by Stacy Green
Our choice was the right one. The guy cried when I showed up instead of a little girl, and he begged for his life when I gave him the overdose of ketamine. Not before he bargained away a few online accounts and passwords, however.
It didn’t take long before Kelly found deeply embedded groups selling kids. Tonight was the first verified hit–our first chance to save a kid and glean some new information in the process.
I couldn’t erase the memory of the video. A little boy with dark brown skin, a little skinny but overall healthy looking, stood naked in the middle of a nondescript room. A disembodied voice ordered him to turn in a circle, to raise his arms over his head, to bend over. He obeyed with a glazed look in his eyes and tears running down his cheeks. A price was named just before the video ended.
I would kill someone for that little boy tonight.
“Stupid snow.” My eyes watered just looking at the cascading white flakes. I glanced at my bag. Injection loaded and ready. Cash for the kid. Pepper spray just in case. Kelly discovered the sale so suddenly I’d resorted to running around my apartment, throwing things in a bag and hoping I had what I needed. I promised the cat I’d be home to feed him in the morning, and I didn’t intend to let him down.
I peered through the sheet of snow to see Hagerstown 81 Truck Stop’s bright red sign.
“Please God, don’t let me be too late.” As I turned to take the icy exit, I felt the tires lose traction. “Give me a break!” Blood pounded in my temples as I half slid onto the iced over exit. For one blinding second, I saw nothing but the snow-covered metal guardrail and braced myself for impact. Beyond the rail appeared a snowy abyss with a drop sharp enough to break my neck. Not ready to face the brain-numbing fear of death, I rapidly tapped on the brakes, pulled the steering wheel to the left. The tires had nothing but snow to grip, and my small car careened down the exit ramp. All I could do was follow the curve until somehow I bottomed out and hit the next patch of clearish pavement.
Back in control, my head damp with sweat and my fingers cramped, I turned into the truck stop.
A few short months ago, this moment was unimaginable. Watching a man die by my own hand–not the first time I’d administered death, but the first I’d witnessed–left me cold and guilty and shattered. The man I’d killed deserved to die. He was the worst kind of monster, but he was still human. I wasn’t sure I realized that until I saw the life fade from his frightened eyes. Someone would grieve him, and that was my shame to bear. My brand of justice needed to be re-evaluated. I couldn’t take another life.
And then I found out about little Kailey Richardson being sold for sex. The part of me I’d started to think of as evil rose from the secret corner I’d buried it in and screamed for vengeance. I probably should have been nervous, but instead I felt as if I’d rediscovered my favorite pair of jeans. A match made in the blackest of heavens.
I used to think I was special, that I had a calling. That only I could deliver much needed justice. A martyr, to be honest: risking my own freedom for the greater good.
Those were just my first round of lies.
With the seller likely long gone, I’d go after the buyer. Spun from the same cloth, anyway. Kelly discovered he would be driving a lime green Freightliner with a flatbed trailer. Code name Sand. No other information. We’d assumed the traffickers had a private CB channel. I didn’t have time to run out and buy a radio to pick up the signal.
“He said go to the west side of the truck stop,” was the last information I had from Kelly. Since Hagerstown 81 was the largest truck stop in the state and one of the biggest in the country, the west side meant several acres and more semis than I could count.
The parking lot was partially cleared, and I managed to drive the Prius between drifts and not get stuck. Bringing my own car was a risk, but everything happened too last minute for me to get a rental. On this terrible night, the massive parking lot was loaded with semis, and most of them were at least half covered with snow. With so little to go on, I’d have to rely on instincts.
Fortunately my instincts were as incessant as an aggressive tumor. Always there, never quiet.
Privacy would be essential. Even in a truck stop with a lot of comings and goings, kids attracted attention. A psychologically damaged, physically abused kid would probably obey, but the seller wouldn’t want to stand out. With the increase in human trafficking, truck drivers were becoming more perceptive and forming their own groups to help protect children. Extreme caution was needed to accomplish the trade.
