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forgiven him.
    The urge was short-lived—going to prison wouldn’t help them find Maya or any of the buyers Jones supplied with a steady stream of young foreign women. She needed the bastard alive in order to identify and arrest every damn one of his business associates. She would go through their files one by one and track down every woman they’d sold into sex slavery or forced labor and give them a future. The ones who were still alive.
    She watched Jones walk to his front porch, and his confident stride and arrogant half-smile told her Hooper’s arrival wasn’t a surprise. Sonia noted that Charlie acted like a bodyguard, imposing and fearsome. Greg Vega was there, too, and she sighed in relief. She’d been worried about her spy, knowing the huge risk he had taken in contacting her. But he was safe, at least for now. She hoped he had something solid for her so she could get him and his pregnant wife into a safe house.
    Charlie glared at the feds while Callahan handed Jones the warrant. Did Callahan or Hooper or any ofthe other longtime agents recognize him? Probably not. Charlie’s punishment had been swift, and while it hadn’t involved prison time, he’d lost everything. As well he should have. Before his fall from grace, he’d been primarily undercover, and few agents outside of the then-INS knew his name, let alone his face.
    Charlie was here because he had his own vendetta against Jones or someone close to Jones, Sonia was certain. Charlie did nothing without revenge as the motive. It didn’t matter if it was his revenge or that of others—at least, that’s how it had been in the past. But now? Sonia didn’t know. She hadn’t seen him in ten years. Was he the feds’ contact? It made sense. How Hooper knew about the travel, when they left the airport. But Sonia didn’t see a man like Charlie Cammarata giving anything to the FBI. He’d never had an ounce of respect for that agency; he’d barely tolerated his own employer.
    Dammit, she wished she could hear what they were saying! Sitting on the sidelines was excruciating, almost as painful as giving up control—and to the FBI, no less. She hoped she wasn’t making a huge mistake giving Hooper the lead.
    “Dammit, Charlie, what are you doing with Jones?” she muttered.
    “Who?” Trace asked, looking through his own field goggles. “Who’s Charlie?”
    Trace had been in high school when Charlie was fired. He wouldn’t have known him. “Charlie Cammarata,” she said reluctantly. “My partner when I was working out of El Paso.”
    She breathed easier when Trace didn’t comment, thinking he didn’t know about what happened. Her relief was short-lived.
    “Why is a former INS agent working for Jones?”
    Trace sounded like Charlie had gone to the dark side, become one of the bad guys. And while Charlie was no saint, he wasn’t trafficking in humans. “If I had to guess, he’s working a job.”
    “For us?”
    “No.” For himself.
    “We have to report it.”
    “I know.”
    “I can do it,” he said quietly. “Considering your history with—”
    “I’ll do it,” she snapped. Trace didn’t know half the history she had with Charlie Cammarata. Most of the closed-door disciplinary hearing ten years ago with the Office of Professional Responsibility was still classified or sealed, and Sonia would make sure it remained so as long as she breathed.
    But Charlie’s involvement with Jones was one big-ass fucking wrench in the works.

CHAPTER

THREE

    Towering
was the only word Dean Hooper could think of to describe the Jones residence. With three-story ceilings, a sweeping staircase, and an excessively large great room with floor-to-ceiling windows, during the day it would have a view of Devils Lake and the San Joaquin Valley beyond. The decor was dark, rustic, and minimal, with a cloying scent of Pine Sol and wood polish. Not a speck of dust or a cobweb in sight.
    Jones had his fingers in many, many pies outside of his consulting firm. He