7. Chapter 7 #2
Being a photojournalist is not glamorous.
More often than not, I’m freezing while lying on snow or ice, or I’m dirty and sweaty from crawling around in muck and mud.
I live out of a duffle with two changes of clothes and have slept in places that would make most people cringe.
I spend a lot of time alone, voluntarily traveling to violent countries torn apart by the ravages of war and civil unrest.
On the flip side, I’ve met amazing people and experienced other cultures. I’ve eaten delicious and yes, sometimes unsavory food and had the opportunity to see more of the world than most people ever will.
It might make me sound crazy, but I can’t imagine a better job or a more exciting life.
A convoy of three, shiny black SUVs pulls up, distracting me from my thoughts. Dust swirls in their wake and from beneath their tires as they come to a stop in front of the mansion.
Doors swing open, and twelve heavily armed men spill out from both sides of the vehicles.
The man who exits last is unhurried. From the way he carries himself, the air of arrogance and superiority surrounding him, it’s clear he’s the leader of this villainous-looking posse.
This is a man used to getting whatever he wants.
He’s wearing a suit. And not one off the rack.
It’s obviously expensive, likely custom-made.
His shoes, suit, even his sunglasses—everything about him screams money.
He looks as out of place here as the mansion looming behind him.
Tall and lithe, with jet-black hair and tawny brown skin, he’s stylish and good-looking, despite being a repulsive human trafficker who makes a living buying and selling people.
He buttons his expensive jacket as he glances around, taking in everything around him.
I refocus my lens, zooming in on the unfolding scene and start snapping pictures. The angle of the sun and the dust still lingering in the air creates an ethereal effect, one I take full advantage of.
The suit man’s gangster squad fans out, gathering some of the men, including Hugo, Danny’s contact.
The men are collected and roughly steered at gunpoint into a line on their knees in front of the man in the suit and a few of his goons.
Several of the other gangsters round up a handful of men, who follow them carrying shovels.
The brute squad stops a distance away from the house and orders the men to start digging.
Perhaps out of fear, or maybe because this sort of thing is completely normal for them, everyone who hasn’t been gathered up goes about their business, ignoring the disturbing scene.
Unlike me.
I’m more than a little concerned about the situation developing in front of me, because it’s painfully obvious what’s happening here, and it isn’t good.
Not wanting to run out of film for what’s about to unfold, I reload my camera.
It’s a skill I’ve learned to master in a matter of seconds.
I slip the exposed film into a canister, shove it into one of my pockets, and lift the camera back to my eye.
I watch the man in the suit take his time pacing from one end of the line of kneeling men to the other and back again like an overdressed general addressing his troops.
He’s saying something to them, but from this distance, I can’t hear what it is. He doesn’t appear angry. He isn’t shouting his demands, whatever they might be. But I don’t have to hear the words to know the men are begging for their lives.
Without taking his eyes off the line of hostages in front of him, he stretches out his arm, palm up, and one of his men places a shiny silver gun in it. From here, it looks like either a 9mm or maybe a Desert Eagle.
The man in the suit stands in front of Danny’s contact, pointing the gun at his head. He’s speaking casually, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Danny’s contact violently shakes his head, responding in a rapid string of Spanish I can’t make out.
I zoom in, my shutter firing at the speed of an automatic rifle.
When the first gunshot rings out, I let out an involuntary gasp. Danny’s contact jerks before his body goes limp and crumples to the ground.
Ignoring the pleas for their lives, the man in the suit strolls down the line, pausing only long enough to shoot each man in the head. The gunshots are loud, echoing and hanging in the air. The dirt beneath the men soaking up their blood.
I’ve just witnessed a massacre.
The macabre scene has my heart hammering and adrenaline surging through my veins, but I keep snapping pictures, reminding myself to stay calm and detached.
My camera and I are silent observers, meant to document history. When I’m working, I have to be dispassionate and fight all my instincts to intervene. If I didn’t, I’d never take a single photograph. No proof of the horrors of the world would ever be captured.
