grab my leg. One more punch, and he’s done.

  The second guard fires wild, panicked, bullets chewing the gravel at my feet. I dive, roll, come up inside his reach. Elbow to his throat, headbutt to his face, then a right cross that lays him out cold.

  Behind me, Sanchez is yelling, returning fire with measured pops. Marquez’s team moves tight and clean, sweeping into the warehouse.

  I chase them in, heart pounding. The inside is cavernous, lit by dangling bulbs and now the white glare of flashlights. Crates stacked high, forklifts idling, and in the far corner is a line of kids. Small. Frightened. Herded together like cattle.

  One of the traffickers grabs a girl, drags her toward a side door. I roar a random name, which seems to confuse him. A trick I learned from my dad. Anyway, when he turns, I’ve caught up to him, and my fist finds his temple. He crumples. The girl bolts, straight into Marquez’s arms.

  The firefight dies quick. Three down, two cuffed, one bleeding but breathing. The kids are huddled, eyes wide, too scared to cry.

  Sanchez shoulders his rifle, sweat dripping. “Hell of a raid, Knighthorse.”

  I’m breathing hard, knuckles raw, but my eyes are on the kids. “Hell of a nightmare, Sanchez. How many more are out there?”

  Marquez looks around at the trucks, the trembling kids, lips pressed tight. “Santa Cruz isn’t the end of this. Not even close.”

  “Then we keep going. Because someone’s got to.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Inside the warehouse, flashlights criss-cross crates and forklifts. Shadows flee every which way. Gunfire cracks. Shouts bounce off corrugated steel. That’s when I see him.

  Dorian Finche.

  He’s dragging a girl by the collar toward a side door, his face pale in the hanging bulbs, sweat dripping down his temple. Gone is the smug windbreaker act; indeed, this is the look of a man who knows the game is up.

  “Dorian!” I roar.

  He turns, eyes wide, then tightens his grip on the kid and bolts for the door.

  “Ah, hell no.”

  I sprint on two good legs, boots hammering the concrete, and slam into him just as his hand hits the latch. The girl tumbles free, scrambling into the arms of a waiting officer. Dorian, though, isn’t so lucky.

  We hit the ground together. He snarls, throws an elbow. I block it with my shoulder, drive my fist into his gut, then his jaw. He swings wild and I bury a knee in his chest.

  “You think you can hide behind a kid?” I growl and haul him to his feet. My knuckles split across his face. “You think you can poison women and move children like cargo and just walk away?” Another punch. His head snaps back. “Not again, pal.”

  He gurgles something: a plea or a curse. Doesn’t matter.

  I raise my fist again, but Sanchez’s hand clamps my shoulder. “Enough, Jim. He’s done, and there are like a dozen cops watching you.”

  I breathe hard, staring down at Dorian’s bloodied face, at the wreck of the man who thought he could hide in plain sight.

  Finally, I let my fist drop. Two uniforms haul him up, cuff him, drag him into the light, and read him his Miranda rights.

  The kid he tried to take stares at me, eyes wide. I give her the smallest nod I can manage, hoping it reads like a promise.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  They stick Dorian in a different room. Same gray walls, same metal table, but he is already falling apart. His windbreaker’s torn, one eye swelling shut from where I laid him out. He sits hunched, fingers trembling, laced together like he’s praying.

  The detective drops into the chair across from him, recorder whirring. “Mr. Finche, we need to talk.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Dorian blurts before the question’s even completed. His voice cracks, desperation spilling out. “I didn’t run anything. I just… moved things. Did what I was told.”

  The detective stays silent, pen scratching on a notepad. A video camera is recording everything.

  Dorian licks his lips, eyes darting toward the mirror and me. “It was Fran. Fran and Harold. They built it. They made the deals. Swear to God, I just… I just checked in, signed names, kept my head down.” His breath comes in ragged gasps. “She killed that woman, not me. It was her. Poison in the wine, I saw her switch bottles. You have to believe me.”

  The detective leans back, lets him ramble.

  “Please,” Dorian whispers, almost sobbing now. “I’ll give you everything. Names, dates, whatever you want. Just… just don’t pin this on me.”