Chapter 94
EMMA
Ikeep shooting, my hands shaking now, struggling to keep the camera steady.
Another crate is loaded into the truck from the barn. This one has holes drilled in the sides—ventilation holes.
I swallow thickly. These aren't drug shipments. They're trafficking people.
Someone turns the van on and moves it, swinging it around so I have a direct shot in. I zoom in on the interior, and the image that fills my viewfinder makes bile rise in my throat.
Bodies huddled together in the darkness. I can see the outline of shoulders, heads, hands bound with zip ties. To one side, there are a couple of crates. I take a photo of a woman's face, pressed against the gap of the boards. Her eyes are wide, terrified, and pleading.
I photograph her. I photograph all of them. If I don't, no one will know they were here.
If I don't, they disappear.
The men are talking now, their voices carrying across the distance. I can't make out the words, but the tone is casual, businesslike.
This is routine for them.
One of the men lights a cigarette, and in the flare of the lighter, I see his face clearly.
Cole Turner.
He's standing near the van, supervising the loading, his expression calm and controlled.
I zoom in. His face fills my viewfinder—sharp, clear, undeniable.
I photograph him.
Click. Click. Click.
Then he turns.
His gaze sweeps across the ridge, across the cottonwoods, across the tall grass where I'm hidden.
I freeze, my heart stopping, my finger still on the shutter button.
He's looking right at me.
Fear shoots through my system, sharp and electric. I duck, peeking out just enough to raise my viewfinder to watch him.
No—he’s not looking at me. He’s looking past me, scanning the horizon, checking for threats.
But his hand moves to his hip, and I see the outline of a gun tucked into his waistband.
If he sees me, I'm dead.
If any of them see me, I'm dead.
I lower the camera slowly, carefully, my pulse roaring in my ears. I need to move. Now.
I start crawling backward through the grass, inch by inch, keeping my body low, the camera clutched against my chest.
A voice carries across the distance—one of the men calling to Cole.
"We're loaded. Ready to move."
"Good." Cole's voice is clear, cold. "Make sure the route is clean. No stops. No witnesses."
No witnesses.
The words echo in my head as I crawl backward, my elbows digging into the dirt, my breath coming in short, silent gasps.
I reach the cottonwoods and risk a glance back.
The van is pulling away, the trucks following. Cole is walking toward the barn, his phone to his ear.
I don't wait to see more.
I run.