It’s the part of the job that makes me appear cold, like I lack empathy or compassion. But staying disconnected, controlling my urge to scream—especially while something like this happens in front of me—is the hardest part of my job.
My shutter rapidly fires as the brute squad drags the bodies to the newly dug trench, carelessly tossing them into the mass grave.
After returning the gun to the man who supplied it, suit man takes several nonchalant steps in my direction.
One, then the other, he gives his cuffs a casual tug and dusts off his lapels with the back of his hands.
He slips off his sunglasses, letting them dangle from his fingertips. I zoom in and snap his picture.
Then, like a shark catching the scent of blood in the water, his eyes travel up the hillside, surveying the area with suspicion.
I risk it, zoom in even closer, and snap another shot.
The savagery in the man’s eyes causes all my muscles to tense. While I’m confident he can’t see me, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle. It’s an instinctive warning of danger I’ve learned to listen to over the years.
With that feeling looming over me, I don’t waste time. When he turns away to talk to one of his men, I carefully crawl backward and hurry back to Danny.
He’s already on his feet, meeting me halfway. “Time to go. I guarantee these guys don’t want to be seen doing what they’re doing. Fuck. He fucking shot Hugo. He shot all of them.” His voice is frantic. “Tell me you got that,” he says as we haul ass back to the car.
“I got that.”
I keep a tight hold on my camera so it doesn’t bounce against me as we run.
Without slowing down, Danny tosses me the keys as we approach the car. “You drive.”
I snatch the keys out of the air with my free hand.
“Any idea who the man in the suit is?” I ask as I yank open the door and slide behind the wheel.
The way my hand’s shaking, it takes a couple of tries to get the key in the ignition and start the engine.
When I do, I stomp on the gas so violently we fishtail, the tires sliding beneath us before they catch and grip, a cloud of dust swirling behind us as I straighten out.
“No, from my angle, I couldn’t get a good look at him. I need to identify that jackboot nazi.” He scrubs a hand roughly over his face. “Fuck. This story just blew wide open and got a whole lot bigger than I thought.”
My camera’s still around my neck, but I don’t take the time to remove it when I tug the seatbelt into place.
“You think he’s Consortium?”
“I don’t know, RJ, but I intend to find out. He might not be in charge, but if he is Consortium, he’s high up the food chain.”
Danny’s so convinced they’re setting up for the auction, he wants to return tonight. He’s more determined than ever to get inside to unearth the big, climactic ending to his story and possibly save some captives in the process.
“Damnit, if we had more time, I could pose as a buyer.”
As we race down the road, I check the rearview mirror over and over to make sure we’re not being followed while Danny’s frantically poking at his phone, working his contacts.
Even though I don’t see anyone behind us, my bad feeling hasn’t dissipated. If anything, it’s gotten worse.
I don’t start to relax until we’re back in the city, and even then, an undercurrent of anxiety continues to flow through me.
Danny’s still working on his phone when we return to the apartment, checking on the vendors from the mansion, trying to find a way inside the “party.”
After removing the film from my camera, I dig in my pack, pull out a padded envelope, and slip all of today’s film canisters inside.
Digital photos can be stored in a variety of places—computers and other devices, the cloud, or thumb drives. But those can all be hacked. Hacking doesn’t exist when you work with film. Besides, film is more authentic and can’t be altered the way digital photos can.
I’ve been robbed while on assignment—losing valuable equipment and weeks’ worth of irreplaceable film. So now, as a precaution, at the end of every day I slip my film canisters into trackable envelopes and mail them home.
Danny shows me a flash drive. “This is a copy of my notes and every interview I’ve done on this story. Just in case.”
His eyes lock on mine, reluctant to hand it over even as I reach to take it from him. After a moment, he gives his head a shake and finally releases it.
He’s never given me his data before, and it tells me he’s concerned too.
The feeling of dread I’ve had all day flares up with a vengeance.