“But-”

“Scrape this powder off the floor and get it back in the case. And I want the other cores finished by tomorrow. Any more accidents, your family pays. Got it?”

“What, no shower for me?” Randall said with forced bravado. In truth he was near tears. His plan had failed, and now he’d be dead within a week. He’d hoped the men would panic and rise up against Dante, enabling him to escape. At least he would’ve been able to save his family and let the FBI know about the plot.

“We both know it’s too late for you. You’re the expert, right?” Dante said snidely. He turned and walked away, calling back, “I mean it, Grant. Anything else goes wrong, we kill your wife and kids.”

Kelly was having serious second thoughts. Rodriguez struggled with the door’s dead bolt, swearing under his breath.

“I used to be able to do this in under a minute,” he said, smiling apologetically.

Kelly raised an eyebrow. “Really? I must’ve missed that training seminar.”

“Misspent youth. Anyway, I’m out of practice.”

“I’m thinking maybe we should try to get a warrant…” Kelly said, glancing around. This area was less deserted than the other warehouse district. Despite the late hour a few trucks were still parked outside other buildings. She hadn’t seen anyone around, but you never knew. An arrest for breaking and entering would definitely hasten her exit from the Bureau, and she wondered if subconsciously she was hoping the decision would be made for her.

The sound of pins clicking, and Rodriguez turned the knob. Kelly unclipped the top of her holster and put her hand over her Glock.

“Stay behind me,” she said in a low voice.

“Not a problem.”

It was pitch-black inside, the only illumination filtered moonlight from windows set far above. Kelly clicked on a flashlight, keeping the beam low to the ground. The layout was similar to the other warehouse, two smaller huts in the rear of the building, a large open area up front. Except this time, the space wasn’t empty.

“What the hell?” Rodriguez whispered. A flatbed trailer held an enormous float decked out in the colors of the American flag, with slogans splashed across an eagle.

Kelly didn’t answer, gesturing for him to stay behind her while they searched the warehouse. She checked the first door-instead of an office it housed a line of portable toilets. The smell rising from them was rank. The doors had been removed, and Kelly held one hand over her nose as she quickly scanned down the line. All empty.

She turned to find Rodriguez looking as puzzled as she felt.

“What do you-”

A sound from the other hut. Kelly motioned for him to be quiet. She crossed the warehouse floor quickly, staying to the left of the door, out of range in case whoever was on the other side was armed. She waited for Rodriguez to join her. He was breathing hard, even in the dim lighting she could see he looked pale. Pushing himself too hard, she thought. He should probably still be in the hospital.

He nodded at her, weapon drawn.

“FBI! Open the door and show me your hands!”

“Jones,” Rodriguez said, motioning at the door with his Glock. Kelly glanced down. A padlock latched the outside. She frowned. Whoever was inside was not there voluntarily.

“Can you get that one open?” she asked.

“Step back,” Rodriguez said. Kelly slipped behind him. He fired a single shot.

“Jesus, Rodriguez!” Kelly hissed. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

He shrugged. “It’s a Master. Tough to break in to. Would’ve taken forever.”

Kelly gritted her teeth and undid the latch. She yanked the door open, stepping back while she scanned down the sight. Eyes stared back at her, the whites bright in the gloom. Kelly took a tentative step forward, then another. Her flashlight beam caused them to squint; some shielded their eyes with their hands. The smell was a hundred times worse than the toilets across the hall, and Kelly fought an involuntary urge to retch.

Rodriguez called out something in Spanish, and a series of voices answered, tripping over each other in their desire to be heard. The mass of people stood. Some pressed toward the door.

“Alto!” Kelly yelled, keeping her weapon up, hoping that was the right word. “Tell them not to move.”

Rodriguez spit out another stream of Spanish, his voice heavy with authority. A few grumbles, but the people stepped back.

“See if you can find the lights,” Kelly said.

Rodriguez vanished. Kelly kept her weapon raised. She didn’t know what she’d do if they rushed her, there were too many to stop and no one appeared to be armed.

Suddenly, the lights clicked on. Kelly blinked with the others: after the dusky half-light, the glare was startling. The room was no more than ten-by-ten feet, but at least twenty people were crammed inside. Most were in their twenties or thirties, but a few appeared to be teenagers. Filthy, as if they had gone months without bathing, a fine layer of grime rendering them nearly indistinguishable.

“Jesus,” Rodriguez said, reappearing at her side.

“Ask them why they’re here,” Kelly said. The room issued a palpable sense of misery, as if long after they left the walls would still be laden with it. She couldn’t even imagine what would be worth subjecting yourself to these conditions.

Rodriguez asked what sounded like a question, and one of the men replied. Rodriguez motioned him closer, and they spoke in low voices for a minute. The man waited, watching with imploring eyes, while Rodriguez came over to explain.

“A coyote brought them here, a white man,” he said. “Guaranteed he’d be able to slip them past La migra and the Minutemen. But once they got here, they were told they’d have to stay. That the coyotes had a plan for them to slip away during a parade. Only then would it be safe. Someone comes by once a day to give them food and take them to the toilets.”

“A parade?” Kelly knit her brow, turning back to the main room. “So they’re waiting to be brought out of here on a float? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Rodriguez shrugged. “Fourth of July is coming up, I’m guessing the float is for that. Maybe their coyote thought it would be easier to have them slip away in a crowd.”

“They could just drop them in a Latino neighborhood in San Antonio,” Kelly said, shaking her head. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Rodriguez frowned. “Plus that doesn’t explain how the good ol’ boys at the other warehouse tie into it. Why would Minutemen be coyotes?”

“It is kind of perfect. They know the border better than anyone else,” Kelly pointed out.

“Yeah, but most of those guys would pay to shoot a Mexican. They’re fanatical about it.”

“You’re right, it’s strange.” Kelly eyed the float. It looked garish in the austere surroundings. Here she was trying to tie up loose ends, and instead she kept adding more threads.

“What do we do with them?” Rodriguez asked. A few of the immigrants had crowded in the doorway and were watching them silently.

Kelly hated what she was about to say, but knew there was no other option. “You have to explain that we’re going to lock them back in until their handlers come. As soon as they hear the doors open, I want them to make as much noise as possible.”

“You want to be able to claim exigent circumstances,” Rodriguez said.

“It’s our only way in, especially if Laredo P.D. is working with them.”

“What makes you think they’ll come? If they think their operation has been compromised, they might take off.”

“We rattled their cage. I’m guessing someone will come by soon to check on things, maybe even move them to a new location,” Kelly said. “And I’m willing to bet it’ll be our favorite Minutemen brothers.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Rodriguez asked, voice hard.

“Then we call the ICE.” He didn’t respond, eyes focused on the ground. Kelly examined him. “We’re still the law, Rodriguez.”