The Ninja's Blade

by Tori Eldridge

  I lowered my head. I had heard this lesson before.

  Sensei continued. “Anger deceives. Fear alienates. Ego convinces us we are more, better, different. These perspectives trap us into believing we have nothing in common with our enemy and that the only way to win is to vanquish.”

  He peered at me intently, as if to bore his words into my mind. “This is a lie. A fight is not something we do to each other. A fight is a relationship. A brief and profound interaction.”

  Although my mind repelled against Sensei’s words, my body had experienced their truth. Such was the nature of his lessons. Like the kata we practiced, his wisdom hid layers of meaning. Sometimes, he guided me away from the obvious to find the hidden secrets. Other times, I had to sift through the omote, his public face, and find the ura, private face, on my own.

  I thought of Ma, Daniel, Baba, and the good Samaritans—I wasn’t doing well with relationships these days. Truth be told, I’d rather be left alone. Or fight. I wanted an outlet for my frustration, a way to make things right, not another relationship I had to nurture or negotiate.

  I slumped in defeat. “Why do I have to feel?”

  “Feeling is the source of our humanity. Without it, we are no better than machines.” He lifted my chin and fixed me with his gaze. “What keeps a warrior from becoming a killer?”

  I shrugged. “Semantics?”

  “Don’t make fun. You hide behind your jokes because you fear the truth. I asked you a serious question. It deserves a thoughtful answer.”

  Tears welled in my eyes. As usual, he had struck at the center of my fears. As much as I wanted to believe I was a virtuous warrior, last month’s experience with Tran had taught me otherwise. I had stood by and allowed him to kill an unarmed woman. No amount of empowering talk could change that fact. I just had to find a way to live with it.

  “Nothing,” I whispered.

  Sensei sighed and tapped the spot over my heart. “This is the difference. A warrior’s heart is full, and her capacity to feel is great. You fight to protect others out of fierce emotion. You kill when there is no other way to protect the innocent or yourself. You carry this burden because of the commitment, actions, and sacrifices you continue to make. Because of who you are. Because of your heart. Because of what you feel.”

  I shook my head. “I wish I could believe that.”

  “Patience, Lily-chan. Some truths take time to sink in.”

  “Patience?” I scoffed. “Bad enough you want me to feel.”

  He chuckled. “See? Already your heart has lightened. And why? Because you are a good person.”

  I thought of the good Samaritans. “I’m not sure everyone would agree.”

  Sensei’s mouth pursed as if he had just eaten a salty sour umeboshi. “Everyone?” He shook his head. “Why would anyone want to please everyone?”

  He patted my knee. “Don’t chase. Wait. Understanding will float into your mind. In the meantime, try and be more patient with yourself and with others. Consider their experiences. Put yourself in their hearts.”

  “Empathy?”

  He nodded. “True empathy is the foundation for all meaningful relationships.”

  “Even in combat?”

  “Especially in combat.”

  He rocked back on his toes and stood. “Come, Lily-chan. It’s time for you to go home.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I transferred onto the Expo Line and positioned myself in the back of the railway car where I could stand against the wall. I had sat enough, figuratively and literally. Time to move. But in which direction?

  City streets blurred to streaking lights as the railcar sped on its tracks. So many neighborhoods. So many places for Emma to hide or be hidden.

  PSA posters reinforced my fears, plastering the walls with dejected faces. Need housing? Need education? Need affordable healthcare? Need someone to kick your sex trafficker’s ass and drag you home to your loving parents in Bel Air?

  A love-struck couple smiled on a poster offering free STD exams beneath the headline: “Don’t you want to know?”

  I scoffed. It was an important notice, to be sure, but not one that applied to me. My first and only sexual experience had happened seven years ago on the night my sister was raped and murdered. I knocked the back of my head against the metal wall. Don’t go there, Lily. Don’t dig up Pete. But of course, I did.

  “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he had asked, sweet brown eyes intent with concern. “Because we can wait.”

  I ran my fingers through his hair, neatly trimmed, just like him—my Scottish-Irish-German love. He was so different from the Chinese boys I had grown up with in Arcadia or trained and competed with in Wushu martial arts. How could I ever bring him home to Ma? I shook my head and brought his beautiful face down for a kiss. “We’ve waited long enough. Tonight is ours. Forever.”

  Except it wasn’t.

  That night had belonged to Rose, and violence, and death.

  The couple on the STD poster looked nothing like Pete and me, and yet my heart ached to see them together, presumably happy and eager to face a life of love and adventure. Would I ever feel that way again? Daniel Kwok hoped I would.

  I stifled a laugh. Why not? He had the whole package—movie star looks, upwardly mobile career, prominent Hong Kong lineage—wrapped in an earnest desire to please and marry well. Never mind that he seemed more eager to please my mother than me, Daniel Kwok was a catch. Every mother in Arcadia with a single daughter over eighteen had their eye on him. I should feel lucky he had his sights on me. Screw that. Although, I had to admit, out first date had gone surprisingly well.

  Was there a future for Daniel and me?

  That couple in the poster looked pretty happy despite the question emblazoned across their chests. “Don’t you want to know?”

