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A feminine voice breaks the heavy silence. “Oh, thank god, you’re okay.” Ava places her hand on my shoulder. She’s changed from her funeral outfit into shorts, a tank top, and thick socks that reach halfway up to her calves. “I was about to go outside and cheer on my son while he swims laps. He pushes himself harder when someone’s keeping time. Want some fresh air?”
“She may join you in a little while,” Jack says. “We’re in the middle of a meeting.”
Ava squeezes my shoulder and steps out of the room.
Ryan Wolfgang speaks, and his square on the screen enlarges. “Nomad, are you still on the line?”
“Yes.”
“I know you can only stay with us for a few more minutes. Can you finish taking us through?”
“With pleasure. The LYP Group has questionable work arrangements with migrants. A man recently escaped from one compound, and he’s been a valuable source of intel. The international community has been aware of the potentially illegal arrangements for some time, but they remain in operation.”
“How many of these compounds are there?”
“Dozens,” the voice answers. “But a reliable source claims they saw Sloane Watson enter the compound located near the northwestern town of O’Smach.”
“If he saw her, why wouldn’t they—” I don’t understand. Why watch and do nothing? Did she appear to be there of her own accord?
“Doing anything risks inciting an international incident. I trust this source. Where she’s being held is mostly used for cyber scams. Cheap forced labor. But he says there’s a small medical clinic on-site. It’s my guess they transferred her to that location for something associated with the clinic.”
“What do they do in the clinic?” Jack asks.
“Our source hasn’t been inside. We’ve long suspected that when workers are no longer useful, they’re resold on the organ black market. But there’s nothing to indicate that’s what’s going on in this compound. We don’t suspect drugs. That requires a different setup, and they use different locations for drug production. This compound is one of the larger locations, so if she needed blood or tissue samples, she’d have a good sample size. Another possibility is they’re using the workers for medical trials.”
“All Cambodians?” A female online asks the question.
“No. Foreign nationals from India, China, Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, and Thailand. It’s a scam that’s grown exponentially over the last ten years. They lure the poor to come work for them, and the migrants find themselves trapped in these compounds by the financial arrangement, threats of danger to those back home, or sheer force. The good news about this specific location is that most of the people on the inside are held by financial obligation. Little force is needed to keep them working. There’s security. A gated entrance. But it shouldn’t be too difficult to extract her. If she was in one of the drug manufacturing compounds, it could be much more challenging.”
“That’s the good news,” Ryan says. “What’s the bad?”
“If we’re right on the location, it makes you wonder why she hasn’t left.”
“Sloane wouldn’t willingly do anything illegal.” The interjection is automatic. Jack’s glare cuts straight to me in a way that says he places no weight on anything I say.
“Unless maybe they’ve convinced her they’ll harm you,” Knox cuts in. “Maybe that’s what they wanted with you. They promised they wouldn’t harm you if she keeps doing whatever it is they have her doing. Does she have surgical training?”
“No. She’s a scientist. A cellular biologist. She wouldn’t… She couldn’t do organ transplants. That requires specific training she doesn’t have. It also, by the way, requires specific facilities.”
“Well, they want her for something. Do you have any questions?” Jack directs the question at me, and the question feels both dismissive and harsh.
“Me?”
“It’s your sister. We’re planning an operation to extract her. Do you have questions?”
“I want to help.”
“You’ll stay here.” Jack dismisses me with a commanding frown.
Knox rubs my shoulder and gestures to the door. I’m effectively dismissed.
The men direct their attention to a monitor hanging on the wall. I must have interrupted a conference call. A blueprint of a building flashes on the screen. Someone asks how current the documents are. The door closes behind me, but I’m not alone. A man with a military buzz cut wearing cargo shorts and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled midway up his forearms steps out with me.
“Hi. I’m Milo.” He holds out his hand, and I take it. His hand is dry, his grip loose. “I’ll take you down to the pool.”
“There’s no need,” I say.
“Everyone can focus on the task at hand if I accompany you.” He offers a congenial smile and gestures for me to proceed.
