by E. M. Smith
“It just so happens,” the woman said, pulling out a plastic bag of crayons, “That Grandma came prepared for coloring.”
Then she helped Eva pull up a chair by my leg cast, opposite Della so they wouldn’t fight over who got to draw on what.
“So you’re supposed to be Talia’s mama,” I said. “Miss—uh—”
“Baker,” she said. Then she emphasized—“Ms.”
I nodded.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said.
“Yeah, you, too.”
Ms. Baker did have the exact same chocolate color to her skin as Talia. The same cat-shaped eyes. She was tall and thin and had that smart Northern accent.
But the whole time the girls drew and talked, Ms. Baker never asked me a single question about Talia. Not where she’d been living or what kind of husband Owen had been or if they’d been happy together. Not even why I was alive when apparently it was all over the news that I’d been gunned down by state troopers after murdering her daughter.
Myself, I would’ve at least been curious about that last one.
*****
“How’d the visit go?” Whiskey asked later on that evening.
“Talia told Owen her mom was dead,” I said. “She passed from pancreatic cancer while Talia was still in school.”
“What do you want, Juliet, a signed confession that operatives lie to protect the people they love? Just let it be enough that Talia wanted your brother and her mom safe.”
“When I get out of the hospital, will I get the girls back?”
“No.” She said it like she was talking to an idiot. “You don’t exist anymore. Even if you did, there aren’t a lot of judges who would award custody to a murderer.”
“I didn’t—” I stopped. “Wait. Are you talking about Owen and Talia or Delgado? That guy’s dead, right?”
“Not everyone’s lucky enough to survive a fall like that,” Whiskey said.
“Good.” I ran my hand through my hair, then scratched the back of my head. I wasn’t sure what to do or say next. I blew a breath up at the ceiling. “Can I get some kind of joint-custody or something?”
“That spot on my team,” Whiskey said. “If you take the job, I can get you visitation rights. Not official or court-ordered, but still guaranteed.”
Because whoever ran NOC-Unit ran Ms. Baker, too.
Whiskey was still giving me her speech. “You were trying to make something out of yourself before all this. Someone who could make a difference. This is your chance. With NOC-Unit, you could do some real good. Stop guys like Delgado before they hurt anyone else.”
I waited until I was sure she was done inspiring me.
Then I asked, “Did you know Delgado wasn’t planning on selling the girls into sex slavery or did you figure it out when we stormed the compound?”
Whiskey’s eyes went flat and cold.
“You were surprised to see the lab equipment, too,” I said. “Do you think he was even the same guy Talia took down when she worked with NOC-Unit?”
“Men like Delgado can afford to change their identities, faces, businesses, locations—anything they need to. It’s how they survive.”
“So this ‘human trafficker’ kills my brother and sister-in-law and kidnaps my nieces to make a quick buck, but when he’s about to die in a fiery helicopter crash, he decides to risk his life to take one of the girls with him? I probably would’ve gone with the sure thing and lived to kidnap another day. But, hey, that’s just me.”
By then Whiskey was giving me that look people get when they realize I’m not as stupid as they thought.
“Delgado would’ve had to know about me beforehand,” I said. “I mean, those ankle bracelets update in real time. Anybody at the police station could’ve been watching me sit at home while Owen and Talia were getting murdered. It would’ve been pretty damn sloppy to go back later and change the GPS afterwards. But I guess anybody with a basic understanding of electronics, a tech team, and regular progress reports on me could’ve hacked a cheap piece of shit like a county ankle bracelet and put me wherever they wanted me.”
Whiskey rolled her lips together and bit until they turned white.
“How long before Delgado went after the girls did NOC-Unit know he was fixing to?” I asked. “Did y’all know what he wanted with them? Is that why you didn’t stop him? Or was it Talia? Did you need her taken out first?”
“I’ve worked with NOC-Unit for eleven years,” Whiskey said. “We do good. We protect the innocent, this country, and—”
“Couldn’t y’all at least—” Dammit, I sounded like I was going to start bawling. I rubbed my hand across my mouth, then looked down at the pink and yellow crayon scribbles on my arm cast. “Couldn’t you have stopped him before he killed Owen?”
The air conditioner kicked on. It ran for a little while, idled out, then shut off.
Whiskey stuck her hands in her pockets and took a step toward nowhere in particular.
“Should I assume you’re turning down the job?” she asked.
I cleared my throat.
“Oh, hell no. I’m taking it,” I said. How else was I supposed to make sure the girls were safe and figure out what the fuck was going on? “You bet your ass I’m taking it.”
“Smart decision,” Whiskey said. Then she looked up at the corners of the room, doing a sweep slow enough to make sure I would follow her line of sight. “NOC-Unit uses this facility exclusively to rehabilitate injured operatives instead of a public hospital,” she said. “For security purposes. No one gets in or out without them seeing and hearing.”
The back of my neck prickled and I had to fight back a shiver. No fucking wonder their operatives were so paranoid.
“We’ll chalk today up to painkillers and massive head trauma,” Whiskey said. “You’re scared, you’re angry, you don’t know who to lash out at. You’ll have a clearer perspective in the morning.” She shifted her feet just enough that she was turned at a slightly different angle than she had been before—almost like she was putting her back to someone—then she glared at me. “Understood?”
I sucked my teeth. Nodded.
“I asked whether that was understood,” she said.
“Yeah.” I thought I saw the corner of her mouth twitch like that was the right answer. So I added, “Ma’am.”
“Good.” Whiskey turned and headed for the door. “Get some rest, soldier. You’ll need to hit physical therapy hard if you want back in the field anytime soon.”
JUST THE BEGINNING
The Author’s Soapbox
As over-the-top as Jamie's story is, human trafficking is a very real problem in our world. Children are stolen from their families and forced into the sex trade—in this country as well as across the globe. These kids are told that they can never go home because if their parents knew the things they've done, they will never love them again. Their innocence is stolen, their ability to trust is broken, and many of their lives are destroyed forever.
The good news is that, in this day and age, you don’t have to be recruited by a secret government military operations company to combat human trafficking. You can help rescue those who are already in slavery, return children to their families, and prevent innocent children from becoming targets by donating your time or money to a charity like Destiny Rescue, Shared Hope International, or Agape International Ministries.
Thanks for reading, y’all. I really appreciate it.
-Mason
Like Bad Decisions? Now you can get the full run of Jamie’s adventures in Bad Ops (The Agent Juliet Box Set) for 40% off.
Or if you have commitment issues, you can pick up the next story, Bad Influences, all by itself.
And if you really, really liked or really, really hated Bad Decisions, then you should consider leaving a review on Amazon so that the author knows what he’s doing wrong (or right).
About the Author
E. M. Smith came by his redneck roots honestly, his barbwire tattoo dishonestly, and his so
briety slowly. Recovery isn’t a sprint, according to his friends, it’s a marathon. That’s probably why he turned into such a fitness geek when he quit drinking.
If you just can’t get enough Mason in your life, you can hang out with him on Twitter at @masondixonsmith, or drop him a line at [email protected].
