“Is that really what you want to talk about?”
“I never discuss business on an empty stomach. And neither should you. A man cannot concentrate properly when bacon is involved.”
Mona arrived with two heaping plates. Eggs, sausage, home fries, and thick slices of slab bacon sat atop a mountain of buttermilk pancakes. Jack’s appetite re-emerged; his stomach rumbled in welcome. Maybe Charlie had a point.
“I own a pub,” Jack told him in between delicious, grease-laden forkfuls.
“A pub, huh?” Charlie laughed. “Wasn’t that supposed to be my dream?”
It was. Jack suddenly remembered pulling guard duty with a then nineteen-year old Charlie passing the time by telling him about the old-fashioned Irish tavern he would own someday.
“So you don’t own a pub?”
“Didn’t say that, did I? I’ve got several, but there’s only one I’m really fond of. Old place with real spirit to it, if you know what I mean. I’ve been fixing her up in my spare time.”
Jack told him about his place, and they commiserated about the amount of time and effort that went into a quality renovation. Both agreed it was well worth it.
“Are you married?” Jack asked.
“Nah. Never met the right one, I guess. What about you? Did you marry that Irish lass you were always mooning over?”
“Aye.”
“Kids?”
“Seven sons.”
Charlie whistled. “Seven! You’ve been a right rutting bastard, haven’t you? All black-haired, blue-eyed, big lads like their father, I suppose?”
Jack grinned, the proud answer evident in his features.
“Eight Callaghans. I’m not sure the world is quite ready for that. You’ll be able to start your own team someday.”
Jack wasn’t sure how he felt about that, so he said nothing. From the moment Kane was born, he’d often wondered how he’d feel if his boys wanted to follow in his footsteps. Proud, certainly, but worried, too. The world was an ugly place, run by greedy, power hungry men. All he’d wanted to do when he got out was forget all that. To return to his sleepy little hometown and live whatever time he had left with Kathleen in an isolated bubble of his own making. For more than twelve years, that was exactly what he’d done.
Now here was that outside world again, looking for a way to poke holes in that bubble and demand his attention. He didn’t like it.
They talked more about land and bars and family. Once the plates had been cleared away, Charlie’s expression turned serious.
“Before I begin, I have to ask. Are you in?”
Knowing Charlie was involved made the decision easier. Charlie was a hell of a planner. He left nothing to chance. If shite went sideways, it would not be for lack of preparation on Charlie’s part.
Jack nodded. He saw both relief and approval in the other man’s face.
“It’s a hell of a thing, Jack,” Charlie said, his voice automatically lowering as he leaned forward to be heard over the din of the busy diner. “A human trafficking operation.”
“Tell me.”
“We’ve been after these guys for years. They’re smart. Too smart to be your run of the mill smuggler. We’ve identified a few as former immigration agents, agents who have chosen to leave the government pension behind in exchange for a spot on the payrolls of some very powerful family organizations.” He looked pointedly at Jack. “Family organizations based in Chicago and Vegas, but also with a strong presence on the east coast.”
Jack nodded in acknowledgement, hearing the words Charlie didn’t say.
“They operate under the guise of a completely legal, professional escort service. We’re not talking your run of the mill flesh peddlers here. The clients are billionaire businessmen and foreign dignitaries. And it goes beyond the public appearances and a couple of nights in the penthouse suite. These guys are leasing with the option to buy, if you know what I mean.”
“It’s a custom order type of job, too. These bastards, they fill out a fucking profile—– gender, age, height, weight, hair color, build—– then pay mega bucks to have those orders filled, packaged, and delivered right to their doorstep.” Charlie shook his head. “We’re not talking just runaways, either. They snatch girls with deep roots, then threaten to harm their family and loved ones unless they comply.”
Disgust permeated Charlie’s words as he laid it out, and Jack felt pretty much the same.
“But surely if these girls have family, someone is noticing they’ve gone missing.”
“Seen a milk carton lately?” Charlie grunted. “Every one of them is sporting the picture of a missing child. Like I said, these guys are smart and they’ve got money. It’s easy enough to fake a death or rig an accident. One burned corpse looks much like another, especially when you’ve got medical examiners in your pocket. And consider this: a grieving family doesn’t keep looking, not when they believe they know exactly where their kid is, sitting six feet below a slab of marble.”