I stayed on the outskirts of the west lot, gaze panning for the truck I so desperately needed to find.
The buyer came early, excited and prepared. Eager to test out the merchandise.
The winter storm could have held him up, so he’d plan his day accordingly, and snow provided a great cover. If he had any smarts, he would have let the snow pile on and then cleared only a small portion of his cab so the seller could see the color. I needed to look for a flatbed semi whose cab had mismatched snow covering.
I found it in the far west corner. I parked twenty feet away, shut off the lights, and watched. The rig didn’t move. But inside the cab, a pinpoint of light flashed.
Whatever racing nerves I’d been battling now smoothed into calm. The malignancy extended its veiny fingers, shuttering my heart and wrapping itself around my nerves until they were snuffed out. I didn’t think about what the seller was likely doing to the boy. Doing so would only invite my locked up emotions to take control. That caused mistakes.
I slipped my bag over my head, settling it across my thick coat. Double checked to make sure my tools were inside. Opened the door, shut it. Keys in pocket. Squinted my eyes against the stinging snow. I didn’t feel the cold.
Anyone watching would assume I was meeting the driver for a good time. Maybe a local girlfriend ready to warm him up. My inner voice hushed, my conscience shrank into its corner cage as I approached the large truck. I kept an even pace as I crossed the front of the semi to the partially hidden passenger door, each movement with precise purpose. The bright green cab shuddered. Movement inside.
This is the time most people would step back, afraid of what they were interrupting. Afraid of what they might see, what could damage them for life or even worse, embarrass their delicate sensitivities. I stayed on autopilot, my actions as familiar as breathing. I reached into my bag, feeling the cold of the metal emanating through my thin gloves.
I slipped the magazine into the receiver, then pulled the slide into place.
I hated guns. They weren’t my weapon of choice. Too messy and loud. But I didn’t intend to use this one. Controlling a person is all about showmanship.
And the metal made a nice sound when I slammed it against the cab door.
The cylinder of light inside the truck–probably from a small beam flashlight–blinked out. I banged the Glock on the door again and then hid it in the folds of my coat.
Only part of me heard the howling wind or felt the miserable cold that had plagued us for weeks. My eyes and ears lasered in on the truck door. The handle clicked; I brought the gun around.
The door opened slowly. Stepping my left foot back, I reinforced my footing and moved my finger to the trigger. Chris had only taken me to the range twice, but I figured I could hit a man from five feet away no matter how lousy of a shot I was.
A narrow-faced white man peeked out of the slightly open door. His cheeks were hollowed out and flushed red, his irises dilated from either fear or arousal or drugs. Maybe all three. Despite the cab’s engine not running, the guy’s collarbone was soaked with sweat that stained the collar of his already dingy white T-shirt.
With the speed of light and the force of all my unanswered anger, the pictures of the scared, naked boy Kelly discovered this afternoon flashed through my mind. I leveled the gun at the man.
“I’m here for the boy.”
His eyes popped open. His body shifted. I caught sight of a bare knee.
“If you’re going fo
r a gun, rest assured I’ll put a bullet in your head before you reach it. Show me your hands.”
“Who are you?” He didn’t deny the boy.
With my left hand, I showed him the FBI badge I’d painstakingly crafted. “FBI, Human Trafficking Division. I know you’re holding a nine-year-old African American boy purchased less than half an hour ago from a seller out of Ohio. The transaction took place here, and you’re under arrest.”
Lying came naturally to me, even easier than breathing.
“Please.” A tear formed in the man’s eye. “I was just trying to save him.”
My finger twitched. Liar. We can spot our own kind, and men like him all have the very same sob story. Trying to save the child, bringing him home to a frantic family. All lies. “Is that why you’re sweating and half dressed in this cold?”
“My truck’s real warm.”
“The engine isn’t running.”
