Tommy spent all of the evening and a substantial portion of the morning examining and attempting to chart the findings from his escapade at the Cook County chokey. It was slow going. Not as slow as his careful departure from the jail—that had seemed interminable, not to mention soul-wrenching—but it was worth it. Len had learned much.

The web of the group that opposed them was far wider than they first had imagined. Weliver was aware of no fewer than 11 Gifted mercenaries who participated in the human trafficking operation in the U.S. and abroad. All were either extremely strong or unbelievably swift—save one, a man named Davisson, who had "a way of getting in your head." All were veterans of the group formerly headed by Ulysses Morse in Utah.

"Wayne Summerall appears to be the overall boss, but the network is fairly loose," Tommy explained, sharing his hours of notetaking and diagram-drawing with Sam and Philly. "They split the proceeds of transporting women and contraband into the country, but whatever the others can make on their home turf is theirs."

He pulled out a short diagram and turned it to Philly.

"The boss divides his time between a number of places. Most of it is spent in New York, D.C., and Madrid. He also travels a lot to Tangier, in Morocco, where they have something going on ... though Weliver didn't know what. But they also fancy the country because it doesn't have an extradition treaty with the U.S."

"A guy named Blaine Merrick is sort of the number two man. He works out of Chicago, with Davisson, and seems, or seemed, to be responsible for day-to-day operations of their trafficking business. Apparently, he is low-key and cautious. I think he's the same one Paloma knew as 'Chick,' but she figured he was a worker bee like Welliver and the rest. None of them, Merrick included, have permanent addresses here in Chicago."

"He's the one Lydia mopped the floor with?" asked Sam.

"Yeah, the one and only. Weliver isn't certain how, but neither Merrick nor Davisson ended up in police custody."

"But he has an idea?" Sam chided.

"That's very perceptive, my friend." Tommy gave a twisted smile. "How did you guess?"

"It was easy," said the Chicagoan. "The group has a lot of former Valhalla and Hollirich people working for them. Back in the day, they were all tight as bandits with federal authorities. The question is, are they still? ... and if so, how deep?"

"Oh, they are still. But how deep? It's impossible to say right now." Tommy exhaled. "Merrick was regular drinking buddies with a U.S. marshal named Thibodaux and had fairly cordial relations with a few other federal officers, including a pair of FBI agents. Everyone in Summerall's group knew to avoid trouble and keep a low profile, but if local authorities got too nosy, it was common knowledge that Summerall or Merrick could pull some strings and get the feds to throw a body check or two."

"Motherfuckers," Sam cursed under his breath.

"Oh, that's nothing, Sam. Check out the nifty little chart I made. The group has a couple of former Special Services Administration agents on the payroll out in Los Angeles."

"Motherfuckers," Sam growled, looking around to ensure the girls couldn't hear.

"I'm a lot more interested," said Philly, "in why Summerall spent so much time in D.C. According to your notes, he was there sometimes two or three times a month."

"Weliver didn't know anything about that, but I suppose you could guess. Hollirich? The DoD? Homeland Security? ... the usual suspects."

Sam stood and began to pace the room. "So, it's a choice between a few pals scratching each other's backs, or does this organization have a sugar-daddy ... mamma, in the government?" The man laughed again. "Damn, every fu ... damn time we think we got it figured out."

"Now, the funny thing is," Tommy continued, "there appears to be shitloads of money coming in ... either slaving pays more than I thought, or there has to be something else going on."

Philly pulled her tablet from the other table. "Just how much money are we talking, here?"

"Again, it's difficult to say. Weliver was low on the totem, but he thinks they've cleared over 200 million in the last year."

"Oh, come on ... no fucking way," cried Phil. "That's nearly 16 million a month."

"It's what he says. He claims he banked nearly 600 thousand in the last year, himself."

"And he's a ground-pounder," mused Sam, who had resumed his seat on the couch. "The wages of sin."