  I shook my head. All I wanted to know right now was how to find Emma Hughes.

  The railcar speaker crackled, followed by an announcement: “Now arriving Culver City Metro Station—Sony Pictures Studios, Museum of Jurassic Technology.”

  Home sweet home.

  I shoved off the wall for the exit and ran into a poster I’d never seen before. A girl stood in the shadows, scared and hopeless, staring at a sinister car. The caption read: “You’re not alone,” followed by a hotline number and a name—Forsaken Children: City of Angels.

  The doors swooshed open and the girl on the poster disappeared.

  I exited the car, walked to the edge of the platform, and stared at the city lights. When my sister needed me seven years ago, I wasn’t there. She had texted, but I was too enthralled with Pete to answer. Now she was gone, and Emma was out there, somewhere. No matter what the risk to my family, I had to find her.

  “Hang in there, Emma. I’ll bring you home.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  My grandparents’ plane would hit the tarmac at 10 a.m., which meant that even with the delay at customs, I’d need to be standing at the tunnel exit no later than 10:30. International flights from from the east often arrived early. Then again, with gate delays, custom lines, and bathroom trips, a morning arrival could easily bleed into early afternoon. This was why I always asked people to text me when they landed and continue to text with updates. That way, I could hang out at a nearby coffee shop until the last possible moment and take care of busy work—like checking the social media streams of my web consulting clients.

  I hadn’t checked any of that in two weeks. I’d been more than off my food. I’d been off my game.

  That nonsense ended today.

  With Emma abducted and the Varrios out for revenge, my web consulting clients would have to wait. Too bad I couldn’t say the same to Ma. After I picked up Gung-Gung and Po-Po from the airport, I still had to clear my biking gear from her garage and box the random possessions I had left in my old bedroom. I sincerely doubted that Wushu posters and trophies would offend Ma’s party guests, but they might spark criticism from
Gung-Gung and Po-Po, who both preferred Tai Chi over Wushu for ladies. Regardless, my grandparents would undoubtedly examine every inch of their house.

  I gunned Baba’s Audi through the intersection. Whatever Ma’s motivation might be, at least I was off the 405. I’d been stuck in gridlock for the last two hours and only had thirty-five minutes to take care of my errand before driving riding back the way I had come toward LAX. No wonder I was in such a rotten mood. By the time I arrived at the airport, collected my grandparents, shuttled them to Ma, and returned to the Audi to my father, I’d have spent ten hours sitting on my butt. At least on a bike, I’d get a workout.

  And Ma wondered why I refused to own a car. I’d take my Merida and a Metro TAP card any day of the week and feel saner and healthier for it.

  I found the Forsaken Children: City of Angels headquarters in an un-marked stone building, bookended by a law office on one side and a church and vocational college on the other. Coincidence or design? Either way, those neighbors must come in handy. Kids coming off the street would need all manner of support and guidance.

  And safety.

  This explained the pulled blinds and iron bars protecting the windows and the matching iron fence surrounding the property. If not for the beautifully inlaid stone façade and the weeping pepper trees, the place might have looked like an old-timey jail.

  I parked in a metered space, went to the gate, and rang the buzzer.

  A matronly woman greeted me at the door. “Welcome. How can I help?”

  “My friend is missing, and I need some guidance.”

  She furrowed her brow. “There’s a minister next door.”

  “Not that kind of guidance. I need information concerning runaways and child prostitution.”

  “We don’t use the term ‘prostitution’ here because it implies that children and teenagers have the life experience and wisdom to make adult choices. We call it what it is—the commercial sexual exploitation of children.”

  I winced at her rebuke. Haste had made me careless, opting for easy over accurate. Words mattered. I’d need to speak mindfully if I wanted to get past the gatekeeper.

  “That’s why I’m here, actually. The daughter of a friend is being exploited and the police haven’t been able to help.”

  The woman nodded. “It’s a difficult situation.” She stood and headed for the interior door. “Let me see if Ms. Ruiz can speak with you.”

  A moment later, the woman returned and waved me inside.

  Ms. Ruiz sat behind a desk overloaded with work yet welcomed me as if she had nothing pressing to do. “Good morning. Please, come on in.”

  “My name’s Lily Wong. Thanks for seeing me.”

  “My pleasure.” She motioned me to one of the chairs in front of her desk. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m trying to find a missing teenager, and I have reason to believe she was either abducted or coerced by her trafficker to return to the streets.”

  Ms. Ruiz gave me an approving nod. “I’m encouraged to hear you call traffickers what they are and not perpetuating glamorized language. The age of ‘pimps’ and ‘child prostitutes’ are over. What we’re dealing with is an epidemic of under-aged victims of commercial sexual exploitation. As for coercion…” She sighed, as if the topic were too vast to answer. “Are you a relative?”

  I shook my head. “I work for Aleisha’s Refuge, a shelter for women and children escaping violence and abuse.”

  “I’ve heard of them. Good work. Safe haven.”

  I nodded. “They’ve helped a lot of women. We’re in the process of reconnecting Emma with her parents.”

  “Didn’t go well?”

