We have your parents. The family disappointment should know better than to betray blood. If you want to see them alive again, come alone to the Charlestown warehouse. You have one hour.
The Charlestown warehouse. It could only be the abandoned shipping facility near the Naval Yard that Troy’s company had purchased for future development three years earlier. I recognized it from property records I’d reviewed during the investigation.
“They’ve taken my parents to the Charlestown warehouse,” I told Reynolds, showing her the text. “They want me to come alone.”
“Absolutely not,” she responded immediately. “This is clearly a trap. We’ll mobilize tactical teams, coordinate with Boston PD, create a perimeter.”
“That will take too long,” I interrupted. “They’ve given me one hour, and they’re spooked. If they see a law enforcement presence, my parents are in immediate danger.”
“You’re not going in alone, Bellini. That’s not happening.”
“Then give me a small team. Two agents, no marked vehicles. We can be there in fifteen minutes, assess the situation, and call for backup if needed.”
Reynolds hesitated, weighing the options.
“Take Matthews and Rodriguez. Both are former Special Forces. Unmarked vehicle, minimal equipment. You observe only until backup arrives. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” I agreed, though we both knew I’d do whatever was necessary to save my parents.
We moved quickly, changing into tactical gear in the van. As Matthews drove toward Charlestown, I checked my sidearm, secured my vest, and tested my communications equipment.
“What’s your plan?” Rodriguez asked as we approached the warehouse district.
“I’ll make initial contact while you two find positions with eyes on the main entrance and loading dock. If my parents are visible and the situation allows, we extract immediately. If not, we wait for backup.”
It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all we had.
As we neared the location, Matthews cut the headlights and pulled onto a service road behind an adjacent building.
“Comms check,” I said, adjusting my earpiece.
“Clear,” Matthews confirmed.
“Clear,” echoed Rodriguez.
“Remember—observation only until backup arrives,” I reminded them, knowing even as I said it that circumstances might force a different approach.
The warehouse loomed ahead, a hulking concrete structure with broken windows and graffiti-covered walls. A single light glowed from what appeared to be an office area on the second floor. A black SUV with tinted windows was parked by the loading dock—Uncle Troy’s vehicle, I recognized.
“I count two guards at the main entrance. One at the loading dock,” Matthews reported, scanning the perimeter through night-vision binoculars. “Probably more inside.”
I nodded, formulating a strategy.
“Matthews, maintain position with eyes on the main entrance. Rodriguez, move to the east side near the fire escape. I’ll approach from the front.”
“Bellini—” Matthews began to object.
“I need to establish contact,” I cut him off. “They’re expecting me. Once I confirm my parents’ location and condition, we’ll reassess.”
Before they could argue further, I moved toward the warehouse, keeping to shadows until I reached the main entrance. The guards, both wearing suits despite the late hour and industrial setting, spotted me immediately.
“Deputy Marshal Bellini, I presume,” one said with a smirk.
I kept my expression neutral.
“I’m here to see Troy Martinez.”
“Arms out. Turn around,” the other instructed. “We need to check you for wires.”
I complied, allowing them to pat me down and confiscate my service weapon and phone. They missed my backup ankle gun—a rookie mistake that might prove useful later.
“She’s clean,” the first guard announced. “Take her up.”
They escorted me through the cavernous main floor of the warehouse, past stacked shipping containers and construction equipment, to a freight elevator. We ascended to the second floor, where they led me to what had once been the facility manager’s office.
Uncle Troy sat behind a metal desk, looking strangely composed in his tailored suit. Agent Dawson stood beside him, his FBI credentials still displayed on his belt despite his obvious betrayal. My parents sat on folding chairs against the wall, frightened but apparently unharmed.
“Anahi!” my mother cried when she saw me.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I assured her, trying to project a confidence I didn’t entirely feel. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“The prodigal niece returns,” Uncle Troy said, his voice carrying the same condescending tone I’d heard all my life, though now it was edged with something harder. “Or should I say, Deputy Marshal Bellini. You’ve been keeping secrets from the family.”
“Where I work is my business,” I replied evenly. “Let my parents go. They have nothing to do with this.”
Uncle Troy laughed, a sound without humor.
“On the contrary, they agreed to wear wires to gather evidence against me. That makes them quite involved.”
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