My fingers trace the USB drive hidden in my jacket’s inner pocket. Three years of work. Three years of lost witnesses, dead informants, and sacrificed lives. The truth about my father’s empire sits in my palm, and I’ll die before I let anyone take it from me.
The streetlight above flickers, casting wild shadows across the ground. I pull my hoodie tighter, though it does nothing against the chill. Every instinct screams for me to run, but I force myself to move slowly and deliberately. Running attracts attention. Running gets you killed.
I pause at the edge of the warehouse district, my heart hammering against my ribs. The skeletal buildings rise before me like ancient creatures, their broken windows staring down with dead eyes.
The air sits heavy in my lungs, thick with the stench of rust and decay. Memories of similar places flash through my mind—abandoned factories in Eastern Europe where trafficked girls disappeared without a trace.
God, I’m tired. Five days of cat-and-mouse have left me running on fumes and caffeine pills. The exhaustion makes everything sharper somehow—each shadow deeper, each sound more threatening. But I can’t stop. Not when I’m this close.
Wilber Mercado’s trail had gone cold at O’Hare. I’d spent endless hours reviewing security footage, bribing airport staff, and following false leads that led nowhere. The memory of his empty car in long-term parking haunts me—another dead end in a maze of disappointments.
But Heath… Terrell Heath is different. The connection through former employees leading to family connections felt like a gift from whatever gods watch over desperate journalists.
I’d convinced Heath through his sister Angela. Finding her hadn’t been easy—she’d changed her name after leaving the company, trying to distance herself from whatever horrors she’d witnessed. But desperation makes you creative. I’d tracked her through old employee records, piecing together a trail that led to a small town in Wisconsin.
Angela had listened to my pitch with dead eyes, chain-smoking through my entire explanation. When I finished, she’d crushed out her cigarette and made a single phone call. “Terry,” she’d said, “there’s someone here. Someone who can end it.”
Heath had agreed to meet after three calls. Each conversation grew more frantic as he processed what I was offering—a chance to expose everything, to stop running. I laid out what I had: shipping manifests showing impossible cargo weights, bank transfers through shell companies, and emails discussing “merchandise” that could only be human beings.
“My father’s careful,” I’d told Heath. “But he’s not perfect. The original documents you collected, combined with what I have? It’s enough to bring down his entire operation.”
Heath had chosen this location—an abandoned textile factory on the edge of the warehouse district. “Used to work security there when I was a teenager,” he’d explained. “Know every inch of it. If something goes wrong, there’s ways out that don’t show on any blueprints.”
The plan was simple: meet at midnight, exchange information, then separate and disappear. He’d insisted on elaborate security measures—counter-surveillance routes, specific timing for arrivals, code words I had to memorize. The paranoia should have worried me, but after Roberto, after seeing what my father’s cleaners could do, paranoia felt like survival.
I’d shared everything with Heath over our calls—how I’d spent years building this case, gathering threads of evidence from across continents. How each piece alone meant nothing, but together, they painted a picture of systematic evil. Girls vanishing from Eastern European villages. Shipping containers with hidden compartments. Bank accounts in tax havens moving millions in untraceable funds.
A shadow shifts in my peripheral vision. My hand instinctively finds the knife in my pocket, fingers wrapping around cold metal. The warehouse looms ahead, its vast emptiness a perfect trap. Perfect for an ambush. Perfect for disposing of bodies.
Roberto’s old burner phone weighs heavy in my other pocket. His last gift to me was loaded with contacts and encrypted files. My throat tightens, thinking of him. After all those years of building our investigation, piece by piece, I’m now alone at the finish line.
One meeting to get Heath’s evidence. One meeting to prove my father’s trafficking network. One meeting that could end with me joining Roberto in whatever darkness waits after death.
The warehouse door protests with an echoing groan as I push it open. Stale air hits my face, carrying traces of rust and dampness. A single bulb hangs from exposed wiring, its weak light creating more shadows than illumination. The emptiness of the space amplifies every sound—my footsteps, my breathing, the thundering of my heart.
Heath materializes from the darkness near the far wall. His expensive suit hangs wrinkled on his frame, and dark circles shadow his eyes. He paces like a caged animal, fingers twitching at his sides.
“You’re late.” His voice cracks through the silence.
I let the door fall shut behind me, leaning against its cold surface. “Traffic.”
“Don’t joke.” He whirls toward the entrance, neck straining. “Do you have any idea what I’m risking being here?”
“Less than what you risk by staying silent.”
Heath’s laugh carries an edge of hysteria. “Silent? You think silence is what keeps me alive?” He moves to a grimy window, peering through gaps in the decades-old dirt. “Your father doesn’t just kill people, Eve. He destroys them. Makes examples of them.”
“I know exactly what he does.” The words taste like acid.
“No.” Heath spins back to face me. “You don’t. You’ve seen the paperwork, the manifests, the bank records. I’ve seen the girls. Heard their screams. Watched them disappear into containers, never to be seen again.”
My fingers curl into fists, but I don’t owe the man explanations of what I had endured myself. “Then help me stop it.”
“Stop it?” Another harsh laugh. “You’re naive and too trusting.”
“Like I’m trusting you?”
The question hangs between us. Heath’s eyes dart to the shadows again, searching for threats. “I shouldn’t be here. This was a mistake.”