"Well, no...," insisted Philly, "you're right, there's something wrong here. Even if they brought in 25 women, six or seven times a month, that still adds up to almost 100 thousand, U.S., per head." She stared at them. "Gentlemen, no one is making that kind of money smuggling women for prostitution ... or even selling guns? Is there something else?"

Tommy nodded. "Yes, drugs. But that seems a small part of what they do."

Sam got up again and began pacing the perimeter of the room.

"Whatever they're into," concluded Philly, "it is worth a lot of money."

"We'll soon find out," said Sam during his first lap of the room. "Camille's going to have a forensic accountant go over everything they picked up from Summerall's wallet." He quietly laughed. "Do you think they'll need help rounding that guy up?"

Tommy shrugged. "Unless Summerall is much tougher than Cecil estimates, police emergency services should be able to handle him ... if they go in prepared. I trust Cecil's judgment on such things."

"Still ...," continued Sam.

"The last thing they need is another old fucker gumming things up. If Eric and Camille need help, Cecil is one of the most cunning and resourceful people I know. He'll give them all they need. And," Tommy added for good measure, "they'll give the asshole a chance to come along quietly."

"Yeah, I know." Sam appeared to acquiesce.

"Why do we care what happens to this guy?" asked an annoyed Philly. "Why do we care what happens to any of them?"

Philly's ire over the illicit enterprise they had discovered was palpable—it had been from the beginning. The woman was not of a mind to take prisoners or to show the perpetrators the least mercy. Still, Tommy didn't want an argument between his friends, so he spoke before Sam could reply.

"Because they're human beings, too," he said more brusquely than he intended, but he continued in a gentle voice. "Look, I grew up in a different time. Most of my life it was .... Well, what you have here in your society is vastly better and more beautiful ... justice, mercy, fairness, equality before the law ... even for the worst people."

"When it's actually practiced," she hissed bitterly.

"Yes. When people have the courage to follow their better angels. A wise man once told me that we get the justice in this life we make for ourselves. In other words, just because the government won't give people like us justice doesn't mean we have to abandon that notion, too ... even for the Merricks and Summeralls of the world."

Tommy wordlessly toed the floor before continuing.

"I don't want to be a cop or a crime-fighter ... I don't suspect you or Sam do, either. But I believe for every Wayne Summerall in the world there are a thousand Camille Thomas' and Eric Muellers. They just occasionally need our help to do the right thing."

"Why don't we start policing ourselves?" she asked, wiping away an imaginary tear.

"Oh, God no, hon," Tommy snorted. "I am no angel ...."

Sam began laughing again as Tommy continued.

"... and I've known lots of people who have used their Gifts to make a living or help get ahead in life. It doesn't matter to me if what they're doing is illegal, as long as they're not hurting anyone or, worse, drawing attention to all of us .... I'm not trying to form some coalition of justice."

"And what if it's the government who's abusing people?" She looked at him the same way she had 14 months before, when the true terror of the government's actions against them had begun to come clear.

"You know the answer to that," Tommy said quietly.

"All this shit tells us one important thing, Phil," Sam added, "the Gifted have got no monopoly on virtue. We're just as capable of being miserable assholes as anyone else. All I'm saying is these guys should have a chance to pull their heads out their asses and come along quietly ... if they don't take the hand they're offered, fuck 'em."

"I get it," Philly said. She gave Tommy another of her punches to the shoulder and stood and gave Sam a kiss on the forehead. "I'm going to sort your notes and graphs out and send them to Camille. You need to get on the phone and call Max. It's way past time for you to check in with her."

"I'll do that right now," Tommy replied dutifully. "And, Sam, find out if Fleener's still in the hospital. Weliver painted him as some sort of lapdog to Merrick. If he hightails it back to his boss, that might be a way to find where Merrick and Davisson have holed up."

"If they haven't fled the country," Sam corrected.

"We can only hope," said a smiling Philly.