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Cal pensively studies the video, pausing every few seconds to rewind and replay. “Her legs are like Jell-O. Something tells me alcohol isn’t the cause.”
“Correct. And here’s how we know she’s been drugged.”
A sour taste invades my mouth when I show him the picture I found on the Facebook page of another clubgoer.
“In the background of this selfie, you can see the dude’s hand covering Lettie’s drink while his partner distracts her.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Yeah. So we have the timeline, the method and proof of the abduction, and pictures to help us identify the unsubs. No offense to the sheriff’s office or the task force, but it’ll take them days or weeks to get this far.”
He nods in agreement, his movements growing more animated. My heart prickles with velvety tendrils of hope.
Maybe, just maybe, he’s seeing me— the real me.
This is working. I’m bringing him over to my side. The side fighting for women who have fallen prey to some of the sickest people on earth.
I only hope it’s enough for him to forgive me when I confess how much intel I unearthed to find out about Lettie. He knows I went digging, but not the extent.
Klein’s fist repeatedly punches into his thigh until I feel the tension radiating from him like electricity. “Did you ID the guys yet? Tell me you know who they are, Mia. I’m ready to go.Tonight.”
Ah,there’sthe reaction I was expecting. There’s the Cal who doesn’t stifle his emotions. No longer forcing calm, he’s dropped his mask to give me another glimpse at the man inside.
His agitation grows, and I place my hand over his to still him. Our eyes meet as I send him a silent message of understanding.
I know how he feels.
The anger. The disgust. The need to act.
Month after month on the task force, we uncovered mountains of evidence, much like this. I only found what I did today this fast because I’ve done it a thousand times before.
And watching footage of a girl stumbling and hanging over the man who’s about to destroy her life never gets easier.
In fact, it gets worse.
Every time we busted one trafficking ring, two more would pop up in its place. For each douchebaglover boywe got off the streets, stopping him from abducting girls, there was another ready to fill the disgusting void of tricking girls into sexual servitude.
Sadly, there’s no shortage of people willing to pay top dollar for a girl they can treat like a sex slave, carving board, or punching bag. Or all of the above.
It’s usually all that or worse.
And unfortunately, even when we gift-wrapped these monsters for prosecuting, the charges didn't always stick.
The evidence was tainted. There were loopholes. There was always an excuse. We knew without a doubt what they were doing, and half the time or more, they got away with it.
At some point, I realized why, and it’s enraged me ever since. That’s what sent me running from the CIA and led me to Redleg.
The high I felt all afternoon while chasing the evidence of poor Lettie’s abduction wanes, and the crash is inevitable. It always comes, hitting me harder each time, socking me in the gut until the wind is knocked from me.
Years ago, when I started mycreativeresearch,I felt remorse for breaking laws and invading privacy. Even when I was on the task force and hacking with the backing of the US Government, it still felt wrong on some level.
But once I began seeing people saved because of what I’d done, that guilt evaporated like it was sucked out with a vacuum.
Poof.
Even when I was no longer on the task force, I used my free time to find more girls, feeding the evidence to law enforcement contacts. I even learned how to make it look like everything had been obtained legally so it could be admissible in court.
Each girl who was saved emboldened me. It made me feel invincible and helped scrub the stain off my soul over what happened to my sister.