He shifted again, backwards as if he wanted to slam the door, but I was too quick, and the ice-caked snow worked in my favor. I stepped forward and slipped right to the door. Shoved the Glock under his chin. “Show me your hands.”
Shaking, he stuck out first one hand, and then the other. The fingers of his right hand were bloody.
“Having a problem?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Open the door, slowly.”
The man did as he was told. He was down to the T-shirt, blue paid boxers, and dirty socks.
“Step down onto that top step.” I retrieved the handcuffs from my messenger bag.
Shocked by the cold and my presence and the gleaming Glock, he obeyed. Confidence is everything. And the fear of others–fear caused by the power of one’s own actions–can be as exhilarating as the best narcotic. “Turn around.”
“What about my rights?”
“I’ll read them after I secure you.”
Snotty and shivering, he stumbled on the step, nearly sliding off. He jammed his hands behind his back, and I quickly snapped the cuffs on him.
“Inside the truck.”
He craned his neck over his shoulder. “My rights?”
“Inside. Too cold.” I pressed the Glock against his flaccid penis. “You know how easily I could shoot off your dick from this angle? Guarantee you the review board would say I was justified.”
“My hands are behind my back. I’m freezing!”
“Make like the snake you are and move.”
He pitched forward, his chest thudding against the interior of the cab. Using his right knee and then his left, he wriggled inside and into the driver’s seat. He flopped around to face me. Gun in front of me and overloaded on the power that came from his compliance, I hefted myself into the cab and slammed the passenger door shut.
“Aron?” I kept my voice soft and kind, a feat considering the rush surging through me.
A shuffling came from behind the curtain of the cab’s sleeper bed.
I kept the gun low but ready. The thought occurred the seller might still be here, or another accomplice, but I’d already entered the lion’s den. “My name’s Agent Rex with the FBI. I’m here to take you to safety. Are you alone back there?”
More shuffling followed by a small, terrified voice. “Yes.”
“Good. Why don’t you come out so I can see you? I promise I won’t hurt you. That’s over. And this man is going to jail for a long, painful time.”
The coward in the driver’s seat began to cry. His fear stank, polluting the entire cab. Another ruffle of the curtains, and Aron’s young face emerged. Fine featured and dark skinned, with dulled brown eyes, he stared at me. “I don’t have bottoms on.”
My eyes flashed to the coward, my teeth clenching. Another sliver of my heart broke off and disappeared. “That’s okay. You go ahead and get dressed.”
Aron moved to do as he was told, and I reached into my bag for the final solution. Still pointing the gun, I angled myself over the man like a lover would.
“You’re sick,” I whispered.
“I can’t help it.” His hot breath wafted across my cheek.
“I know.” Carefully, I slid the needle between his skin and the thin material of his T-shirt. “That’s why this is the end for you.” I jammed the needle into his armpit until he yelped and then shoved the plunger down.
He cried out as the lethally high dose of insulin shot into his system. 100 units was likely all I needed, but as a precaution, I’d injected 200 units. Less than a minute passed before he lost consciousness. He’d likely be dead soon after we left the cab. A medical examiner probably wouldn’t notice the injection site. 27 gauge needles don’t usually leave a large mark, and his body hair concealed it. Low blood sugar would be found on autopsy, and assuming the man wasn’t a diabetic, the red flags would rise. But I’d covered my tracks well.
I sat back in the passenger seat. Breathing rapidly, hands no longer steady. Heart banging in my ribcage and pulse thundering in my neck. I found my reflection in the rearview mirror. Flushed from cold, yes, but my fair skin was also dotted with excitement. My pupils looked as if I’d actually taken a mind-altering substance.
Aron poked his head out of the curtains. He stared again, with awed and frightened eyes.
“I just put him to sleep for a little while,” I said. “That way when the jail truck comes, he won’t fight.” I eased the slider off the Glock and put it away. “Let me take off his cuffs, and then we’ll go.”
