Judge’s Vow (Saints Outlaws MC: Magnolia Bend, MS #1)
Chapter 1
Jesslyn
The Louisiana bayou at dawn is a photographer's dream. Silver mist rises from dark water like spirits escaping the underworld, great blue herons stand motionless as ancient sentinels, and cypress trees draped in Spanish moss filter the early morning light into something magical.
I've been crouched in my camouflaged blind for two hours, waiting for the perfect shot of a nesting pair of herons for Southern Wildlife magazine, and finally, the male spreads his magnificent wings in a display that makes my breath catch.
Click. Click. Click.
My Nikon D850 captures frame after frame of raw beauty, the telephoto lens bringing me close enough to see individual feathers without disturbing these magnificent creatures.
This is why I chose this life. Moments of pure wilderness where the only sounds are water lapping against cypress roots and the distant call of a Louisiana waterthrush.
No civilization, no people, no complications.
Just me, my camera, and nature at its most honest.
But then I hear it. The low rumble of boat engines that don't belong in this protected wildlife area.
I lower my camera and listen, frowning as the sound grows louder. Industrial vessels by the sound of them. Heavy and powerful, moving through channels that are supposed to be restricted for wildlife preservation. My instincts, honed by years of freelance work, start tingling. Something's not right.
Through the thick vegetation, I catch glimpses of a large boat.
Not the shallow-draft vessels that local fishermen use, but something built for serious cargo.
I raise my camera again, adjusting the telephoto lens to its maximum 600mm reach.
The morning mist makes visibility tricky, but my years of wildlife photography have taught me patience and persistence.
What I see through my viewfinder makes my blood freeze.
Men with assault rifles are guiding a line of young women—girls, really—from shipping containers onto a dock that definitely wasn't there when I scouted this location last week.
The women stumble like they've been drugged or held in cramped conditions for too long. Some can barely walk. Others are crying.
My hands shake as I adjust the focus, the horror of what I'm witnessing warring with my professional instincts to document everything. These aren't willing passengers on some early morning river cruise. These are victims.
Click. Click. Click.
I capture frame after frame, switching to burst mode to catch every face, every detail.
The guards' faces are clearly visible in my telephoto lens.
The license plates on vehicles parked near the dock.
A man in an expensive suit directing the operation with the casual authority of someone who's done this many times before.
One of the girls breaks away from the group, stumbling toward the water as if she's going to jump in and swim for freedom. A guard catches her easily, backhanding her so hard she drops to her knees.
The casual violence makes bile rise in my throat, but I keep shooting, knowing these images could be the only hope these women have.
The man in the suit looks to be in his mid-forties, with silver threading through dark hair and cold blue eyes even at this distance. He pulls out a phone and has what appears to be an animated conversation with someone. He gestures toward the containers, toward the women, toward the guards.
This isn't some low-level operation. This is organized, efficient, and clearly part of something much larger.
Click. Click. Click.
I'm so focused on getting clear shots that I almost miss the sound of footsteps behind me.
"Well, well. What do we have here?"
Ice floods my veins as a man's voice cuts through the morning mist. I don't turn around immediately, my mind racing through options. My blind is designed to be invisible from the water side, but apparently not from the land approach. How long has he been watching me?
"Just a nature photographer, I hope," the voice continues, and now I can hear the distinct sound of a pistol being cocked. "Because it would be real unfortunate if someone was taking pictures of things they shouldn't be seeing."
I slowly lower my camera, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Think, Jesslyn. Think like the girl who survived growing up with an alcoholic mother in a town that wrote her off before she turned eighteen.
Think like the woman who's been taking care of herself for eleven years, traveling alone to remote locations most people wouldn't visit with a full security team.
"Sir, I'm just photographing herons for a magazine assignment," I say, proud that my voice comes out steady despite the terror clawing at my chest. "I have all the proper permits for wildlife photography in this area."
"Is that right?" The man moves closer, and I can smell cigarettes and cheap cologne. "Well, let's just have a look at what kind of herons you've been shooting, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. The condescending endearment makes my jaw clench. I've dealt with men like this before, men who think a woman alone is automatically helpless, automatically available for whatever they want to do to her.
"I don't think that's necessary," I say, starting to stand slowly with my hands visible. "I can show you my permits and—"
"I said let's have a look at that camera."
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 at Southern 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.
My phone buzzes again, this time with a call from my mother. I let it go to voicemail, like I always do. Whatever drama she's stirring up in our hometown can wait. I have real problems to deal with now.
Those girls in the containers deserve someone to fight for them. Someone needs to speak for them, and if my photos survived the bayou water, I might be the person who can do it.
I press harder on the accelerator, eager to get back to my hotel and start making calls. For the first time since I left home eleven years ago, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing exactly what I'm supposed to do.
Those bastards have no idea what's coming for them.