"We searched for you, but you’re not an easy man to find. When we couldn’t find you, she went into the foster system. She ran from the first placement after six months. Kept running. System lost track of her eight months ago." Wright pulls out a folder, hands it over. "Best we can reconstruct, she was recruited at a Seattle bus station. Promised work and housing. Standard trafficking playbook."
The folder's weight feels off in my hands. Too light for what it contains. I flip it open.
First photo. Traci at seventeen. Skin stretched over bone, unfocused stare. Hospital gown hanging off a frame that's been starved down to nothing. Bruising at her collarbone disappearing under fabric. Defensive wounds scoring her forearms. Ligature marks circling both wrists like bracelets.
My thumb leaves a print on the plastic sleeve. Hands stay steady but rage builds somewhere behind my sternum. Cold and controlled.
Next page. Medical intake. Clinical bullshit that doesn't hide what they did to her. Malnutrition. Contusions in various stages of healing. Evidence of repeated trauma. Defensive injuries consistent with restraint. The words are sanitized. The meaning isn't.
Treatment for infections. Psychological evaluation pending due to subject's refusal to communicate verbally.
Subject. Like she's evidence instead of a person.
I turn the page. Federal case summary. Network operating Seattle to Vancouver. International ties suspected. Half a dozen minors recovered in coordinated raid. Traci Vance, age seventeen, recovered from auxiliary safe house. Duration of captivity: estimated minimum eight months based on last confirmed sighting in foster system.
Could've been longer. My jaw locks tight enough my teeth ache.
Photos from the raid. Suburban house that could be anywhere. Interior shots showing mattresses on floors, locks on bedroom doors from the outside, windows boarded shut. Standard setup for breaking people down.
Last page. Timeline reconstruction. Brother dies. Traci enters foster care at fourteen. First placement didn't last long.Second lasted even less. Third barely started before she ran. Then nothing until she surfaces in a federal raid.
System failed her. I failed her. Everyone failed her.
I close the folder. Knuckles gone white where I'm gripping it.
"What do you need?"
"Legal guardianship. She's a minor, needs stable placement while we work the investigation." Miller meets my stare. "The network's still operational. If they think she can identify anyone, she's a target."
"Where is she now?"
"Anchorage. We've got her in protective foster placement, but it's temporary. She needs someone who can actually keep her safe." Wright shifts his weight. "We tracked you through Delta Force personnel records. Took some doing. Zeke MacAllister vouched for you."
Of course he did. Zeke believes broken things can be fixed. I stopped operating under that assumption the day I watched children burn because I followed orders instead of trusting my gut.
But this isn't about me. This is about a kid who's been through hell because every adult in her life failed her.
Including me.
"Give me twenty minutes."
Miller acknowledges that with a nod. They head back to the plane.
I go inside and pack with the efficiency of someone who's done this enough times to make it automatic. Go bag: cash, clean IDs, first aid kit, knife, ammunition. Clothes that'll pass in civilization. Lock the weapons safe. Bank the stove. Secure the cabin.
Minutes later I'm walking to the plane with everything I need on my back.
The flight to Anchorage is rough. The weather makes the small plane buck through turbulence. Wright fills in details: trafficking network operating Seattle and Vancouver, federal task force months into the investigation. The network moves victims across state lines to disorient them, make escape harder. Traci was recruited in Seattle but moved to Alaska within weeks. The raid that recovered her happened outside Anchorage, which is why the marshals here handled the case.
"She give you anything?" I ask. "About the operation?"
"Nothing. Won't speak at all."
"She's afraid talking gets her killed."
"Yeah. Which is why we need her somewhere secure."
The plane lands at a private section of the Anchorage airfield. A dark SUV's waiting. Miller drives us to the federal building downtown. Concrete and glass, standard government design. He leads us through security, up to a conference room.
