The last person Philadelphia homicide detective Matt Payne expected to hear from again was Texas Ranger Jim Byrth, with whom he’d broken a Mexican human trafficking ring. But Byrth isn’t making a social call. He’s found a connection between the Mexican drug cartels and the Russian mob. Russian girls are being smuggled through the Caribbean to work in the U.S. as prostitutes, and some of them are dying or just disappearing. The trail leads right to Philadelphia, where teenage girls are being lured from foster homes, police sources are turning up dead, and the lone living witness—the daughter of a prominent family—has gone into hiding. It’s up to Matt Payne and his Texas Ranger partner to find her—and hope like hell they get to her first.… “W.E.B. Griffin is the best chronicler of the U.S. military ever to put pen to paper—and rates among the best storytellers in any genre.”— The Phoenix Gazette Praise for the Badge of Honor novels, W.E.B. Griffin’s electrifying epic series of a big-city police force… “DAMN EFFECTIVE…He captivates you with characters the way few authors can.”—Tom Clancy “TOUGH, AUTHENTIC…POLICE DRAMA AT ITS BEST…Readers will feel as if they’re part of the investigation, and the true-to-life characters will soon feel like old friends. Excellent reading.”—Dale Brown “COLORFUL…GRITTY…TENSE.”— The Philadelphia Inquirer W. E. B. Griffin was the author of seven bestselling series: The Corps, Brotherhood of War, Badge of Honor, Men at War, Honor Bound, Presidential Agent, and Clandestine Operations. He passed away in February 2019. William E. Butterworth IV has been an editor and writer for more than twenty-five years, and has worked closely with his father for a decade on the editing and writing of the Griffin books. He is coauthor of the bestselling novels The Saboteurs , The Double Agents , Death and Honor , The Traffickers , The Honor of Spies , The Vigilantes , The Outlaws , Victory and Honor , Covert Warriors , The Spymasters , and Empire and Honor . He is a member of the Sons of the American Legion, China Post #1 in Exile, and of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) Society, and is a life member of the National Rifle Association and the Texas Rifle Association. He lives in Texas. I [ONE] Society Hill, Philadelphia Saturday, November 15, 10:29 P.M. “Stop yelling, Krystal, and listen very carefully to me,” Maggie McCain ordered evenly, hoping her tone did not betray her deep fear. “He can track you with your cell phone. Turn it off. Then take out the battery if you can.” Maggie, at the wheel of her eight-year-old Toyota Land Cruiser, was twenty-five years old and, standing five-six and weighing one-thirty, slender and fit. She had pale skin, intense green eyes set in a pleasant face, and shoulder-length chestnut brown hair that she mostly wore up, as now, brushed smooth against her scalp and tied in a tight, neat ponytail. She had on elegant dark woolen slacks and a heavily woven black sweater. Her work cell phone in hand, Maggie heard her personal phone begin ringing in her purse. When she quickly dug it out and saw that the caller ID read MOTHER, she pushed a key to silence the ring, then let the call roll into voice mail. Oh, damn it, Krystal! she thought, as she heard Krystal starting to cry. And damn this traffic! A sea of glowing red brake lights reflected on the rain-slick Center City street. It was a cold, dreary night, the rain occasionally mixing with wisps of snow. She stared out past the swishing windshield wipers, anxiously awaiting the signal light to turn green. “Did you hear what I said?” Maggie went on. “Use my house phone to call me back. But first make sure all the doors are locked and stay away from the windows. Try to be calm. I’m just minutes away.” The image of a desperate Krystal Angel Gonzalez—a curvy five-foot-one, nineteen-year-old Puerto Rican—frantically pacing the stylish living room of Maggie’s Society Hill town house flashed in her mind. That was exactly what Krystal had done two days earlier, when she banged on Maggie’s door at four in the morning. Then she dropped onto the leather couch and lay on her side. Under crossed arms, she tugged her knees tightly against her chest and, off and on, sobbed uncontrollably for hours. Krystal had finally escaped from Ricardo, the twenty-seven-year-old Fishtown strip club manager she briefly had been calling her boyfriend. But at a brutal cost. Her short dark hair was matted with dried blood, her face bruised and swollen. Raw welts had formed on the back of her thighs where he had whipped her with a pair of wire coat hangers folded together. She promised me she’d never go back to him, Maggie thought, watching the traffic light finally cycle to green. I warned her over and over that he really didn’t love her. “Please hurry!” Krystal said hysterically. “Ricky said the beating was nothing like what he’d do if I told! He’d make me disappear, like Lizzi and Brandi. Then . . . he tore my clothes off and