TRAFFICKED: A Mex Anderson Novel

by Peg Brantley

  It looked like this Mex Anderson might be one of the asset PIs. Les Franklin would give the ex-cop a few days to make contact. He had a few things to follow-up so it wasn’t like he’d be losing a lot of time. In a couple of days, if he didn’t have anything more to go on, he’d reach out.

  One cop to another.

  The defendant was chewing on her finger, had her hair pulled back into a tiny pigtail, and spoke in a high-pitched voice. She was 10.

  —Selling Atlanta’s children: What has and hasn’t changed, by Jane O. Hansen, Special to CNN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JAYLA

  “You. Cherie! Get in the van. Don’t worry about your shit. We’ve got supplies.”

  I hate that name. Cherie. Like I’m some kind of French cherry. I laugh to myself. It’s a sick laugh that makes me sad. Even when it’s all in my head.

  Inside the van are five other girls and two boys. We’re sitting on two long benches facing each other. I have no idea where we’re going and I don’t even care anymore. It takes about twenty minutes for us to be on our way.

  No one looks at anyone. We’ve learned that melting into the shadows means we might be safe from being used as an example. From a fist making contact with our skull. We’re silent, lost in our own memories. Our own pain. Our own fears.

  The thing about these road trips is that on one hand, I’m not walking a track, not pacing up and down one piece of street looking for johns. On the other, they give me time to think. Walking I do numb, and the hookups with the customers even more so. It’s the thinking that’s painful. Or it can be if I get surprised by a random memory.

  Highway sounds are rumbling underneath the van. We’re moving pretty fast, but I’d lay odds we’re not speeding. A window would be nice but too risky. I focus on the sound and imagine the scenery flying by. The road motion is calming and I lose my resolve not to think about anything.

  I miss me. I miss Jayla. I put her away a lifetime ago. Ha. Six months. At least I’m pretty sure it’s been six months. I’ve tried to keep track. The best I can say is I put her away shortly after Chris sold me to get out of a gambling debt. Which was a lifetime ago. I forgave Jayla for being so trusting. I for sure won’t forgive Cherie if she trusts anyone. That’s our understanding.

  For a while I’d bring Jayla out when I thought I had a few minutes. I remembered what my life was like. I remembered school and my favorite books. I remembered Mama. My little brother and sisters. Even my dad. Then that got too hard.

  To tell the truth, I might never be able to bring Jayla out again. I’m afraid I might not know how to find her. And if I did, what would I say?

  I miss Denver too. Haven’t been there from almost the beginning. I’m getting how this works. Grab a girl or more than likely, buy her. Then send her someplace where she probably won’t run into someone she knows who might be looking for a good time, a teacher or minister or something.

  One of the girls is whimpering.

  Shit.

  If she keeps it up we’ll all be punished.

  No one is making a move toward her. I stand up, find my balance in the shifting vehicle and signal the boy sitting next to her to make room for me. I put an arm around the crying girl. She’s not much younger than me. She’s got stringy brown hair and feels about as strong and solid as a baby bird. She continues to sob until I gently close my hand around her arm and give a soft squeeze. “This is new and scary, isn’t it?”

  Silence. A sniff. Then a tiny nod.

  “It was for me too.”

  A slight stiffening.

  “Yeah, really. You want to know how I survive?”

  Nothing. But I know she’s listening to my every breath right now.

  “What’s your name? Your real one. Not the one they gave you.”

  “Karen,” she whispered. “My name is Karen.”

  “Your job right now is to keep Karen safe. Because one of these days Karen, and her life, will be back. You’ll be able to put all this behind you.” I squeeze her arm again. “Did they give you another name?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Okay. When anyone asks, your name is Debbie. Debbie is someone who you are not. Debbie is strong. She can handle whatever anyone wants to throw at her. Debbie will help you keep Karen safe.”

  Oddly, a giggle erupted.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  “I was thinking of that movie… Split? The one with multiple personalities? Am I going crazy?” Another giggle, this one higher pitched.

  “Look at me.” I edge her back a few inches so our eyes meet. “The difference between you and that movie is that Karen knows exactly what she’s doing. And Debbie doesn’t require anyone else. You won’t go crazy. Trust me. Someday you’ll get out of this. Someone will help. And when they do? You can let Debbie go.”

  I felt the girl’s shoulders relax. “Are you better?”

  She nodded.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “My name is Debbie.”

  “You go, strong Debbie. Ask for Cherie if you need me.”

  She snuggled into my arm. “What’s your real name, Cherie?”

  “Jayla,” I whispered into her ear. “And I’m keeping her safe.”

  Human trafficking is one of the largest sources of income for organized crime.

  — Human Trafficking Facts & Stats, Force4Compassion

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ALEXIS

  This time when I wake up I’m on a plane. I have no idea how long I’ve been on it. I’m sore and I’m scared. Suddenly my life sucks and I don’t know how the hell it happened.

  Was it only last night I was at Donny’s? Or maybe the night before? How long was I out of it?

  Someone bought me. Someone actually bought me.

  Or, I guess I should say, someone else bought me. Goddamn you, Donny. If it’s the last thing I do, you’re going to pay for this.

