Finlay Giammarino stood in front of the restroom’s full-length mirror, pretending to adjust the bustier under her jacket. If the two giggling women reapplying their makeup didn’t return to the dance floor in five seconds, she swore she would give them a swirly. Their dates would have to live with the natural look.

The two women finally left, and Finlay knocked on a stall door. “They’re gone. You can come out now.”

“You can’t just give up,” Gabriella said, stomping out of the cubicle. “It’s only been three weeks.”

Finlay ran her hand across her forehead. The headache that had been slowly building now pounded as loud as the music pouring out of the nightclub speakers beyond the restroom door.

“I’ve poked around as much as possible without blowing my cover.” Finlay had expected Gabriella’s reaction. It was the reason for the headache that had plagued her all evening. She had also predicted the resounding no when she asked her friend to leave Paris and disappear.

No one would suspect the young woman pacing the employee restroom’s small space was a seventeen-year-old girl who had never left her small hometown in Mexico until three months ago. It wasn’t just the heavy makeup and tight-fitting dress that made her look several years older. The haunted look in her eyes hinted at the depth of the suffering she’d endured.

“You shouldn’t have left Mexico.” Finlay had lost count of how many times she’d uttered that sentence.

“What did you expect me to do?” Gabriella threw her hands in the air.

“I expected you to let me look into the trafficking ring.” She’d told Gabriella she intended to lie low for a few months and research. Her friend’s whispered phone call, pleading for her to come to Paris, had abruptly halted that plan.

Finlay had met Gabriella while investigating the merger between two major corporations. The merger had allowed them to tap into a cheap labor source in Mexico. Children who should have been in school learning their ABCs and teenage girls were manufacturing knock-off designer garments.

Disguised as a teen, Finlay had spent a month gathering information in one of their factories. Her articles exposing the sweatshop had made the front page of several newspapers. She had also learned the factory had a more sinister side business—human trafficking. Gabriella’s twelve-year-old sister was a victim.

“Evan offered me a chance to buy back Lola.”

That would never happen. It was a line the handsome, charismatic nightclub owner used to coerce older siblings who knew too much about the human trafficking ring to work at his Paris club. When these young women arrived, they learned the cocktail server position he’d offered them included catering to his client’s unique sexual tastes. Forced into prostitution at the high-end nightclub, they were in no better position than their siblings. Evan owned them.

Gabriella hadn’t worked that out yet. The gorgeous Mexican was Evan’s current plaything. She believed the privileged position would last forever.

“You should have phoned me, not get on the next plane to Paris with Evan. I know people who could have checked out the nightclub,” Finlay said, ignoring the risks the brief call Gabriella had made to her entailed. Finlay would have tugged at the ends of her short black bob in frustration if it wasn’t a wig.

Evan recognized the need to hire professional bar staff to keep the nightclub running smoothly. It had been the easiest avenue for Finlay to infiltrate the club.

The Parisien staff was paid well to ignore the existence of the rooms occupying the top two floors of the building and the tips tripled their evening’s salary most nights. Evan’s clients were a select group who valued their privacy.

“This isn’t the small-scale operation it appeared to be at first glance,” Finlay said, trying to make Gabriella understand. “All the bits and pieces I’ve put together point to an international organization. These people are dangerous. I need to pass the information on to the proper law enforcement agency. It’s the only way to shut the organization down. We need to leave. Tonight.”

“I won’t leave without Lola.” Her friend shook her head.

“Gabriella.” Finlay reached out and touched her hand. “Evan will throw you aside when a new girl catches his eye. He’ll lock you in the basement rooms along with the new girls at the end of the night.”

Every investigative reporter knew there was a point in an investigation where you cut your losses and left. Finlay had reached that point.

She pulled a key out of her small crossbody bag and held it out. “Head toward the Eiffel Tower. There’s a small bistro six blocks away on the same street as the nightclub, Le Croissant au Chocolat. Look for a dark blue awning. The manager is expecting you. He’ll give you a bag. You’ll find clothing, money, and an itinerary for travel in the bag. I’ll meet you at the last destination.”

Gabriella shook her head again, and her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t leave without Lola. She was sold to someone in Paris. Evan showed me the record of the sale.”

This was the first time Gabriella had mentioned she’d seen Evan’s sales records. Finlay glanced at her watch. The information was important enough to risk another minute.

Finlay had documented the sex trade operation within the nightclub. She hadn’t discovered the location of their warehouse, how they transported the girls, or proof of Evan’s connection to the international ring she suspected Evan’s club was a small part of. There was enough evidence to justify a raid on the club, but nothing beyond that. Exposing the nightclub would be a mere hiccup for the international organization. It wasn’t enough.

“Did Evan show you a paper document, or was it on his computer?” Finlay asked.

