by Lynda Filler
She turned quickly towards a horror-filled scream and watched a giant golden eagle swoop down and grab a very young girl out of the open truck bed. A guard confidently raised his rifle and shot the eagle. Its talons released the child, and they both fell to their death crashing against a stone granite wall and tumbling down a mountain ravine. The guards joined in congratulating their fellow sentry for a great shot.
Zaria pulled her adopted sister and brother closer. Tears rolled down her cheeks. The enormity of their desperate situation finally kicked in. They would never see their homeland or families again.
After a full day through the mountainous terrain, the convoy lumbered into the freight train station one hour ahead of time. One by one each passenger came down from the truck and was guided towards bathrooms by moonlight. They were warned to remain silent. Each one understood that punishment would be inflicted if they disobeyed. Rations in the form of protein bars were handed out. Each child was given a bottle of water and was monitored to prevent abuse, which in turn would require too frequent breaks to urinate.
There was no UN Human Rights group protecting these forty children; not now, not ever. No local police force inspected the decommissioned trucks. Bribes were given at the beginning of each month with extra-special monetary rewards for extraordinary performance.
The new East Wind Silk Road train came to rest. Multiple freight containers lined the railway tracks. But it was number 7747 that held particular interest to the professional team assembled to make sure the original cargo was off-loaded from the interior ‘specially sealed’ section. In its place, the shelving would now house sleeping accommodations for under-sized individuals. Once the shipment had been installed, and all the seals returned to place, the journey would continue. The headmistress of the forty children explained how they would be living for the balance of the seventeen-day journey.
Appropriate tips were paid, the original stale-dated merchandise from a medical supply factory in Yiwu was taken to a deep crater in the surrounding hillside to the North. It was dumped, and gasoline was poured over the no-longer-required cargo. The fire would burn itself out, and a top layer of sand would cover it the next day. Ivanov estimated they could dig lots of these holes in the uninhabited regions north of Shymkent where they’d once unceremoniously buried their rivals in the drug trade.
The operation was running as planned. All the appropriate customs documentation had been stamped by both British and Chinese inspectors in Yiwu. There would be no borders to worry about because the cargo was sealed.
This human cargo had cost him approximately $120,000, and he would sell it for one million dollars. The older girls he would keep in London to work in the thriving businesses he’d started in the last ten years. Their cost might be a little higher, money would be spent on housing, food, and training. But keeping those ten would earn him half a million pounds a year. Not too bad even after he shared his profits all the way down the line with his Chinese partners.
The sparkling new train took off at top speed, another successful cargo on its way.
Ivanov and his military escort turned back and began their drive home to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan.
29
Washington, DC
“W
e’re waiting for the child’s mother. She should be here shortly.” Zach studied the woman in front of him. There was something about her, something familiar, but he couldn’t quite figure it out as he went through the files in his computerized mind.
The agent didn’t spot her right away. It might have been the short blond spiked haircut or the piercings in her nose. It could also have been the dark circles that rimmed her brown eyes and the teardrop tattoo on her face that symbolized a gang affiliation. Maybe she was wrong, but this girl looked like a recovering meth addict. She was the last person the woman would suspect to be working with an elite military undercover team.
The group huddled in a corner watching the door for her arrival. They did a double-take at the blond woman who pulled up a chair at the table beside them and motioned to Rachel to join her. She didn’t waste any time.
“Boys, I thought I might switch things up. You know, if they were watching me before they took my boy, they wouldn’t be expecting a blond who looked like an addict.”
Rachel wondered what this woman did for a living. She already liked her vibe and the determination she could read in her eyes. Rachel was always on the lookout for talented individuals preferably with no affiliation to local law enforcement. After the introductions were made, Rachel began.
“They move the children frequently. They use burner phones and change out chips often, SOP. If the unit becomes aware of a phone number, the chances of us being able to trace its user are very slim. Yet, no system they come up with is perfect. And occasionally we get lucky.” The woman called Rachel waited for questions.
Zach, Mike and his SEAL brothers convinced a decorated female army vet to sit down with them at Starbucks on N. Washington St. in Virginia. RB had first heard about her from a tip from Raven and Firestorm. Then with careful probing and the correct passwords, he’d found her through the military grapevine. She’d served in Afghanistan, won a medal for something no one could ever talk about and had seen more than her fair share of female genital mutilation and murder at the hands of the Taliban. She requested and received a position with the UN Human Rights Council when she retired. Her offices were nearby, but she operated undercover. Zach assumed she was connected to whatever Himanish was doing in Geneva.
Zach took particular interest in her passion for human rights and wondered if she was the female soldier who’d been kidnapped, raped, and left for dead in Afghanistan. Her file was profoundly classified and well buried; only he knew about its details within this group. Rachel noticed the recognition in Zach’s eyes. She responded with a glare that let him know the subject would not be discussed in this arena.
