Fourteen members of the Crimes Against Children Task Force button-hooked through the double doors two at a time, moving quickly as they came in to make room for the person behind them. They hadn’t knocked or announced, so they’d seen no reason to cover the back door. With their sidearms drawn, they divided areas of responsibility as they scanned for danger. Chicas was a cartel joint, so it was a given that there would be guns inside. Joe Rice, the Waxahachie detective, had suggested they call Dallas PD SWAT. Callahan had demurred, though she knew it was probably the smarter call. She wanted to take Eddie Feng herself and right damn now, too, before he had a chance to contact even one more child online. She wasn’t about to screw around waiting for a bunch of SWAT guys to convene and scratch their asses while they drew up a plan.
With her FBI badge hanging from a chain on her neck, Kelsey Callahan pointed her pistol at the Sun Yee On triad turd nearest her and gave a shrill whistle to get everyone’s attention. On cue, Special Agent Olson cut the music and turned on what lights there were—which still didn’t brighten things up much. A dead quiet fell over the club.
The triad and cartel pukes just blinked, sizing up the task force like dogs consider a piece of meat. They were starting to get twitchy.
“Eddie Feng!” Callahan shouted, staring down a skinny Chinese gangbanger beside the stage. She lowered her voice slightly in an effort to defuse the situation. “I only want Eddie Feng.”
The triad guy’s shoulders relaxed a notch. He tipped his head sideways toward a man with a fauxhawk holding a computer tablet and a can of Red Bull. The bleeding gigantor lay at his feet.
Two CAC Task Force officers moved in on Feng. One took the tablet while the other spun him none too gently and put on the cuffs. Callahan continued to scan the shabby club. “Nice and calm,” she said, her voice steady and remarkably controlled considering how fast her heart was beating. She had to concentrate to focus on the threats and not the poor kids standing topless on stage. “Hands!” she said. “?Manos! Let’s see hands.”
Ninety seconds later, seventeen fuming members of Sun Yee On and Tres Equis sat on the floor in front of the stage, hands flex-cuffed behind their backs. The big guy slouched at the end of the line, blood still oozing from a nasty cut above his brow. One of the agents stood guard over nineteen confiscated handguns—now cleared and stacked along with knives and assorted other weapons, from chains to bicycle locks.
Callahan sat Eddie Feng back down at his table while two female CAC officers got the dancers some clothes and took them outside to interview in the cars, away from the accusing eyes of their pimps. Two agents secured the front and rear doors while the rest either pulled guard duty or stood in front of the guys lined up at the base of the stage, running them through Dallas PD dispatch for wants and warrants.
Callahan tapped Feng’s tablet, handing it off to Olson. “Let’s get this bagged before somebody wipes it.”
Olson reached in his jacket and pulled out a black nylon sleeve, into which he slid Eddie Feng’s computer. Often called a Faraday bag, the forensic evidence sleeve shielded the device from sending or receiving signals that might shut it down, remotely wipe the information, or inform a third party that it had been compromised. FBI techs would be able to take a better look once they got the device back to a shielded room.
Feng slumped at the table, hands behind his back, his dark eyes casting around the place like a cornered animal. He glanced at the RF shielding bag and then up at Olson. “There’s no need for that. Hell, it’s barely even encrypted.” He leaned forward, chest against the table, as if to confide in Olson. “We need to go somewhere else to talk.”
“And we will,” Callahan said.
Feng looked over his shoulder at the line of triad and cartel members. Every one of them was now staring daggers at the man.
“Seriously,” Feng said. “We should go.”
Ordinarily, Callahan would have agreed. But now the bad blood that had suddenly sprung up between Feng and the rest of the men made her think a few more minutes might rattle the guy’s cage in a productive way. Her team had the inside of the club secured, and marked DPD cruisers were already rolling up to the front and rear doors. She didn’t have to worry about the outer perimeter. Sticking around was safe enough, and even if it didn’t turn out to be incredibly productive, it did Callahan’s heart good to see this little prick squirm.
“You have the wrong man,” Feng whispered in accented English. “I’m one of the good guys.”
“You seriously need to shut up,” Callahan snapped. Feng was the type who would talk, but she wanted to get the tap flowing good and strong of his own accord before she read him his Miranda warning. Often, the best way to do that with people like him was to tell them to be quiet.
An Asian man with a buzz cut and full-sleeve tattoos craned his neck from his position at the base of the stage. He began to shout maniacally in Chinese, eyes wild, spittle flying from his drawn lips. Feng went pale, shrinking sideways in his chair to put even a few more inches between himself and the screaming triad soldier. A task force officer gave the tattooed man a shove with the toe of his boot. Instead of going quiet, the man rolled on his side, scrambling to his feet. He continued to scream in Chinese as he rushed toward Feng. Arms behind his back, the screaming triad puke fell flat on his face when Armstrong simply stomped on his foot.
Feng suddenly stood, nearly knocking over the table, but Callahan shoved him back down. He seemed awfully frail, and it wasn’t very difficult.
She nodded to Armstrong and then the screaming triad guy. “Get him out of here, Jermaine.” She looked at the rest of her team. “Tase the next shitbag that so much as twitches without my permission.”
Olson held up the bagged computer, unfazed by the commotion. “Is this going to be more of the same stuff?”
Feng’s face fell. “Same stuff as what?”
Olson shrugged, leaning back to rub his eyes. “Record of payment, maybe? Most of it is in code. ‘Coronet’ gets mentioned a half a dozen times or so—”
“Shhh,” Feng said, nearly apoplectic now. “Don’t discuss that in here.”
Callahan looked over Olson’s shoulder. They would need to get back to the office to concentrate on the data, but this was big stuff. She already knew the triads were running underage girls, but if they’d linked up with an offshoot of the Sinaloa Cartel, that took this ballgame into a whole new league. The information on this guy’s iPad could nail down a major human-trafficking ring.
“I’m begging you,” Feng whined. “Just get me out of here.”
“You’re in an awfully big hurry to go to jail,” Callahan said. “Having sex with a minor is a pretty big deal here in Texas, Ed. Even the guys on the inside don’t take kindly to child rapists.”
“What are you talking about?”
Callahan decided to play a portion of her hand. “We have a thumb drive that came from you.”
Feng’s face went slack. “How?”
“We’ll get to that,” she said.
“Can we get to it somewhere else, Officer . . . ?”
“Special agent,” she corrected. “Callahan, FBI.”
“Okay, Special Agent Callahan,” Feng said, chewing on his trembling bottom lip. He’d become wooden, his words barely audible. “There’s more going on than you realize. Take me somewhere safe. I promise I’ll tell you everything I know.”