Shit. I was so wrapped up in my own fear, I didn’t even check the room for cameras, but as I make a show of opening one of the notebooks and uncapping a pen, I flick my gaze upwards. A tiny red light glows on a black box, and when I turn back around, I see the truth in her eyes. She’s as scared of Faruk as I am. And probably just as much a prisoner.
“Papa says once you fix me, I’ll be as strong as he is,” Mateen says with a wide smile.
I force a smile. “Yes. You will be. Just like…Papa.”
6
Ford
Hefting my go-bag over my shoulder, I follow Trevor off the transport plane outside of Qarshi, Uzbekistan. A two hour flight to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, from Boston, then nine and a half hours over the Atlantic Ocean and Europe to Kars, Turkey, then another two hour flight here.
Trevor slept. I didn’t. I studied satellite images of Turkmenistan, trying to trace Joey’s path east, the photos Nomar sent of the massacre he found where they were taken, and all the intel Trevor, Dax, and Wren pulled on human trafficking in the area.
Ford, I did some research in between working on Evianna’s case, and most reports I can find have trafficking shipments traveling on two primary routes. Both cut right through Afghanistan. One runs just outside of Kandahar and the other west of Mazari Sharif. I found one auction site on the dark web, but so far none of the women listed there match Joey or the others with her. I’m still searching. Good luck and stay safe. - Wren
P.S. Ry’s going a little stir crazy. Are you sure you don’t want him and Inara to head out to meet you?
I want to say yes. To tell Wren to send Ry and let him do what he does best. But Trevor doesn’t want any extra bodies around—especially not one close to seven-feet-tall with such recognizable scars and a seriously bad attitude.
As we enter the hanger, a marine private salutes us, and I return the gesture. “Staff Sergeant Ford Lawton,” I say. “Retired.”
“Private O’Rilley,” the man says. “I got word your contact should be here in twenty minutes with a private plane. If you head to the south corner of the hanger, we’ve got coffee and MREs. A couple of couches. They’re not comfortable, but they’re yours, sirs.”
With a nod, I motion for Trevor to follow me. But he’s already halfway towards the makeshift office. By the time I push through the door, he’s on his phone, speaking Pashto. I never learned much—and what I did has faded with the years—but his severe expression twists my gut with anxiety. I send Dax a quick message.
Ford: We’re in Uzbekistan. Nomar should be here in a few minutes. I’ll touch base when we get into Turkmenistan.
He doesn’t respond, but the past few weeks, he’s been so closed off, I’m not surprised.
After a cup of the worst coffee on the planet, I start to pace until Trev hangs up the phone. “They’re not in Turkmenistan,” he says, his voice grave. “They’ve already crossed the border into Afghanistan.”
“How do you know?” I press my palms flat on the desk and loom over him. I’m a big guy—six-foot-ten—and while I’m not as bulky as Ryker, I’m solid. Trev’s a good five inches shorter than I am, and he peers up at me with tired, intense eyes.
“Before we left, I sent messages to a couple of the guys I know who are still embedded under deep cover. Told them to set up a buy for me. Western women, fresh. Age didn’t matter as long as they were new to the trade.”
My heartbeat thrums in my ears as my blood boils. “Watch your tone, Trev.”
“You want this done fast? I’m not going to pretty up my words just because you’ve had a candle burning for this woman for the past twenty years. And if you lose it like this when we’re with the buyers, you’ll blow the whole op. So get your shit together. Understood?”
I let out a breath and back off. Easing my way down onto the well-worn sofa, I drop my head into my hands. “Sorry. Keep going.”
Glancing around the room, he shakes his head, then rummages in his bag and pulls out a small metal device the size of a cigarette lighter. After he’s pressed a button on the side, he continues. “Never know who’s listening, and this is ‘ears only.’ The Turkmen border is a fucking fortress. They’ll search your car license plate to license plate and run your passport through so many checks, trying to get into the White House while on a terrorist watch list is easier.”
“Seriously? When did that happen?”
Trevor shrugs. “A few years ago. Does it matter?”
“Nothing matters but Joey and the other two women. Go on.”
“Four vehicles passed through the checkpoints over the past few days that raise suspicion. Based on the money that changed hands when they did, one of them had drugs, another guns, and the other two were carrying people.”
“And…?” Impatient for him to get to the fucking point, I dig my fingers into my thighs so I don’t wrap them around his throat and shake the information out of him.
Trev runs a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t know much more than that. But there’s an auction taking place in Kabul tonight. It’s the only one for the next two weeks, so if they’re being sold, that’s where they’ll be. And my contact swears there are girls available who meet my…needs.”
“But you don’t know if Joey’s one of them.” Defeated, I sink back against the cushions. “What if your contact’s wrong? What if Joey and the other two are in Kandahar by now? Or worse…what if they are still in Turkmenistan?” So many possibilities run through my mind. I don’t improvise. Don’t take chances. That’s Clive’s territory. Ella’s. Hell, even Dax’s. Not mine.
“Think, Ford. Be logical. This is our best lead so far. I’m still working a dozen angles, and by the auction tonight, maybe one of them will come through. Or…we’ll find them, get them the fuck out of there before they’re sold, and be on a transpo home before breakfast. I know you love her, but you haven’t slept and you need to get your head on straight before we get to Kabul.”
