Chapter Twenty-Three
A s had become his new habit, in making the rounds of Becca’s small condo, Rio examined every door and window lock. He peered through blinds for any movement on the street, rechecking the view and checking again. The man was excruciatingly careful, Becca realized, as she watched him perform his security measures.
Her tablet computer served as their video monitor, and was propped on the kitchen table. It received live feed from their hidden cameras at the warehouse. So far, there had been no change.
As the hour grew late, Rio took up a pacing routine. Too nervous to sit, Becca kept busy by using her stackable washer/dryer machine to wash their clothing. Since most of her things were either black or white, she only needed to run two washes. Later, she fixed a simple meal for them, and then fed her frogs. All the while, Rio paced.
At last, near midnight, Rio took a seat at her table to stare at the monitor. Becca sat next to him and reached for his hand. He gave her an absent smile and squeezed her fingers.
“You think Uncle Tim will be back tonight?” she asked.
“Bet he will.” He stared at the screen. All was quiet.
“I don’t like thinking about the purpose of those guns.” She shuddered. “That the weapons might be used for murdering people. It makes me sick to my stomach. And it’s all being shipped from my place of work!”
“Whatever happens, we’re putting an end to that,” Rio promised. He gave her a look. “Becca ... your Uncle Tim is going to prison.”
“Prison.” She whispered the word.
“It could be worse. If he isn’t careful he could be killed either by the guys paying him, or by the American authorities. This is a dangerous business he’s gotten mixed up in.”
Childhood memories flowed into her mind: her father’s business partner bringing birthday celebration toys, she and her brothers riding on his shoulders, his bright affectionate smile. Tim and her father were close friends as well as business partners. If she hadn’t personally seen him directing those men to ferry away illegal products, she’d never have believed it.
“Bingo,” Rio said suddenly. He pointed at the video screen. A single light went on in the warehouse and the automatic bay doors opened. Men hurried inside. A truck backed up to the dock. With the camera’s audio capability they could hear voices, but the men spoke very little.
Uncle Tim ducked inside, pointed at the boxes Rio and Becca had checked, then watched them being loaded onto a forklift. His face was clearly captured by the cameras.
Although she’d witnessed this before, Becca moaned.
“Easy, Buttercup,” Rio said, still holding her hand. “This is hard for you to watch, I realize that. But it’s better to face the truth. Your Uncle Tim, who isn’t really your uncle at all, is crooked.”
“I know.”
As they watched, the sliding door of the truck opened and suddenly they saw several young girls, perhaps six teenagers, crammed tightly together.
Becca gasped, and she felt Rio tense.
Some were manacled to rings attached to the truck. Some were handcuffed. All were dark-haired, dressed in peasant blouses and flowered cotton dresses, Mexican native clothing. Many of their feet were bare. Their heads hung down. Becca heard soft crying.
“This just took an ugly turn,” Rio said, anger infusing his voice. “Looks like Uncle Tim is also into sex trafficking.”
“Oh god!” Becca felt her head go light. “This is horrible! Pure evil!”
The wooden gun crates were shoved into the truck behind the girls, and the back was closed. The truck rolled away.
Uncle Tim was left behind.
“I can’t believe it,” Becca said.
Another truck backed up to the dock. As Rio and Becca watched, Tim and the driver unloaded armfuls of AK-47 rifles and placed them into open crates.
“I’m going down there,” Rio said, standing up. “Right now. It’s only a couple minutes drive and I need answers.” From his pants pocket, he took out his Glock pistol. Holding the slide with one hand, with the other he pushed it back and looked into the ejection port.
Becca saw a round inside. His weapon was definitely loaded.
Fury enveloped her. Those poor girls! They’d been shackled like animals. How dare Tim—she’d never call him Uncle again—do something so nefarious, so evil?
Just as suddenly, a new thought drenched her in dread. “My dad said he knew nothing about this. He can’t have known about those girls, either.”
“One thing’s for sure. Tim’s gonna tell me.”
“How can you be certain?”
“By the time I’m done with him, he’ll be singing his life story. Don’t worry about it.” He grabbed a pen, studied the video monitor, and jotted down the truck’s license plate.
Becca recalled a fact about the Navy SEALs she’d read somewhere: as part of their training, they were required to attend survival school. The days-long ordeal included capture by the ‘enemy,’ ‘imprisonment,’ and some sort of ‘torture.’ It was meant to simulate what might happen in the event of true capture. It trained the men to withstand hardship, to never give up on escape.
She imagined such training must have taught Rio several forms of enhanced interrogation. When she thought of Tim and the nasty business he was carrying on, it made her blood boil. If Rio tortured him, she would not intervene. No doubt he’d deserve whatever he got.
“I’m ready.” She shoved to her feet to stand beside him. “Don’t even think about telling me to stay here. Not happening.”
He sighed briefly, and shook his head in resignation. Picking up his oilskin shoulder bag that seemed to accompany him everywhere, he said, “It won’t be pretty.”
She showed him her teeth. “I’m counting on that.”