I didn’t share in Bishop’s approval of the Raiders’ show of hospitality. It angered me that Ghost and his men couldn’t see the irony in the situation. Somewhere Sarah was being passed around to strange men for their enjoyment. Sure, the difference was these women were being paid and doing it of their own volition, and Sarah had no choice, but it still didn’t sit well with me.
Shaking my head, I eased the blonde gently off my lap and onto her plastic heels. I took a few breaths to ensure that I could respond without alienating Ghost and his men. “That’s kind of you, Ghost, but when it comes to Breakneck’s daughter, I’m afraid we don’t have any time to waste.”
Ghost gave me a grim smile. “I get it, brother. I was just trying to make what I had to tell you a little easier to take.”
My brows rose in suspicion. “You mean the news about Sarah is worse than we thought?”
He nodded. “Come on, let’s go somewhere we can talk.”
After Bishop reluctantly released his girl, we fell in step behind Undertaker and Chulo and made our way through the tables to the back of the club. Another hulking biker stood guard at the door. He jerked his chin at Ghost, and then stepped aside for us.
We followed Ghost down the dimly lit hallway to the last door on the left. When we got inside, I found an impressive mahogany table with ten chairs that must have worked well for short-notice meetings. After taking a seat across from Ghost, I began rapping my knuckles anxiously on the table.
“After hearing from you the other day, I immediately put out some feelers for our informants with ties to the Henchmen.”
From inside his cut, Ghost produced a manila folder. He took out a glossy black-and-white picture and then shoved it across the table at me. I sucked in a breath. It was of Sarah. She was at some college bar, having drinks with friends. Across from her on a stool at the bar was a guy in a cut. I would’ve needed a magnifying glass to prove it for certain, but I was sure he was a Henchman. Apparently she had been on their radar if they had taken the time to photograph her.
After I flashed the picture at Bishop, he asked, “Can we use the picture to trace the guy?”
Ghost shook his head. “While it was one of the Henchmen who took her, she’s no longer with them.”
I leaned forward in my chair. “What do you mean she’s not with them? They’re demanding ransom money from Breakneck for her return.”
“The Henchmen don’t make it their usual business to deal in human trafficking. But they have been known to abduct a girl or two to sell when they get into a bind with a rival club.”
“Which club?”
Ghost winced. “The Diablos.”
“Jesus Christ,” I spat. It was one thing for Sarah to have been taken by the Henchmen. Although they were dangerous, they were still a low-ranking club in membership and without many allies. The Diablos, however, were in a whole other fucking realm.
Out of the top five mega clubs in the world, the Diablos were up there in the ranks with the Hells Angels and the Mongols. They were considered dangerous, not just by the FBI and the ATF—the department of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives—but by other clubs as well. They drew their strength from their ties to some of the most powerful drug cartels in Mexico. They got off on the most extreme forms of torture, and they didn’t give a shit if they had to take out women or kids to get what they wanted.
This was a game changer of epic proportions. “Are you absolutely sure she’s with the Diablos?” I asked.
Undertaker nodded. “I have a contact at the border check. He confirmed that a girl matching Sarah’s description was taken into Juárez yesterday morning.”
Ghost took out another photograph and slid it across the table. “We received this photo earlier this afternoon.”
Once again, Sarah’s black-and-white image appeared before me. But this photo showed a shadow of the girl who had been talking and laughing in the other photo. Her eyes were cast down to her lap where her hands were clasped. Even through the photograph, her fear was palpable.
“But I thought the cartels were trafficking girls out of Mexico, not into it,” Bishop said.
“This is the part you’re not going to like,” Ghost answered.
I grunted before telling him, “There’s not one fucking thing about any of this that I like.”
Ghost nodded at Chulo.
“It appears that upper-class white girls have become a growing commodity with high-ranking cartel members. The Diablos’ El Paso chapter has been targeting college bars and campuses. Somewhere outside of Juárez, they have a camp where they house the girls before selling them to the highest bidder,” Chulo said.
“Who owns the camp?” Bishop asked.
Chulo took a long swig of beer before replying. “Guy named Mendoza. He’s one of the Rodriguez cartel’s lugartenientes.” At Bishop’s and my blank expressions, he winked. “That’s ‘lieutenant’ for you gringos.”
I furrowed my brow in confusion. “Wait—so he’s one of their soldiers?”
Shaking his head, Chulo explained, “Being lugarteniente makes him the second-highest position in the cartel. He supervises the lower levels like the hit men.”
My mind whirling with questions, I couldn’t help asking, “So if he’s some second-in-command in the drug world, where does selling girls come into this?”
“Because of the recent crackdowns on the narcotic trade, human trafficking has become an easy way to supplement their income,” Chulo replied.