“Wait here,” Apollo says as he disappears down a hallway on the far side of the huge room we’re standing in.
“Can I get you ladies something to drink?” I turn my head, noticing a gorgeous smiling woman. “I’m Emmalyn.”
“I’m fine, but thank you,” I say.
“I’m here to speak with Kincaid,” Lola snaps, unimpressed by the woman’s hospitality.
Emmalyn gives her a soft smile and a quick nod before she walks away.
Eyes stay on us as we stand near the front door, but no one else approaches us. Amongst the men are several women, but they aren’t scantily clad—another stereotype from too many television shows. If the men weren’t wearing leather cuts, I imagine this is what a big family holiday get-together would look like.
I don’t feel unsafe, but I’m not exactly comfortable with so many eyes on me either. I do my best to refrain from rocking back and forth from my heels to my toes as we wait.
A chorus of pings flow throughout the room. Each of the men, and one seriously tough-looking woman, pull their phones out, reading whatever message they got and then stand. Their focus is even greater when they walk past. The women sit quietly. It’s clear from the looks they give each other that they have no idea who we are or why we’re here, and they’re curious as to what’s going on that would have every one of the men stand and leave the room. I’m confused myself if I’m being honest.
Apollo reappears. “Follow me.”
We do. We could be walking into a lion’s den, and neither one of us question it. The three-headed snarling dog on the back of his leather vest doesn’t exactly breed faith in my safety.
The scrutiny we were under moments ago in the living room is nothing compared to walking into what looks like a conference room and being the sole focus of over a dozen now angry-looking bikers.
Apollo closes the door behind us the second we enter, and I feel trapped. I keep close to the door for a quick escape when he takes a seat on the opposite side of the table. Lola on the other hand takes a few steps forward.
“I appreciate the show of solidarity boys, but I’m looking for Kincaid.”
“I’m Kincaid.” A man at the front of the room with a bald head, two full sleeves of tattoos, and a thick salt and pepper beard steps forward.
Now this guy looks like a biker, minus the greasy feel.
Lola takes a deep breath as if she’s about to give an exceptionally long speech.
“I’m Special Agent Lauren Vos with the FBI.”
I snap my eyes back at her with the admission, but her pronouncement doesn’t faze a single man in the room.
“I’m here to talk about Javier Sosa.”
“I don’t know a Javier Sosa,” Kincaid says, the growl in his voice betraying his words.
“Javier Sosa, AKA Thumper, AKA Edward Jones—” She rolls her eyes as if it’s the stupidest name in the world, and I kind of have to agree. “AKA Javier Nolasco—”
A rumble of growls echo around the room, and I freeze. They aren’t happy to hear about Javier, so I don’t know how she thinks coming here will help him.
“Or should I say Special Agent Javier Sosa of the FBI.”
Eyes dart from Lo—Lauren back to Kincaid, shock registering on several faces, while others seem to be trying to hide confusion.
“That’s not possible,” a man in the corner sitting behind a computer says.
“Is he rogue?” another guy asks, as if that’s the only possible explanation.
“I know what you think. Thumper infiltrated your organization to find trade secrets for sex trafficking. Edward Jones is Javier Nolasco, a sex trafficker with ties to El Salvador. I know you’re looking for him.”
“It doesn’t take a genius to find out we’re looking for him, Agent,” the computer man says. He’s not wearing a cut, so I have no idea what his name is. “We made that info online readily available.”
“It’s all lies,” Lauren says. “He’s none of those things. He’s—”
“I thought I recognized you,” another man says as he steps closer. The patch on his vest reads Shadow. “You’re the girl from the video.”
Lauren swallows hard, her head lifting another inch or so as her back straightens. “That video was put up by the man who sold both of us.”
I take a step back when several of the men look at me directly. I drop my head, hating their focus but also wanting to cry because I have a very good idea of what video she’s talking about. The man who Javier paid for us, held his phone up while Javier raped her the first time.
“You want us to help him somehow?” Kincaid asks.
“He raped you,” a voice from the other side of the room says, but I don’t lift my head to find who said it.