I looked through the narrow window in Maya’s hospital-room door. My daughter was lying beneath a white blanket, her small hand resting beside the monitor.
“An eight-year-old girl was attacked by three adult men,” I said. “Her grandfather and two uncles. She’s in the hospital with a head injury. I need protection for her, and I need every piece of evidence preserved before anyone has a chance to destroy it.”
The man exhaled.
“Understood. Are you asking for the old team?”
“Yes. But nobody touches those men. Nobody threatens them. I want them alive, available, and in front of the law.”
There was a pause.
“Then why did you call it a cleanup?”
“Because I need someone to clean up the mess before it gets worse.”
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