  “I don’t know. When she came out of her house, the trafficker was waiting. The neighbor boy had called him. He and Emma bought their drugs from the same dealer. Apparently, that’s how she got mixed up with the trafficker. Anyway, the trafficker threatened Aleisha’s husband and took Emma.”

  “And you’ve been hired to bring her back?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How can I help?”

  “The neighbor told me to check The Blade.”

  “Which one? Blade is a generic term, like tracks or stroll. It’s just any area known for sex trade activity.”

  I nodded. “The neighbor said Long Beach Boulevard.”

  “Oh, yes. But I’m still not sure how I can help.”

  “Do you have any connections in that area? Girls who used to work that track or law enforcement friends on that beat?”

  “A few, but the girls are long gone from here, and I doubt law enforcement would share information with a private investigator or whatever it is you are.”

  She was right. The few interactions I’d had with LAPD had been chilly at best. Mostly I stayed clear, disappearing before their arrival and giving witness accounts only when absolutely necessary. I didn’t have a private investigator’s license, and I didn’t intend to get one. I preferred to help in my own way by my own rules.

  “What can you tell me about these traffickers?”

  “That’s too broad of a question. You’ll need to be more specific.”

  “Okay. How do they coerce children into the life? Money, drugs, lies? The neighbor boy said Emma was hooked on coke and started hanging with some bad people. He mentioned a guy named Manolo who romanced her then turned her out for tricks. But Emma came from an affluent family in Bel Air. She had options, and when I saw her, she looked clean. So, how could a kid with resources, options, and who had apparently kicked her habit get forced into prostitution? If I understood that, I think I’d have a better chance of finding her.”

  A sad laugh escaped Ms. Ruiz’ lips. “I’m not sure that’s true. There are as many methods of coercion as there are reasons for falling for them. Most of the kids come from unstable homes, the foster care system, or have already been sexually abused by someone they know. Traffickers promise safety, acceptance, love.”

  “Love? Is that what you think Manolo did?”

  “Probably. The boyfriend approach is very effective. These so called ‘lover boys’ or ‘Romeo pimps’ target girls who feel unsafe and unloved at home. This makes them easy prey for CSEC.”

  “Commercial sexual exploitation of children?”

  “Yes. Or, in Emma’s case, exploitation of youths. It’s a mouthful, but we prefer to keep everyone focused on the true nature of the problem. Anyway, this was probably how your Emma was lured into the life. Or she might have run up a debt with her drug dealer and he sold her debt to the trafficker. Either way, the Romeo would have romanced her, made her feel special and grown up. He might even have spoken with her about marriage and kids. You’d be surprised how convincing they can be. Some of them play a very long game, applying months even years of seduction before turning on their mark.”

  “Are you suggesting that Emma might still be in love with him?”

  “Maybe. Or he could have switched to violence. She might be frightened for her life or even the safety of her family. Just because she ran away from her parents once doesn’t mean she doesn’t love them.”

  I nodded at the familiar tale. Aleisha had taken in her share of runaways, and all of them had different stories and family dynamics.

  Ms. Ruiz laced her fingers on the table. “She could also be running from something worse at home.”

  “Sexual abuse?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Or some other form of abuse. Then again, she might just be rebelling against a lifestyle she finds controlling. Honestly, there are so many reasons, and traffickers take advantage of every one of them.”

  I nodded. The same could be said of domestic violence. Oversimplification led to dangerous assumptions. I didn’t want to make that mistake with Emma.

  “Want to hear something truly confounding?” Ms. Ruiz said. “Some of these children are trafficked while still living with both parents, in nice homes, and under the guidance of a counselor.”

  I suspe
cted the answer, but I had to ask. “How is that even possible?”

  “No one asked the right questions.”

  We shared a moment of silence as the implications of those words sank in.

  “I was hoping for a lead on this Manolo,” I said. “You haven’t heard of him?”

  “I don’t think so. But then, I hear so many names. Do you have any idea how many sex traffickers there are in Los Angeles County?”

  I shook my head.

  “No one does.” Ms. Ruiz sat back in her chair. “My guess? Probably a thousand, most of whom belong to criminal gangs. They rarely use their own names, preferring to adopt street monikers like Cash or King. One piece of scum went by the name C.R.E.A.M., as in Cash Rules Everything Around Me. These guys make me sick. They treat these girls like dirt and rake in the bucks—a million, two million. It’s obscene.”

  Anger rose up my spine. Obscene didn’t begin to describe it. These predators feasted on the weak and vulnerable in the worst possible ways. I wanted to wipe them out of existence, or least from my city. But a thousand? “Are you telling me Manolo may not even be known as Manolo on the street?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Are there any girls here I can talk to who might have heard of him?”

  “I’m sorry, but no. This is a safe place. I can’t allow you or anyone to invade their privacy.”

  She pushed back from her chair, signaling the end of our meeting. I did the same. As she walked me to the door, I paused. “Is there anyone still on the street who might be willing to talk? Give me some direction on how to find Emma or Manolo?”

  “You could try Josie. She’s been in a couple of times. She never stays. Last I heard, she was working Hollywood Boulevard, corner of Cherokee. I can’t guarantee that she’ll talk to you.”

  “When’s the best time to find her?”