  The cabin is dark. No reading lights are on.

  Maybe I can talk to a flight attendant? Tell her I’m in trouble?

  But why in the world would any of the bad guys put me on a commercial flight where I could do exactly that? Get help.

  This sucks.

  When I reach to undo my seatbelt a weightlifter is suddenly standing at my side.

  “I have to pee.”

  He moves aside and waits for me to stand, then follows me to the lavatory. And even though I’m scared shitless, I wonder for the umpteenth time why a john on an airplane is called a lavatory. And then, I wonder for the very first time, why it would ever be called a john.

  This so sucks. Something twisted is squeezing my heart. Breathing is painful and I’m pretty sure it’s for more reasons than getting punched a couple of times.

  I look around the small lavatory for a weapon of any kind. There’s nothing I can get to.

  Macho man escorts me back to my seat, and I look back into the plane. There’s no one else here.

  I’m the only passenger.

  This more than sucks.

  I want to ask where we’re going, but I don’t want to sound whiney. Somehow asking any question at all feels like it would diminish me. We’re going where we’re going. I’ll figure it out when we get there.

  My seatbelt secure, I squeeze my eyes closed to keep the threatening tears from overflowing onto my cheeks. I can’t fall apart. Not now. Not ever.

  That’s when the shaking begins. It starts in my hands and rapidly overtakes my whole body. The harder I try to make it stop the worse it gets.

  “Here.” Macho man thrusts a blanket in my face. I grasp it but it takes a few seconds for me to be able to put it over my shoulders.

  I’m fine. I’m fine. I keep telling myself this. Eventually, whether out of the strength of my thoughts or the exhaustion of my body, the shaking subsides.

  What happens next? Nothing pleasant.

  Selling women and young girls happens in other countries. Not here. Not in my own backyard, my own gym. Not there. I repeat th
is ‘not me’ concept until I’m dizzy with denial.

  Yet here I am.

  Is anyone looking for me? Did Mom come out of her fog and notice I was gone? Did Dad come home and ask where I was?

  I don’t like the answers that flash in my mind.

  I’m on my own.

  Swallow. Try to plan.

  Treat it like a game. Anticipate your opponent. Plan your move. Stick it to him. Make him pay.

  But I’ve never played this game before. I don’t know the rules.

  I’m alone and out of my depth.

  How the hell can I survive this? With a slam to my gut I realize that’s all I want to do. Survive.

  God, if you exist, help me keep my shit together. Better yet, rescue me. Now. From this plane. Teleport me or whatever. Or if that’s not your plan, help me stay strong. Please, help me. Please, God.

  And Donny, God? Don’t strike him dead. That’s too easy. Whisper in his ear that he’s gonna pay. Tell him that you and I have got his number and it’s only a matter of time.

  There’s a change in the plane’s pitch. We’re descending.

  This is what most people imagine the Dark Web to be: an electronic black market where anything is available. And the researchers I spoke with confirm all that—and worse—is available on websites hidden within Tor.

  Inside the Dark Web, by Max Eddy, February 4, 2015

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Mex woke in the middle of the night, pillow soaked, heart pounding. He hadn’t been in time. He hadn’t been there to save the little boy’s life.

  But it wasn’t young Samuel Halston he’d wanted to save.

  Quietly, Mex slipped into the bathroom and dug through his Dopp kit looking for his medication. It wasn’t there. He remembered Cade asking if he wanted her to pack it. Why wasn’t it—

  “Here it is, Cowboy.” She handed him the pharmacy bag. “Do you want to talk?”

  “Nothin’ to talk about. You know the story.” He opened the bag and dug out the bottle.

  “Oh, mon cher, the story is never over. It’s part of who you are. It’s fluid. And it’s never very far from the surface. When there’s a trigger, like there was yesterday surrounding that sweet three-year-old boy, the story grows.”

  Mex filled a glass with water then shook out a pill. Depression sucked, but at least with pharmaceutical help he could function. He swallowed the helpful bit of sanity and sat the glass down on the bathroom counter. He turned toward Cade, tears once again streaming down his face.

  Thirty minutes later, completely exhausted, voice hoarse, and soul laid bare yet again, he looked at the woman who graced his life. “What did I do to deserve you?”

  “You did nothing to ‘deserve’ me. Our fates scattered and then magically coalesced. We have this moment, not deserved and not undeserved, to choose whether or not to forge another moment. For now. And maybe tomorrow. It’s our choice.”

  “Woman, do you have to be so damned complicated?”

  “Now that, Mex Anderson, might be something you deserve.”

  After a few hours of sleep, Mex and Cade made their way down to the restaurant, expecting to order coffee and have a few minutes before Darius arrived. But there he was, clicking away on a keyboard, a phone to his ear, and a stack of papers next to him.

  Mex smiled. The three of them were back in action. If the reason wasn’t so goddamn ugly he might feel downright giddy. Must be the meds kicking in.

  Darius held up a finger for a split second to acknowledge their arrival before returning to the keyboard.

  Mex and Cade slipped into the other side of the booth and waited.

