Shortly after leaving the town of Avon, Jack and LaCroix pulled into a roadside fast-food restaurant. They sat down in a quiet corner, ordered sandwiches and coffee, and used the opportunity to check in with Hannah and Jubal for updates.
Hannah had just finished taking the statement from the Jamerson family, focusing on the details of the ransom drop-off. The exchange had taken place at Hasbrouck Park in New Paltz.
The process had been simple: Roger Jamerson, Owen's father, placed a backpack containing $1 million under a bench, then followed instructions to walk around the park. When he returned to the bench, his son, Owen, was sitting there, waiting for him.
When Hannah learned that the voice on the phone during the exchange was a woman's, she played a clip of Emma Kane's video from YouTube. The family confirmed it was the same voice.
Surveillance footage from the park and parking lot had already been retrieved. The high-resolution footage from Eagle Eye cameras covered a wide area and showed Emma Kane collecting the money and handing off the child. While the footage didn't capture the face of the person driving the car Emma got into, the license plate was visible—and it wasn't fake.
The car was registered to a 60-year-old man named Bob Carter, a resident of Rockland County, New York. Further investigation revealed that Bob Carter's only son, Joey Carter, was Emma's accomplice. A team of FBI agents had already been dispatched to Rockland County.
Additionally, interrogation of the four captured members of Kane's group revealed that Joey Carter was highly trusted by the Kanes. He had connections to arms dealers and could procure military-grade weapons.
Jubal had uncovered more: Joey Carter's former cellmate, Mark Vasko, was a Ukrainian arms smuggler. Mark had been caught in an ATF sting operation after trying to sell a shipment of AK-74s and had served six years in prison. Dana Moret had already obtained a warrant, and with the ATF's help, they were tracking down Mark Vasko's location. Finding him might lead directly to Emma Kane.
LaCroix ate his breakfast without tasting it, his mind elsewhere. As he dropped some change onto the tray and prepared to leave, his phone rang. The call was from Austin Stevens, the ICE supervisor.
"He says they've found Tali," LaCroix said after hanging up. His face lit up with relief as he quickly headed out of the restaurant. Jack wiped his mouth with a napkin and hurried after him.
"You think this guy might not be dirty? Or did he hear something and decide to back off before things got worse?" Jack asked as they got into the car.
LaCroix clenched his jaw. "I don't care right now. I just want to see my daughter. We'll deal with the rest later."
Following the address provided by Stevens, they arrived at a detention center in New York City. A heavyset Black ICE officer was waiting for them at the entrance.
He led them through a metal gate, speaking as they walked. "The Long Island facility is over capacity, so everyone detained in the food bank raid was brought here. According to the records, the girl you're looking for should be in Room C."
"You call that a room?" LaCroix's voice was filled with quiet fury as they stepped into the facility. What lay before them was no room—it was a makeshift detention center inside an old basketball gymnasium. The space had been divided into small 10-square-meter cages with steel mesh walls. Each cage housed nearly 20 people, crammed together like livestock.
Dirty mattresses were scattered on the floors inside the cages. The air reeked of sweat, urine, and unwashed bodies. Many detainees wore little more than the clothes on their backs and sat huddled together on the cold floor, trying to stay warm.
The only semblance of order was that men and women had been segregated into separate cages.
The Black ICE officer approached one of the cages marked with the letter "C" and signaled to a similarly sized white female guard, who was wearing a loose bulletproof vest with "ICE" printed on it. She walked over indifferently, her rubber baton swinging at her side.
"This man is here to see his daughter," the officer explained.
LaCroix rushed to the steel mesh fence of Cage C, his hands gripping the wires as he scanned the faces inside. "Tali! Tali!" he called out desperately, but his heart sank when all the girls in the cage turned to look at him—none of them were his daughter.
"She's not here," LaCroix said, his voice hollow, his eyes darting from cage to cage. The women and children inside, their expressions a mix of confusion and numbness, met his gaze but said nothing.
"Show them a photo," Jack said quietly from behind him, breaking through LaCroix's haze of disappointment. LaCroix fumbled with his phone, quickly pulling up a picture of Tali.
"This is my daughter," he said, showing the photo to the female guard. "Have you seen her?"
"I haven't," the guard replied flatly, shaking her head. She shifted her stance, stepping between LaCroix and the cage while resting her right hand on her baton.
Frustration boiling over, LaCroix shoved past her and held his phone high, shouting, "Has anyone seen this girl? Her name is Tali! Has anyone seen her?"
The detainees in the nearby cages remained silent, their confusion evident. The female guard, now visibly irritated, barked, "Sir, the person you're looking for isn't here."
"What do you mean she's not here? Tali is an American citizen! Your people told me she was brought here!" LaCroix roared, his voice echoing through the gymnasium. The guard flinched and took a half-step back.
Jack joined in, switching to Spanish as he called out to the detainees. "Has anyone seen a young American girl? A niña Americana?" He then repeated the question in Portuguese and French, languages common in parts of South America.
His voice carried through the facility, drawing the attention of detainees in neighboring cages.
"A little American girl?" a Latina girl finally called out, pressing herself against the steel mesh of a cage across the room.
"Yes!" LaCroix sprang toward her like a man grasping at hope, showing her the photo on his phone. "Have you seen her?"
The girl nodded. "I don't know her name, but before they brought us here, they put her on a separate bus. It was a big bus with immigration logos on it. They took her away alone."
The words hit LaCroix like a sledgehammer. His suppressed fear erupted, and he grabbed the Black ICE officer by the collar, slamming him against the steel mesh fence. "Where is my daughter?" he snarled, his voice shaking with rage. "Tell me where they took her, you piece of—"
"Let him go!" The female guard had drawn her baton, her stance tense.
Jack stepped in, pulling back his coat to reveal his holstered weapon and badge. He drew his credentials and shoved them in the guard's face. "Stand down," he ordered. "My partner is just trying to find his daughter. Your supervisor told us she was here."
"I don't know who his daughter is! I've never seen that girl!" the Black officer yelled, his voice high-pitched and panicked. "I told you—everyone detained last night was sent here. I don't know what happened before that!"
"Let's go, LaCroix," Jack said firmly, tugging on his friend's arm. "We'll find another way. That bastard Stevens is clearly playing us."
It took a moment, but LaCroix finally released the officer, his breathing heavy and ragged.
"This place is a hellhole," he spat, his voice trembling with fury as he glared at the ICE agents. "You should all be ashamed of what you're doing here."
As the two agents walked out, the ICE staff stood frozen in place, watching them leave in silence.
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