7. Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Remington
For the past thirteen weeks, we’ve been following Danny’s leads. We started in Mexico, then headed to Nicaragua, and eventually made our way into Asia, following the trail through China, Laos, Thailand, and Cambodia.
As we chase down human trafficking networks and pipelines, Danny interviews bartenders, dock workers, ship captains, and deck hands.
He hunts down corrupt customs agents, politicians, merchants, and people in the sex trade.
He’ll talk to anyone and everyone who might have a kernel of information that could bring him closer to the people responsible for the atrocities he’s uncovering.
In every country, municipality, city, and tiny town, to every port and ship, politician, and prostitute…I snap pictures of all of it.
We were in Nicaragua when we first heard about the Consortium.
Through persistent, dogged determination, Danny has learned the Consortium is made up of a group of rich douchebags from around the globe who have dark agendas—men motivated by profits gained from the trafficking and sexual exploitation of human beings.
Women, children, and even men are being taken prisoner, put into containers, and shipped across oceans to be forced into prostitution, hard labor, or sex slavery.
The people involved call it a business. A multi-billion-dollar operation where people are being bought and sold like livestock.
And because of the money involved, no one seems willing to stop it, or even slow it down.
Leaders, dictators, politicians, and law enforcement turn a blind eye as long as they get their chunk of the profits.
But the Consortium doesn’t only traffic humans. Danny discovered their tentacles reach into black-market weapons, money laundering, kidnappings for ransom, drugs, contract killings, and prostitution.
If it’s illegal and profitable, the Consortium’s bloody fingerprints are all over it.
From everything Danny has learned, the Consortium is a thriving criminal empire and human trafficking is only a single faction of their dirty business.
Two weeks ago, we chased the story here, to Venezuela. Danny heard a rumor that the heads of the Consortium are attending a meeting, and he’s determined to uncover who those men are so he can expose them.
When we arrived in Venezuela, Danny rented us an apartment. It isn’t in the best part of town, but it isn’t in the worst either.
It’s on the second floor, right in the middle of a town square. Simple, but clean and functional, with two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchenette, and a balcony with French doors that’s great for letting in the evening breeze.
This morning, we’re up with the sun. While Danny’s inside on the phone, I’m on the balcony, sipping coffee and enjoying the cool air before the rising sun heats it to an uncomfortable temperature. I snap the occasional picture, watching and listening to the sounds of the square waking up below me.
When I hear Danny end his call, I wander back inside, recognizing the excited look in his eye.
“My contact says something big is going down. He has information about the meeting the Consortium honchos are holding. Apparently, this little summit comes with a special auction.”
An auction. A pleasant word to describe the disgusting practice of selling people to the highest bidder.
He shows me a map on his tablet. “We need to meet him here,” he says, pointing. “Look at it, it’s perfect. It’s right on the Caribbean. It couldn’t be more ideal for the Consortium’s drug, weapons, and human trafficking pipelines.”
“It could be a trap. Are you sure you can trust this guy?”
“Yeah. Hugo’s solid.”
With a long drive ahead of us, we start gathering our things. I include my favorite camera, the one with the 600mm lens. Sure, it’s heavy, but nothing beats it for long-range shots. I also pack a secondary camera with a 24mm lens, in case I need it for short range shots.
Once the cameras are packed, I grab half a dozen film canisters out of the mini fridge, then shove several bottles of water into the pockets of my cargo pants.
When we’re both packed and ready, we head downstairs to our rented Land Cruiser.
Danny’s been driving for almost an hour. The farther away from the apartment we travel, the more uneasy I feel. We’ve been on a narrow, dusty dirt road for the past twenty minutes, and haven’t passed a single vehicle that entire time.
Wherever we’re going, it’s isolated—the perfect place for an ambush. And if the Consortium is involved, there could be lookouts along this route, and it’s possible we’ve already been spotted.
Ten minutes later, in the middle of nowhere, Danny surprises me when he makes a U-turn and pulls off the road. He comes to a stop and cuts the engine.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” he says, twisting toward me. “About the possibility of this being a setup. According to Hugo’s directions, the house should be over that rise.” He points out the window over my shoulder. “Let’s hike in, find a spot, lay low, and check it out before I talk to my guy.”