“Washington is a distinct location. It’s a melting pot of culture, race, and social classes. At the moment, in the area of sex trafficking, it ranks very high in the nation. There have been more ‘missing persons’ under the age of 18 in Washington, DC, than any other major city in the USA.”
“What’s being done?” Zach found himself attracted to the strength he read in her eyes. Many people have been destroyed by the ravages of the global conflicts that the US took on around the continent. Her energy told him that she was above all that and would fight for justice until the day she died.
“It’s complicated. With the changes in government in the last year, we have a tolerance level for hate crime bordering on demonic, in my personal opinion. Every scumbag in the nation is emboldened, no matter what the object of their hate. Racism is rampant in our police forces, and not just in the southern states with the unnecessary shootings of people of color. Hate crimes are up. And so is human trafficking.”
She took a sip of her latte and continued.
“The conservative immigration policy change has frightened many who’ve fled persecution all the way from Mexico down to South America. It’s opened the most vulnerable, the women and children, to human trafficking and sexual exploitation. My total focus and goal in life are to rescue and protect these women and children. Ask me anything.”
Mike passed over the photocopy of his grandson and the similar ad in BackStage.Com.
“How can this be legal?” Mike spit out his words, his anger stunned her.
The highly decorated war veteran looked at the paper and stated, “Wrong question. You wouldn’t believe how many respected organizations and groups feel that these guys are entitled to run their online personal ads under the guise of freedom of speech. You don’t have to look further than one of the largest most popular public companies in the world, Facebook. No matter how vile the sexual exploitation is or the racism, they say it falls under freedom of speech!”
Mike spoke up his voice quivering. “That’s bullshit! Do you have any children?” The woman visibly paled, and a strange look overcame her. Zach
went white and kicked Mike under the table. Mike looked baffled.
“Look, I’m sorry for my buddy. He’s distraught over his grandson gone missing. Your personal life is none of our business.” She looked straight at Zach. He wanted to crawl into a hole.
“You know who I am, don’t you?”
Zach looked away. The rawness of her pain exploded to the surface. Tears were running in black mascara rivers down her face.
“I was raped by thirteen rebels in Afghanistan. They tortured me and left me for dead. I was pregnant at the time. I didn’t know. My son was born deformed and died a week later.”
The hardened warriors, a team who were once instrumental in changing the course of history in the Middle East, were horrified. Each took a moment to go back lost in his own memories of terror. The lives destroyed both home and abroad would have permanently damaged any mortal man. But these were elite warriors. And she was one of them.
“I will help you get your boy back if you help me do one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re going to take BackStage down. I want the owners who hide behind their lawyers, in jail. And we’ll throw away the fucking key!”
“Done.” Zach put his hand out and shook Rachels. He was surprised. He didn’t want to let her hand go.
30
Old Town, Geneva, Switzerland
H imanish finished his strict regimen of running and mixed martial arts training and sat down in his favorite corner cafe to open his mail.
“Latte please, and a chocolate croissant.” He made a habit of varying his routine with food, work, even where he worked out each morning. The time of day was altered and followed no discernible pattern. However, his coffee and the opening of his mail was one of the treasured moments of his day.
He looked out over the cobblestone streets in the Old Town. The locals were going about setting up for the day. He could see the cobbler through the store window, a neat row of custom-made shoes was displayed discreetly. Only the elite knew that a bespoke pair of shoes would begin at three-thousand Euros. But the shoemaker would fly to your city to take the perfect measurement, and that could run the price of these elegant one-of-a-kind designs to €5000. If you sent your private jet to pick him up, you could reduce the cost considerably. Luci was known to frequent this establishment even though she preferred to have her ‘work’ boots designed in Paris.
He smiled thinking about some of the crazy times he and Luci had together. That girl was built for this business. They both needed little sleep, so they’d often set off to parkour around Paris. They pushed the limits by engaging in illegal entry into beautiful properties scaling the walls of brownstones while the owners slept. The challenge was on the roofs of the oldest Haussmann buildings. A loose tile or shaky brick on a chimney could give away their presence. But it held fond memories for him. And no one could get the best of that woman, yet occasionally Himanish would win! In matters of the heart, that was another thing altogether.
They’d sat together one night in his favorite place, Harry’s Bar, and talked and drank like lovers do. Only they were never lovers. They were both too focused on their careers and what they were trying to accomplish. Still, he was sure she thought about it. She liked her men dark, like the Arab journalist who finally stole her heart and gave her a child the man would never know.
He and Luci had collaborated on projects outside the rules and boundaries of their profession, and both stayed alive because of the free flow of intelligence that they shared. She was family for him, and he would do and had done anything for her, and Ali. He smiled at how cleverly Luci had kept her murdered lover, Ali, alive by placing his name inside Alice. Of course, few people even knew the child existed.
