Lifeline

Lifting my arm, I rest my elbow on the door frame and cover my mouth with my hand. I take a slow, deep breath, slamming the door shut on the devastation and rage that haven’t lessened one bit over the years.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” O’Brien murmurs, respect for my father softening his voice. “I’m sure he’d be proud of what you’ve already achieved.”

“Thank you.” I clear my throat, then ask, “Why did you join the bureau?”

He shoots me a glance, one I feel over every inch of my body, then he answers, “I was recruited by the chief. He was best friends with my father.”

“Your dad’s an agent?”

O’Brien shakes his head. “No, they were friends since school.”

Realizing he’s using past tense, the air between us shifts.

I’m surprised when he opens up to me because he doesn’t look like the type of person who shares anything about his personal life. “I lost my parents in a head-on collision when I was seventeen. Chief Archer took me in.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I can only imagine how hard it must’ve been losing both his parents. Lindsay and I still have our mom.

It also sinks in that O’Brien and Chief Archer are close, so if I screw up with O’Brien, it will probably mean the end of my career.

No pressure.

O’Brien brings the SUV to a stop at a gas station in New Jersey. I glance around us, wondering if we’re getting out when a motorcycle stops next to the drivers' side. O’Brien lets the tinted window down and exchanges envelopes with the guy.

We leave seconds later, and O’Brien drives a couple of miles away before pulling to the side of the road. I watch as he opens the envelope, removing two photos and a sticky note. I take in his strong fingers and the veins on the back of his hands, sneaking up his forearms and disappearing beneath his rolled-up sleeves.

Forcing myself to stop ogling the man, I lean closer, looking at the photos of Albanian men getting off a private jet. Then I glance at the words scribbled on the piece of paper.

Bregu brothers and Zef Rama. Landed in NY from Belgium late last night. High alert issued among soldiers.

“Bregu brothers?” I ask.

O’Brien lets out a heavy breath, his broad chest straining against his shirt. “Violent motherfuckers who own every square inch of the Belgium drug market. Their syndicate is mostly run by family and close friends, so getting in undercover is right up there next to impossible.” He taps on the photo, pointing out one of the men. “Zef Rama’s their hitman and right-hand man. Wherever he goes, bodies follow.”

Shit.

My eyes dart to O’Brien’s face that’s strained with worry. “I fucking dropped a hornet’s nest on New York.”

O’Brien

Christ.

“I wanted the head of the syndicate but never thought it would be the Bregu brothers,” I mutter, worry tightening my muscles and weighing heavy in my chest.

The team’s gathered in the conference room, staring at the hierarchy chart we have up on the wall.

Eric comes in, his eyes glued to his tablet. “We have confirmation. It’s them.”

My gaze locks on the photos of the brothers, then slowly work its way down to Zef Rama and the rest of the soldiers.

How the fuck am I going to infiltrate the syndicate?

Eric goes to stand next to the chart, pointing at the one photo. “Armand Bregu. He’s the leader. Vaso Bregu is second in charge. Zef Rama reports to Vaso.” He moves to the next row of photos, then glances at me.

I clear my throat, and climbing to my feet, I join him by the chart. “Luan Sadiki. He’s nothing more than a glorified pimp, but he’s ruthless.” I tap on a photo. “John Berisha. He's in charge of establishing trade lines and runs the upscale clubs where most of the money laundering happens. He has a habit of getting a drink at Jezebel every night at nine-thirty. He’s a stickler for routine, so it’s easy to keep tabs on him. Then last, but not least, we have Joseph Dobroshi, who’s in charge of the transport of drugs, arms, and girls. He owns a diner where a lot of their meetings take place.”

“Only the six men?” Chief Archer asks.

I shake my head. “There’s Hoxha and Kurti who are fresh from Germany. I’m still getting info on them, but from what I’ve heard, they’re low-level pimps who handle the girls on the street.”

“Human trafficking?” JJ asks.

“Yeah. They mainly deal in arms and drugs, but lately, they’ve been expanding into the trafficking of women, most from poverty-stricken backgrounds. They lure them in with the promise of work and a new life,” I explain.

“Same shit, different day,” Briggs mutters. “There’s no end to it. You cut off one head, and another two pop up.”

My eyes drift over the photos, feeling Brigg’s frustration deep in my chest. It’s a never-ending battle. Taking low-level soldiers off the street is not making a difference at all.