I can’t hide my relief. I know this is the job, but something doesn’t feel right.
It’s dangerous, and while I feel the familiar undercurrent of excitement and adrenaline I get while on a job, I’m nervous.
The Consortium is made up of people who do not want their activities uncovered.
I have no doubt they’ve killed without a second thought to protect their despicable secrets.
“I think that’s a good idea.”
We carefully make our way up the embankment. Once we reach the summit, we lie on our bellies in some undergrowth, taking in the scene below. Here, in the middle of nowhere, is a mansion.
I start photographing the out-of-place monstrosity. I haven’t taken many shots when something even odder strikes me: there isn’t a single woman in sight.
Trucks belonging to various vendors are parked along the lengthy driveway. Everything you’d need for a big party. Men move in and out of the house, unloading catering trucks and carrying flower arrangements. A couple of men load cases of liquor onto handcarts, while others carry stacks of chairs.
“Fuck, RJ. This has to be it,” Danny says in an excited whisper. “This has to be where they’re having the auction.”
“Well, they’re setting up for something, that’s for sure.”
“There’s my contact. That’s Hugo,” Danny says, pointing to a man coming out of the house and heading toward the florist’s truck.
I continue snapping pictures, the two of us watching the scene below in silence for a while.
“Why don’t you date, RJ?” Danny asks out of the blue, without lowering the binoculars he’s using. I wonder if the random question is because he’s uneasy too and trying to distract himself. Or maybe it’s because he’s a reporter and he’s just being nosey.
“What? I date,” I respond, keeping my voice low.
“No, you don’t. In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve only ever picked guys up for one-night stands. Or several-night stands.”
That’s true, but I don’t confirm his suspicions or lower my eye from the viewfinder. “That’s because you only ever see me when we’re about to head out to one of your lovely vacation spots like this one.”
Why do people assume there’s something wrong with you if you’re not constantly looking for a mate—especially if you’re a woman? I can enjoy spending time with a man, but I’m not willing to give up my career or freedom for one.
I never understood the need to find someone and settle down.
Maybe it’s because my camera keeps me separated from people, or maybe I’m too ambitious, always on the move from one place to another, chasing the perfect shot.
Maybe I was born without the romance gene.
That doesn’t make me cold or heartless. It doesn’t mean I’m abnormal or lacking something.
Why is it that women are supposed to want a partner, marriage, and children, while it’s perfectly fine for a man to focus on his career? A man can be single and play the field, and no one thinks twice about it. It’s such a prehistoric double standard.
“So, what’s it going to take to get you into my bed?”
This is not a new question from him. I can’t deny Danny is handsome and charming. Personable. But the man just doesn’t do it for me.
“I’ve told you, we work together. It’s not a good idea.”
Besides, since my last night in the States, I can’t stop thinking about Colton. I haven’t forgotten his invitation, and I want to go on that date. For the first time in my life, I’m excited imagining what it might be like to spend more than a couple of nights with someone.
Unfortunately, two days into our trip, I dropped and shattered my phone. And since we’ve been trekking through communist or impoverished countries, it’s not like I can stroll into a mall and replace it. So, except for our initial texts, I haven’t had the opportunity to keep in touch with him.
For all I know, Colton didn’t mean it. Or if he’s tried to reach out, he’s given up on me because I haven’t responded. I can’t blame him. If someone ignored me for weeks, I’d give up on them too.
I want to end this conversation before it gets more uncomfortable. “I’m going to relocate for a better angle.”
“Be careful, RJ,” he tells me, all signs of humor gone.
“I’m a safety girl, hotshot. Careful is my middle name.”
I backtrack partway down the slope and move five or six hundred feet away from Danny.
It’s steeper here, but staying low, I scramble up the hill to gain the high ground and a better angle.
Laying on my belly again, I shift, snapping off little bits of shrubbery to keep me hidden, while allowing my lens an unobstructed view.
I listen to the echoes of muffled voices. I hear the plaintive bark of a dog drifting across the distance and the trilling harmony of insects and birds all around me.
The heat is oppressive. Even out of the sun, under the thick canopy of trees, I’m starting to sweat. I try to ignore it, but the slow, relentless trickle down my temples and between my breasts is annoying.