Chapter 22: Target Selection
The corkboard went up on the warehouse wall at 0800 hours.
Wire had found it at a thrift store in Carroll Gardens—three feet by four feet, covered in faded blue felt, the kind of thing you'd see in a community center or an elementary school. Now it was mounted next to his communications station, empty except for a single pushpin in the center.
"I always wanted one of these," Santos said, a smile cracking his weathered face for the first time since he'd joined the team. "Like something out of a cop show."
"It's called an intelligence wall," Sarah corrected, but there was no heat in it. She was already laying out photographs on the folding table, organizing them into piles that made sense only to her analyst's brain. "And it's about to become the most important thing in this warehouse."
The team gathered around—Bear with his ever-present notebook, Elena with a cup of terrible coffee, Wire hovering at the edge of the group where he could retreat to his computers if the social pressure got too intense. I stood at the head of the table, watching Sarah work.
Three weeks ago, I'd been alone in this city. Now I had five people looking to me for direction.
"Don't screw this up."
"I've been analyzing Murphy's phone data and cross-referencing with my own sources," Sarah began, pinning the first photograph to the board. "There are three potential targets within our current operational capability. I'll present them in order of risk, lowest to highest."
The first photo showed a storefront on West 47th Street—a laundromat that I recognized from my early reconnaissance of Hell's Kitchen. The memory surfaced unbidden: walking those streets in the cold, mapping territory, still wearing a dead man's clothes.
"Target One: Kitchen Irish protection cell. Finn MacCool's Laundry." Sarah's voice was crisp, professional. "Six to eight enforcers running collections in a four-block radius. Weekly take estimated at fifteen to twenty thousand dollars. Low risk, but also low impact—taking them out would be noticed, but it wouldn't significantly damage the Irish network."
She pinned the second photograph. A warehouse near the East River, industrial district, surrounded by chain-link fencing.
"Target Two: Russian smuggling operation. They're moving weapons and precursor chemicals for methamphetamine production through this facility. High risk—estimated twenty to thirty armed guards, sophisticated security systems, possible FSB connections. High impact if successful, but..." She paused. "I don't recommend this target for our first operation. Too many unknowns, too many ways it could go wrong."
The third photograph made Bear's expression darken.
A two-story building in Hell's Kitchen, nondescript brick facade, loading dock in the back. The kind of building you'd drive past a hundred times without noticing.
"Target Three: Dogs of Hell human trafficking operation." Sarah's voice hardened. "They're bringing women in from Eastern Europe—Ukraine, Moldova, Romania—through shipping containers at the Brooklyn docks. This warehouse is a way station. Victims are held here for two to five days while buyers are arranged, then moved to their final destinations."
Elena set down her coffee cup. Her hand went to the crucifix at her throat.
"How many victims?" I asked.
"Based on shipping records and surveillance, twelve to fifteen at any given time. The operation has been running for approximately eight months. Conservative estimate: over a hundred women have passed through this facility." Sarah pinned additional photos—surveillance shots of trucks, guards, the loading dock. "Guard count is eight to twelve, depending on time of day. Armed with shotguns and pistols, some automatic weapons. They're bikers, not military—dangerous but undisciplined."
"Risk assessment?"
"Moderate. Higher than the Irish cell, lower than the Russians. The Dogs have connections to other biker gangs across the eastern seaboard, so hitting them could provoke a wider response." She met my eyes. "But the potential reward isn't just tactical. There are people in that building who need help. Today. Not next month, not next year."
The room was quiet for a moment.
"Traffickers are the worst," Bear said finally. His voice was low, controlled, but I could see the tension in his massive shoulders. "I've seen what they do. Overseas. The things they—" He stopped, collecting himself. "I vote for the Dogs."
Elena nodded. "If there are survivors, they'll need immediate medical attention. Malnutrition, dehydration, injuries from—" She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to. "I can treat them. We should help them."
Santos raised a practical concern. "The Dogs have a network. Biker gangs talk to each other. If we hit this warehouse, word spreads. We become known quantities."
"Good," Wire said quietly. Everyone turned to look at him—he rarely spoke up in group discussions. "Let them know someone's fighting back. Let them be afraid."
I studied the photographs on the board. The warehouse, the guards, the trucks that carried human cargo in the dead of night.
"This is why I built this team. Not for revenge. Not for power. For this—the chance to actually save people."
"Dogs of Hell. We hit the trafficking operation."
[MISSION GENERATED: DOGS OF HELL TRAFFICKING CELL]
[OBJECTIVE: ELIMINATE HOSTILES, RESCUE VICTIMS]
[ESTIMATED ENEMIES: 8-12]
[ESTIMATED VICTIMS: 12-15]
[REWARD: 500 SP, RECRUITMENT POOL BONUS, LEGACY POINT MULTIPLIER]
[TIME SENSITIVITY: PENDING RECONNAISSANCE]
The System notification pulsed at the edge of my vision. The first coordinated mission. The first real test of whether five broken people could function as a unit.
"Santos, Sarah—you're on reconnaissance. I want three days of surveillance before we move. Guard rotations, delivery schedules, anything that tells us when they're weakest." I pointed to the map Sarah had included with her briefing. "Wire, can you build communication gear that works in that area? The buildings are close together, lots of interference."
"Already started." Wire moved to his station, pulling up schematics on his salvaged monitors. "Encrypted radio on a frequency the NYPD doesn't monitor. I can also jam their cell signals during the assault—give us a three-minute window before they can call for backup."
"Do it. Bear, you and I are on tactical planning. Elena—"
"Medical prep." She was already moving toward her station. "I'll need additional supplies. Trauma victims in trafficking situations present specific challenges. Sedatives for transport, antibiotics for infections, psychological stabilization..."
"Take what you need from operating funds." I checked the cash box under the folding table. Roughly $1,300 remained—not much, but enough for medical supplies. "We'll replenish after the operation."
The team dispersed to their assignments. Within an hour, the corkboard was filling with photos, notes, string connecting related pieces of information. Santos added tactical observations in his precise handwriting. Sarah's annotations were smaller, denser, cross-referencing details that only she could see the significance of.
Bear stood in front of the board for a long time, studying the layout photographs.
"Entry points here and here," he said finally, tapping two locations. "Main entrance is a kill zone—they'll see us coming. But the loading dock has blind spots. If we time it with the guard rotation..."
His voice trailed off. The TBI fog was creeping in, the way it did when he pushed too hard.
"Write it down," I said quietly. "We'll go over it tomorrow, when you're fresh."
He nodded, pulling out his notebook. The entries were getting longer, more detailed—the coping mechanism was working. Elena's treatment protocol, combined with the structure of regular operations, was giving his damaged brain something to hold onto.
"Small victories. They add up."
I watched my team work—five people who'd been thrown away by the institutions that were supposed to protect them, now building something new from the wreckage of their lives.
The warehouse felt different with all of them here. Less like a hiding place, more like a headquarters.
Tomorrow, the reconnaissance would begin. In three days, we'd strike.
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