The waiter put his coffee and croissant in front of him. Café with milk was only acceptable for breakfast. The rest of the day the jolt of caffeine was served in shot glasses or as he preferred, along with extra hot water. This was one of the places in Geneva that kept a fresh supply of his beloved Italian roast Lavazza. He paid triple the price for his coffee. It was worth every euro.
The first letter he opened was from his father. He sighed conflicted when he read the name of the sender. As much as he loved hearing the news from home, he knew without reading that the last sentence would always be: when are you giving up that life and coming home to India? He read quickly, sighed, and then looked at two envelopes he was savoring at the bottom of the pile.
He stroked his anxious fingertips across the embossed symbol on the antique paper of a letter with a discreet heart and #1 placed on the bottom right-hand corner. He lifted it to his nose to inhale the perfume, Forever and Ever by Dior. She’d never told him her scent, but he recognized it the night they met at Shakespeare’s Cafe in Paris. And he’d brought it to her over the months they carried on the only real love affair in his life.
My dear Himanish,
I hope this letter finds you well.
I’m busy working on a new novel for publication next year. I’ve taken your advice and decided its time I wrote something more uplifting! So, this will be my first romance novel. I haven’t decided yet how it will end, but I know that if it isn’t happily ever after, you will slam my work in the NYT under that pseudonym that I won’t mention, and you will ruin my future in the romance genre forever!
There’s something I need to tell you, and there is no easy way to say it.
It’s probably better to do this in person, but I’m a coward. And I’ve kept my word to stay away from you, so we can both move on in our lives. It’s been two years now, and I’ve found someone.
Now before you say or think anything, I accepted right from the beginning of our affair that you are a traditional man and would only marry within your culture. You told me that the first night we met at Shakespeare’s cafe.
So, here’s my news. I’m getting married.
And Himanish, I know I disappeared and told you I had family issues. I sent you a second letter and marked it to open after reading this.
You will see why I’ve decided to marry and create a stable home.
I will love you always.
I wish you the best.
Cara
Himanish had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Cara used to tease him and tell him he was more Irish than her. She called it psychic, he called it intuition. All concerns for the rest of humanity fell from his mind. He looked down at the second envelope and just stared at it.
He motioned to the waiter to bring him another coffee. He pulled out his cigarettes and took his time lighting up.
He stared at the second envelope like it held anthrax.
Then he slowly opened the letter.
31
Barking Station, London, England
2:00 am
T he arrival of the Chinese freight train from Yiwu was uneventful. Neither politicians nor public officials, accompanied by the Press and their PR Firms, waited to greet this train. What was an anomaly six months ago, was now a regular occurrence.
The docks and surrounding areas were relatively quiet. The train containers were pulled into a holding area, ready for the morning crew to begin off-loading the cheap and cheerful fashions courtesy of non-union labor in China.
Except for one container known as the Medical unit. It had been hermetically sealed and could only be handled by a specific company hired by the end users, an obscure Pharma company headquartered in Switzerland. Because of the highly sensitive nature of the goods, the company involved insisted on armed-guards to ensure that corporate espionage would never be an issue.
With all the personnel in place, the entrance to the freight car was unsealed.
Inside car 7747 a secondary door, labeled with nuclear warnings, was opened by two security agents who used a coordinated series of computer codes.
In the meantime, an unmarked vehicle opened a tentacle that glommed onto the freight car like a jet bridge, so prying eyes were protected from the dangerous the transfer of goods.
In less than fifteen minutes over forty children had been off-loaded and filled the back of a long-haul moving van outfitted for the transport of human beings. The doors were re-locked, and the adequately signed custom documents were placed in a file where they would be rubber-stamped in the morning.
Various customers were waiting at their selected location. Several children under ten were hustled into a waiting RV that would take them back to the mainland; their final destination was Amsterdam. Each child released was worth $25,000 US dollars to the new owners. The appropriate money was exchanged, and the journey was underway.
There’d been reports of increased activity in child prostitution. In Amsterdam, an operation was underway to bust a child pornography webcam site. Displays of child rape and abuse were legendary amongst those who tended towards such desires and were prepared to pay the price of this exclusive membership.
A second vehicle took ten more pre-pubescent children. Their destination was an exclusive home in one of the wealthier areas of the London countryside. A vast private estate hosted ‘parties’ for special guests who came from all over the world. Some preferred their victims to be of a dark-skinned exotic race, so the African children and some Asian were turned over in this exchange. They had a higher value, $40,000 US dollars. The owners would make their investment back in six months or less.
The rest were mainly girls. They would service the seven establishments owned directly by Ilya Ivanov, so all profit remained in his hands.
The two children from the Maldives were of impressive lineage and quality. A brother and sister were a rare occurrence. Ivanov wanted them in his gentlemen’s club in a historic area of the British countryside.
The adolescent girls would earn upwards of $50,000 US dollars a year, almost all profit. They would eat, drink and sleep in his homes. They required no spending money, and they would learn with time, that they had nowhere to run.
