The command comes with the press of a gun barrel against the back of my neck. Cold metal that promises death if I don't comply. But if I hand over my camera, those girls in the containers are as good as dead, and I'll probably join them.
Instead of complying, I do something that surprises us both.
I dive.
Not exactly away from him, but toward the water, clutching my camera to my chest as I throw myself from the elevated blind into the murky bayou below. The splash is enormous, and muddy water closes over my head as gunshots ring out above me.
The bayou water is darker than coffee and twice as thick. I force myself to stay under, swimming toward the nearest cypress tree with its massive root system that could provide cover. My lungs burn, and my camera equipment feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, but I don't let go.
Those photos are everything, evidence that could save lives and destroy a trafficking operation.
When I finally surface, gasping for air behind a curtain of cypress roots, I can hear shouting from my former hiding spot. Multiple voices now, all male, all agitated.
"Where the fuck did she go?"
"Find her! She's got to be close!"
"Check downstream. Current might have carried her."
I press myself deeper into the root system, praying that the shadows and Spanish moss will keep me hidden. My camera bag is waterproof, a necessity for nature photography, but I don't know how much submersion the equipment can handle.
More importantly, I don't know if the memory cards survived.
Footsteps thrash through underbrush as they search for me. I count at least three different voices, maybe four. Way more than I can handle, even if I were armed, which I'm not. My only weapon is my brain and eleven years of experience getting out of impossible situations.
I stay hidden in the cypress roots for what feels like hours but is probably closer to thirty minutes. The voices gradually fade as they expand their search pattern, but I know they haven't given up. Men running an operation this sophisticated don't just let witnesses walk away.
When I finally risk moving, it's to swim quietly along the shoreline, staying close to vegetation that will break up my silhouette. Every shadow could hide a gunman. Every sound could signal my death. But I have to get back to my jeep, parked almost a mile away on an old logging road.
The swim feels eternal. My camera bag creates drag, my waterlogged clothes weigh me down, and every few minutes I have to stop and listen for pursuit. But finally, I reach the narrow creek that leads back toward my parking spot, and I half-swim, half-crawl through marsh grass until I can see my dusty red Cherokee through the trees.
No one's guarding it. Yet.
I sprint the final hundred yards, not caring anymore about noise or stealth. If they're close enough to hear me running, I'm already dead.
I throw my camera bag into the passenger seat and fire up the engine with shaking hands, spinning tires in the soft earth as I race down the logging road toward the highway.
Only when I'm back on solid pavement, putting distance between myself and the bayou, do I allow myself to think about what I witnessed. Young women being trafficked like cargo. Armed guards. An operation that's clearly been running for a while.
And somewhere in my waterlogged camera equipment, I have evidence that could bring it all down.
If the photos survived.
If I survive long enough to do something with them.
My hands shake as I reach for my phone, thinking about who I can call. The local sheriff's department seems like an obvious choice, but something about the professionalism of that operation makes me think they have law enforcement connections. You don't run trafficking routes through protected wildlife areas without someone official looking the other way.
The FBI? DEA? I need someone with the authority and resources to act on this information, someone who isn't connected to local corruption.
As I drive toward New Orleans, checking my mirrors obsessively for signs of pursuit, I make mental notes about everything I witnessed. The man in the expensive suit seemed to be in charge. The containers were recent arrivals, still bearing shipping labels I couldn't read from my distance. The dock was temporary but substantial. This wasn't a one-time operation.
My phone buzzes with a text from my editor atSouthern Wildlife: "How's the heron shoot going? Need those photos by Friday for the September issue."
I almost laugh at the normalcy of it. Two hours ago, my biggest concern was getting the perfect shot of nesting behavior.Now I'm racing away from a human trafficking operation with evidence that could save lives.
The skyline of New Orleans appears ahead of me, and I've never been happier to see civilization. Traffic, people, and the familiar chaos of the city I love. I need to get back to my hotel, check my equipment, and figure out who to contact with this information.
The FBI seems like the obvious choice, but I remember reading about a DEA task force specifically targeting human trafficking along the Gulf Coast. That might be more appropriate since this clearly involves drug money and organized crime. I can do some research online, find the right contact, and get this evidence into the proper hands.