  When Darius ended the call he looked at them and said, “I had no fucking idea. Pardon my French.”

  “The word “fuck” is not French,” Cade said.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. No offense meant.”

  “None taken.”

  Mex watched the waitress approach. “No fucking idea about what?”

  “Two coffees, please,” Cade told her. “And three of your best omelets, with hash browns.”

  “I was thinking pancakes or waffles,” Darius said.

  “Can’t have you sluggish,” Cade replied.

  “No fucking idea about what?” Mex repeated after the waitress left.

  “I had no idea trafficking was such a major issue. Anywhere. I mean anywhere in the world. And I had no idea it was a major issue in the U.S. And I had no fucking idea that Colorado ranked at the top of the states where it was a problem. Here? Really?”

  Darius signaled the waitress.

  “Yes sir, what do you need?” The way the woman looked at Darius made Mex think she’d like to give him a telephone number. Hers.

  Cade was about to interrupt but Darius cut her off with another raised finger. “A side of pancakes, please.” He looked at Cade. “I promise to limit the syrup. Will that help?”

  “Minimally.”

  Mex’s phone rang. Steven Halston. Mex answered.

  “Are you working on this other missing girl’s case?” Steven demanded to know.

  “In conjunction with your daughter’s. How do you know?”

  “I know people and I’m not paying you to find anyone else, Anderson.”

  “I understand that. But I am not your exclusive agent, and my team will be working both cases. We’re on top of things, I assure you.”

  A cough, then some muffled sounds like someone holding a hand over the phone and talking to someone else. Mex said, “We’re making progress. It won’t be overnight, but I promise you I’ll do everything I can to bring your daughter home.”

  “You’re right, of course. I apologize. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “No offense taken.” Mex disconnected the call and turned his attention to Cade, Darius, and the food before him.

  They ate their breakfasts while Darius brought them up to date on what he’d learned from his Denver Police Department contact on the Jayla Thomas case.

  “There’s a mixture of old and new trafficking suspects who, for the moment, have both the DPD and the FBI scrambling to figure out the intel. It looks like a couple of them might be teaming up.”

  “Pimps teaming up?” Mex asked.

  “It doesn’t happen often, but it happens.”

  “Why would they go into partnership?”

  “They can save on the expense side of their businesses. Probably get deals on housing and off-the-books medical care. Maybe even legal help.”

  “What else?” Cade asked.

  “In the last six months the two agencies have managed to identify and extract, for want of a better term, four young girls who had been targeted. A lot of it was strong police work, but any one of the officers and agents involved would have also said it was pure damn luck. The grooming process had begun, and two very alert teachers had seen the signs. Three girls were from one school district and one from another.”

  Darius paused. “And everyone I talked to wondered what kid or kids they might have missed in between the four they saved.”

  “What do you mean by a teacher seeing the signs?” Cade asked.

  “Teachers are being trained to spot things like suddenly nicer clothes. Cleaner hair. Polished fingernails.”

  “Those things are bad?” Mex asked.

  “Not on their own they’re not. But overnight? Suddenly? In addition to educating our children, teachers are tasked with protection, social work, law enforcement, and detection. Teachers are asked to step up to the front lines in areas other than instruction.”

  “That’s all informative and interesting, Darius. But how the hell does that help me with my missing girls?” Mex asked.

  “Have you heard of the Dark Net or Tor?”

  Cade leaned into the table. “Why didn’t I think of that before?”

  “Think about what? I don’t have a clue what Darius is talking about,” Mex said.

  “Tor was originally developed by the Department of Defense,” Cade explained. “Specifically for the Na
vy, to protect government communications. It’s used by other branches of the military, journalists, law enforcement, all of the good guys. It’s an anonymous way to seek information on the internet. Which makes it automatically attractive to the bad guys.”

  “Exactly,” Darius said. “And what better way to peruse the world for nefarious things than in an anonymous way? Once you land on the Dark Net through Tor, it’s like Google. An electronic black market where everything is available.”

  “Everything?” Mex asked.

  “Everything. From malware to child pornography to murder-for-hire. It’s all there. The sites come and go for security reasons, but I’m pretty sure most of their customers don’t have loyalty cards.”

  “And my missing girls?”

  “My guess is they’re on the internet somewhere. But the sites go up and come down, changing their name and contact information for security. Their customers will always find them. And each of them has hundreds of pictures to wade through.”

  “I need something faster.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Due to the hidden and illegal nature of human trafficking, gathering statistics on the scale of the problem is difficult.

  —Human Trafficking Facts & Stats, Force4Compassion

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mex spent what felt like hours interviewing Alexis’s friends. Vapid. Self-centered. Entitled. If he weren’t already subject to depression, these kids would have opened the door.

  Feeling brain-dead and heavy-hearted about the future of society, at least he came away with a few places Alexis frequented. A clothing store in Boulder, a restaurant in LoHi, and her gym in Greenwood Village. All over the map. While he was tempted to head for the gym because she went there more often, he needed to eliminate the other two locations.

  Boulder was out of the way, but apparently Alexis made the trip a couple of times a month. He couldn’t ignore it as a possible contact point with an abductor.