“Computer. The date Lola was kidnapped was beside her name and the letters PF. Evan said it stood for Paris, France. He used initials in the space for the buyer. The man paid a million American dollars for Lola.” Gabriella’s voice caught on the last sentence. “I don’t think he’ll give her up easily.”

If Lola was alive, Finlay was sure whoever bought her wouldn’t part with his new toy. Gabriella’s sister was a commodity. How his clients used their purchases didn’t concern Evan.

“Please,” Gabriella begged. “You promised you’d find Lola.”

Guilt washed through Finlay. She had made that promise, but there was more at stake than she’d fathomed while in Mexico. Lola couldn’t be her sole concern.

If her gut feeling was right, the international trafficking ring was doing a brisk business specializing in children. She needed to share what she’d found with the CIA.

“We disappear during setup Friday night.” Finlay returned the key to her purse’s side pocket, taking the risk her luck would change during the next four days.

Her friend Alexis had passed her a K-grubber, a cable keylogger, a week ago. A hacker Alexis trusted would collect the data remotely and interpret the information.

Switching the cable connecting Evan’s keyboard to his computer with the cable keylogger wasn’t a problem. Getting Evan out of his office long enough for her to make the switch was.

He never left Finlay alone in his office when they worked together and kept the office door locked. The security cameras in the hallway had stopped her from picking the lock.

The restroom door opened, and Zola walked in.

“Evan is back. You need to be on the floor.”

“Thank you,” Gabriella said and hurried out of the restroom.

“That one is not worth the risks you are taking,” the tall, graceful black woman tilted her head at the restroom door. “She believes Evan is in love with her.”

“She’s young,” Finlay said.

“And foolish.” Zola turned and left the restroom.

Gabriella wasn’t the only one lured to Paris by false promises. While Gabriella still believed she’d be reunited with her sister, Zola had lost hope.

Her beauty hid a sharp mind. She’d seen the intent behind Finlay’s innocent questions to bring her up to speed with the nightclub’s procedures. It had taken Finlay several days to realize that Zola’s witty comments as she picked up drink orders exposed the organization of the nightclub’s side business.

Zola was out for revenge, believing she’d found it in Finlay.

There was a second key in Finlay’s purse for Zola. She didn’t intend to leave her behind. If Evan found out she’d helped Finlay, he’d kill her.

Finlay was left with an even bigger problem when she found the records. Who to share the information with? Zola had pointed out the high-ranking police officers who frequented the club. Evan had their help keeping eyes off his club.

Finlay waited a minute and left the restroom. If Evan found out who Finlay was, he’d kill her. If he suspected Gabriella and Zola had helped her, he’d kill them, too.

Finlay mulled over her problem as she mixed drinks. When she’d finished cleaning up the bar after the long evening, she still hadn’t come up with an answer.

“Good night, Henri. Good night, Olivier.” Finlay poked her head into the kitchen.

The nightclub’s chef and the line cook stayed on site, catering to the remaining clients in the rooms upstairs. An earbud dangled from one shoulder so Henri could hear over the heavy metal blasting the other ear as he plated a late-night snack for a guest still upstairs. The music pulled him through the couple of hours before dawn. Olivier preferred silence.

“Bonsoir, Fiona.” Henri looked up and smiled. “See you this evening. Bonne nuit.”

He returned his attention to the order of fresh oysters.

Finlay had adopted the fake name and the wig, green-colored contact lenses, and passport a friend had prepared. It would survive scrutiny.

Olivier nodded good night as he poured ice cubes into an ice bucket. A bottle of champagne sat on the prep table.

Finlay made her way to the exit. The bouncer posted at the door punched in the code for the door’s alarm and unlocked the door.

“I heard the special at the bistro on the other side of the street is crepes today,” he said and smiled as he opened the door. “You might talk them into preparing a batch early. The place will be packed later on when the locales spread the word.”

“Their crepes are that good?”

“A little taste of heaven.” The man opened the door.

“They do takeout?” Finlay’s head still pounded. She usually grabbed something at a fast food joint close to her place.

“If you ask nicely.”

“Thank you. It sounds lovely.”

“Good night, Fiona.” The door closed behind her, and she heard the thunk of the deadbolt locking in place.

Finlay buttoned up her fall coat as she walked, her high heels echoing in the predawn air. It was four in the morning, and most of the partying had wound down. Only a few stragglers strolled the street, but that would change once Paris woke up.

For the moment, Finlay enjoyed the soothing quiet and the subtle late-September chill. The street lamps spilled their soft glow onto the sidewalk. The brightly lit windows of twenty-four-hour bistros dotted the shops here and there along the street. She considered the short walk from the nightclub to her apartment one of the job’s perks.

Her body prickled as if someone was watching her. Finlay turned her head slightly. Besides the drunk sleeping it off on a bench beside the club and the noisy group of clubbers across the street, nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

It had been a busy night, and she was exhausted. Her imagination must be playing tricks on her.