Noted. I'm serious. You go after him, you better bring an army. We've got one, Marcus said glancing at Eva and Doc. It's small, but it's loyal.
After the call ended, they sat in silence. Finally, Doc spoke. This is bigger than we thought. We're not dealing with street criminals. We're dealing with a paramilitary organization.
Doesn't change what we have to do, Eva said. We have to stop him. How? Marcus asked. We can't just walk into a fortified compound.
No, but we can get him to come to us. Eva's mind was working. He wants us to shut down the center, right? What if we pretend to comply, Mom? Fake surrender, exactly.
We announce we're closing the center, leaving Arizona, make it public. Big press conference, lots of media. Eva's eyes gleamed. Then we wait for Ashlin to make contact. Verify we're really leaving.
And when he does, we capture him, Marcus finished. Get him to confess, record it, turn it over to the FBI with evidence they can't ignore. Doc nodded slowly. It's risky. If he smells a trap, then we fight, but at least we'll have the element of surprise.
Eva looked at both of them. This is our best shot, maybe our only shot. They voted unanimous. The trap was set. The press conference was held three days later at the Garrett Hartwell Center.
Local media showed up in force. The story had legs. Elderly heroes targeted by trafficking network forced to close their charity. Human interest gold. Eva was stood at the podium flanked by Marcus and Doc.
Behind them, Helen, Frank, Sarah, and a dozen volunteers. Eva read from a prepared statement, her voice heavy with false defeat. Three months ago, my friends and I were blessed to rescue seven people from a human trafficking operation. We thought by shutting down that network, we'd made the world safer. We were wrong.
She paused, let the cameras capture her pain expression. Since that rescue, we've faced constant threats, harassment, violence. Two days ago, Dr. Walter Brennan was attacked outside his home. She gestured to Doc, his face still bruised.
The message was clear. Stop helping victims or people we love will die. Murmurs from the assembled press. After much consideration, we've decided we have no choice. We're closing the Garrett Hartwell Center.
We're ceasing all operations and we're leaving Arizona. Eva's voice cracked convincingly. These trafficking organizations are too powerful, too dangerous. We can't fight them. We can't protect the people we care about.
So, we're done. Questions erupted from reporters. Eva answered a few reinforcing the narrative. Yes, they'd contacted the FBI. No, the FBI couldn't guarantee their safety.
Yes, this felt like defeat. No, they didn't see any other option. The press conference ended. The story went viral within hours. Elderly heroes forced to flee after death threats.
Trafficking victims left without help as center closes. We can't fight anymore. Arizona woman abandons charity after attacks. The coverage was exactly what they'd hoped for. Sympathetic, detailed, and most importantly, believable.
Now, they waited. The response came faster than expected. That evening, Eva received a text from an unknown number. Smart choice. Tomorrow, 3:00 p.m.
Desert Rose Diner on Highway 60. Come alone. We'll discuss the terms of your departure. Eva showed the text to Marcus and Doc. It's him, Marcus said.
Has to be. Or one of his people, Doc added. Could be a proxy. Either way, it's our chance. Eva checked the Colt 1911 Garrett had given her, made sure it was loaded.
I'll wear a wire, record everything. If he incriminates himself, we've got him. You're not going alone, Marcus said flatly. The text said, I don't care what the text said. These people already attacked Doc.
They're not getting another shot at any of us. Marcus's tone left no room for argument. I'll be there, hidden, armed. If anything goes wrong, I intervene. Me, too, Doc said.
Doc, your arm is healing fine, and my shooting hand works perfectly. Doc's expression was stubborn. We're a team, Eva. We started this together. We finish it together.
Eva looked at both of them, these men who'd become family over the past three months, who'd fought beside her, bled beside her, refused to let her stand alone. Okay, she said finally. Together. They spent the night preparing. FBI Agent Morrison came to the ranch, fitted Eva with a wire, state-of-the-art, nearly invisible.
They tested it repeatedly. Perfect audio quality. Boone and six bikers would be stationed around the diner's perimeter, out of sight, but ready to respond if needed. Marcus and Doc would be inside the diner disguised as regular customers. Close enough to intervene, but not so close as to spook their target.
If he brings muscle, we might be outnumbered, Boone warned. Then we be smarter, not stronger, Eva said. Garrett used to say winning isn't about force, it's about positioning. At 2:30 the next afternoon, they drove to the Desert Rose Diner. It was a classic roadside spot, faded paint, neon sign, truckers and travelers stopping for coffee and pie.
Isolated enough for privacy, public enough to discourage violence. Perfect for a meeting. Eva pulled into the parking lot at 2:55, sat in the Bronco for a moment steadying her breathing. The wire was hidden under her shirt. The Colt was in her purse.
Her phone had a panic button app. One press would alert Boone and the others. She was as ready as she'd ever be. Eva walked into the diner. The diner was half full.
Truckers at the counter, a family in one booth, an older couple by the window, and in the back corner booth, a man, 50-something, military haircut, expensive suit that didn't quite hide the muscular build underneath. Cold eyes that assessed Eva the moment she walked in. Victor Ashlin. Eva knew it instinctively. She walked to his booth, slid into the seat across from him.
Mrs. Hartwell? His voice was smooth, educated, nothing like the distorted voice from the phone calls. Thank you for coming. You didn't leave me much choice.
Ashlin smiled. There's always a choice. You made the smart one. At the counter, a man in a trucker's cap sat hunched over coffee. Marcus.