Aron watched as I reached underneath his tormenter’s quivering body and unlocked the cuffs. I brought his hands around to his chest and laid them across his stomach so it looked like he’d fallen asleep. “There. Now he’s comfortable. And the jail truck will be here soon. We should go.”
Inside my knit cap and thick, blond wig, my carefully tied back hair was dripping wet. I quickly glanced over the inside of the cab. Gloves worn. Hair covered up. Skin cells no doubt left behind, but that couldn’t be helped. Maryland didn’t have my DNA on file anyway.
I held out my hand to little Aron. “Ready?”
Warily, he took it. He likely learned he couldn’t trust a single adult, but he didn’t have the ability to say no. I might be the first person who didn’t let him down. “You going to take me back to my foster parents?”
I smiled, wishing I could run my hands over his little cheeks and give him a mothering kiss on the forehead. “No. I’m going to take you to some real heroes. Firefighters. And they’ll get you home.”
His sad eyes brightened to a glimmer. “Like a real fire station? I didn’t know they could do that.”
I opened the door and climbed down into the worsening storm. Snowflakes with the consistency of birdseed rained down on us. “Firefighters can do anything, Aron.”
He took my hand and allowed me to help him climb down the steps. I zipped his thin coat to his chin and pulled his hat down past his ears. Silently, we walked to my snow-covered car, hand in hand. Perhaps a mother and child, retrieving the boy from a trip with his dad.
“Aron?” I asked once I’d buckled him into the Prius. “Do you know where that bad man was taking you? Or were you supposed to stay with him for a while?”
He looked down at his lap, shame taking over his face. With the worst over, my emotions began to war with my instincts. I prayed this child would receive the counseling he needed, that he wouldn’t be thrown back into a corrupt home. Sometimes I thought if I could house them, I’d keep every child I’d saved for myself. And then I’d know they were safe.
“I think he was taking me to some place in Pennsylvania. The city with the big bell.”
Exactly what Kelly had managed to hack from the file she broke into. “Do you know where?”
“The man who brought me here.” Aron looked like he was about to cry and then gave himself a little shake. “He kept saying exhale. That I’d be going to exhale. People there were interested in me. That’s all.”
Exhale. A business name? I’d have to get Kelly on it.
“Thanks.” I started the
car and then reached into the backseat. “I’ve got a ham and cheese sandwich and a bottle of water if you want them.”
He looked unsure and then grabbed the food, ripping the plastic wrap off. His first bite was big enough to nearly choke him. My heart ached.
“Well, Aron…” I put the car into gear. “We’re going to go see those firefighters, but first I need you to make me a really important promise.”
Eyes wide, he nodded so fast he should have given himself whiplash. Little Aron would be no problem at all.
2
This is a bad idea.
I read Chris’s text again and then stuck the phone back in the pleather bag I’d picked up from Goodwill. Cold breezed through the thin, black leggings I wore, and my feet felt like frozen bricks in the cheap, calf-length boots. I pulled the too short and much too thin coat tighter around my waist and tried to look like I belonged.
“That your pimp?” The girl standing on the street with me couldn’t have been more than eighteen, and I’d be willing to bet my apartment she was younger than that. Short, dark hair framed her angular face, her fake eyelashes heavily made up to accentuate grey-blue eyes.
Thick foundation a shade too dark covered a rash of acne on her chin. Her nose had once been pierced, but the empty hole had a nice scab, indicating a healing infection. I wished she had something on her cracked fingers. Her stick-thin figure gave her no extra body fat to keep her warm.
“Yeah,” I said. “Ain’t even my phone. He’s going to be pissed I didn’t answer his text, but I’m working, right?”
She nodded over a full body shiver. “Took me forever to get a phone, and he checks it every time I come in.”
“Same here.”
She eyed me with the dull gaze of a much more experienced person. “You’re new. Haven’t seen you around.”
