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Fair enough. I made a note to make sure the boys didn’t return to their father before he’d been investigated properly. It was a tragic reality that the parents were many times responsible for their children ending up as human trafficking statistics.
Next, we covered ages and birthdates. Nicolas had recently turned fourteen, Mateo was eleven, and little Julian—as per Nicolas—was, “like, three.” Elliott gave me the parents’ names, and Texas—probably Houston—as the last location they’d lived, so I had no doubts we’d be able to confirm their details. It was enough to go on.
“As for injuries…” I hated this part the most.
“On the container ship, they were forced to fight two other boys,” Elliott said, jaw clenched. “Nicolas and Mateo against them. No casualties, thank fuck, but if they didn’t fight, Gajero punished them. Mateo can’t hear well—there’s swelling in his ears. Eyes too—they can’t open their eyes fully.”
I swallowed hard and added more notes. General bruising, and a lot of it.
“No fractures from what the doctor could tell,” he said. “Lab results will be sent to LA. They’re underweight but didn’t suffer any cramps from the sandwiches they had on the way here. No dehydration, normal temperature, a little slow on reflexes, but that’s understandable.”
I nodded along as I wrote.
“And, uh, I asked what they last remember of their dad,” he went on. “They think it was Easter, ’cause, and I quote, Dad came home drunk with a lady who gave them a chocolate bunny to share.”
I gnashed my teeth. “How fucking generous.” I took a steadying breath and pushed forward. “What about this little guy?” I eyed Julian and couldn’t see any visible wounds. His little shorts and tee were dirty and ill-fitting; he certainly needed a bath, just like the other women and children. His silence, however—that one worried me. I hadn’t heard Julian make a single sound.
“He’s nonverbal—hasn’t even cried—but the doc says it’s not unheard of for trauma victims,” Elliott replied. “He reacts when spoken to. You can see him processing what’s going on around him, and he covered his ears when we left the helicopter.”
“He also refuses to let go of you,” I noted. The boy glanced up from his hiding spot in the bend of Elliott’s neck, though only briefly. I jotted down he had hazel-brown eyes.
“Uh, yeah, I…I don’t know what that’s about, but, uh—” Elliott looked over to the other two boys before returning his attention to me. “Listen, I’m just gonna come out and say it. Are you in a position to recommend temporary foster care? Because I have a really bad feeling about their old man, and I’d rather they stayed with me for a few weeks than get shuffled around in a system that might separate them.”
Given the circumstances, there would be no “shuffling.” We had protocols in place for trauma victims—but I shared his worry, nonetheless, and I couldn’t help but feel for him. It was a selfless offer.
“Oursystemdoesn’t work quickly unless their father is cleared immediately,” I replied. “I can absolutely recommend you, but you might want to adjust a few weeks to a few months. Those investigations take time.”
“So be it.” He’d made up his mind.
“Then, I don’t think there will be any problems,” I answered. Again, given the nature of the situation, these children’s “system” was much smaller. I would be speaking directly to the victim specialist assigned to the case, and my voice mattered. “There’s the matter of security, though. Is your home safe?”
Elliott sighed and scratched his jaw. “I mean—yeah. The short answer is yes. I don’t trust the cartel fuckers for shit, and I’ve heard conflicting statements from all sides—that my identity is secure, my alibi is solid, nobody’s connected my real name to the identity I used with Hillcroft, except Carillo’s used both my names with countless people, so who the fuck knows. But considering the state we left the cartel in…? I’ll have a new security system up and running long before any remaining affiliates have scrambled for a new boss.”
He literally worked with security, so I had no doubts he knew what he was talking about.
“I do trust River and Reese, though,” he added. “They’re confident we got rid of everyone who attacked my ranch.”
I actually already knew that, because I had a colleague working the Tenley-Ortega-Hayward case in San Diego. They’d be happy to hear all three had been rescued—just as they’d get their egos bruised since they’d had absolutely nothing to do with the rescue.
Before I could respond, the door opened, and Crew popped his head in.
“Sorry it took so long,” he said. “It’s like European bases have just started discovering vending machines.”
I smiled. He’d still managed to scrounge up quite the loot. Pre-packaged sandwiches, chips, candy bars, soda, and water filled his arms.
“You enjoy your snack—I’m going to check in on Joel and Blake again,” I said.
CHAPTER 8
Joel Hayward
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“I wanna go home.” She sniffled.
Fuck, me too. “It won’t be long, I promise.” I squeezed her tightly, carrying her to the exam room Elliott was in. It’d been too long since I’d seen him. “Let’s go see Uncle Ellie.”
