Chapter Eight
I dismiss the meeting from my mind, wanting to get back to what is on my agenda today;
going through the intel we’d recovered during the mission.
When I return to my office, Gunner heads to his bed in the corner. I give him a couple of rawhide bones and some fresh water, then settle into my seat at my desk.
My mind, of course, drifts back to Allee. I have two framed pictures of her on my desk: one of us together and the other of just her, standing on some rocks in Mexico with the turquoise water behind her and smiling that drop-dead gorgeous smile of hers.
I don’t really like the idea of pretending that she’s dead. I’ve been spending every day since the attack talking myself out of panic attacks and dread by reassuring myself that she’s not going to die and will wake up soon. The thought of this ruse – that she’s dead – makes it feel a little too real for me.
But, I can both understand and appreciate what it is they’re trying to do, and I’m not going to be the reason it fails. There are not a lot of people out there who even knew Allee and I were a thing, so I don’t foresee it being too hard to go with the plan.
I push the entire subject out of my mind for the time being, knowing that I have to get to the work that’s in front of me. I’m already behind thanks to Beckett’s stupid meeting, and I need to focus and get down to business.
There are several files next to my computer, and I’m filled with both anticipation and anxiety. For the side of me that’s hoping against hope that I’m going to find a clue as to where my sister is, there’s another side of me that’s scared of what I’m going to find. I’m sure that’s mostly due to the already high level of anxiety I’m feeling about Allee’s situation and my psyche is in protective mode.
I’ve never found any definitive clues indicating if Libby is alive or where she might be. There’s been a lot of speculation on my part, and maybe that’s more like a tiny ray of hope peeking out of the darkness to keep me going. It feels like I get close, and then someone yanks the rug out from under me, and I have to go back to square one.
I start with the usual information—the cash collected, the drugs found, stolen items, and similar. But then I brace myself and dive into the victim inventory notebook. We call it the “Cartel Catalog,” and it’s not pretty.
Often human trafficking between cartels is done the same way anyone dealing with livestock or animals handles their business. Those who are trafficked are taken into whatever location the cartel uses for such things, and the person is then assessed to determine what purpose they’re going to serve based on their age, health, compliance with authority, etc.
Their basic information is put on paper, along with their new name, and more often than not, they are branded – usually tattooed – with the Cartel symbol that owns them. The things those people are then subjected to range from domestic servitude and sex work – to forced criminality and organ harvesting.
Face after terrified face looks back at me as I look through the photos. There’s a variety of people and purposes for their exploitation. There are men and women as well as boys and girls. The statistics I’m privy to make me sick to my stomach while my blood boils. It’s a global issue and Mexico has one of the highest rates in the world, but because of corruption and massive under-reporting, we don’t have a handle on actual stats. Our joint task force focuses on the U.S. and Mexico because of where we’re based – at the Naval Special Warfare Command in Coronado – which is close to the border.
Over the last several years, with a wide-open border, human trafficking has exploded in growth, especially as the Cartels realized they could profit from being “coyotes” – smuggling immigrants across the border – and charge exorbitant fees to desperate people hoping for a new life. It’s a multi-billion dollar industry, third only to drugs and weapons trafficking. Four-hundred-fucking-thousand. That’s the estimated number of people trafficked in the States.
As I look through this particular Cartel Catalog that we recovered from our recent mission, I realize that it’s going to be tough to find any clues about my sister because she was taken nearly two decades ago, which would make her 32 now.
That doesn’t mean I’ll never run across her. It’s just going to be tricky. Whenever men, women, or children are transported, sold, or leased to another branch of a Cartel, paperwork follows. I was shocked to find out that its a surprisingly sophisticated business. It really is like modern-day slavery. Most U.S. citizens have no idea about the underworking of this industry.
It’s sickening.
So, if Libby were to be moved from one point to another, or if someone were to purchase her – a thought that kills me – then there should be a paper trail to follow.
She will have been given a new name and recognizing her may be difficult after all these years. Even as a child, she was a carbon copy of our mother, so it should be safe to say that she could very well resemble our mother today.
I have no way of knowing what she’d weigh, whether her hair is long or short, or even if her hair is the same sandy blonde color it was when she was little. There are so many different factors to consider.
Of course, there are things that could potentially affect the way Libby would look now, depending on what her purpose or trade has been. I pray she wasn’t forced into sex work. That would kill my parents and me.
With JTF: Liberation, we will do everything in our power to liberate all of the victims we find in the files we recover, but it’s frustrating to me personally that I have no real way of knowing if any of them are truly my sister.
I go about the tedious work of separating out the victims based on geographic location and Cartel ownership and entering their information into our database. It’s work that I have to separate myself from emotionally because it’s too heartbreaking to allow my mind to go there – into their nightmares and the anguish of the families affected. I have to compartmentalize it, much like physicians and nurses have to do when they see so much death and illness.
When I’m successful at separating myself from it, it’s fairly mindless, monotonous work that takes my mind away from Allee’s situation, so that helps. I’m in the zone and making steady progress, until I turn to the last page of the particular catalog I’m currently working on.
My breath catches and my heart stops.
In the center of that page is a series of photos of a scared-looking woman who appears to be in Libby’s age range today. Not only does her age range appear right, but she also has dirty blonde hair and blue eyes.
She has to be American. There certainly aren’t very many blue-eyed blondes that are native Mexican citizens. This woman very well could be my sister.
My thoughts are pinging all over the place. I clench my fists, my heart starts to race, and my palms grow sweaty. I know it’s a reaction to what I’m seeing. It’s something I’ve talked about with my therapist, and I know what’s happening, but I still wish I could control it. I take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. My hands are still trembling but I’m getting a hold of the stress response.
I’ve based so much of my life and my career on looking for Libby. And that’s only because I have refused to accept the fact she could be dead. There are probably people who think I’m crazy. I know it’s akin to looking for a needle in a haystack but clinging to the belief that she’s still alive is the fuel I need to keep going.
She was so young when she was taken, and there wasn’t ever any evidence found that would indicate she’d been killed. There wasn’t a body or any material evidence recovered from the scene, and honestly, with how common human trafficking is in Mexico, I know the case didn’t get the attention it deserved.
I feel something cold and wet pushing against my arm, and I look down to find Gunner nudging me with his nose. It brings me back to the moment, and as I run my hand over his head and squeeze one of his ears, he puts his paw on my knee. This is just one of many reasons why I love my service dog.
“Sorry, boy,” I tell him. “I just got lost in my own head there for a minute. I’m okay.”
He thumps his tail on the floor, and I pet him for another moment before turning my attention back to the file and the computer in front of me.
I don’t know if the woman in the photo is my sister, but I can’t deny the reaction I had when I saw her face. I know that I should pay attention to those feelings from deep down. There’s something to be said for gut instincts.
My first thought is to call my mother and talk to her, but I’ve long since decided I need to wait until I know more. I watched the way losing my sister nearly killed both my parents. I’m not going to put my mother in a position where she’s given false hope.
I calmly get up from my desk and head to the work room to make photocopies of the pictures and the bio that’s included.
The bio contains little helpful information, considering it leaves out her age, acquisition details, and past.
But, it does give me her assigned name, as well as a location, presumably the location of her “employer” – though “owner” is probably the more accurate term. I’m going to pass both along to Cruz and see what he can come up with as well as prepare my team for another mission.
After that morning, I’m a little wary over how a mission will be taken by those in charge if I’m going after one single woman, so I’m hoping that there’s more to the location that we uncover. But I’m the first to argue that even a single person is enough to warrant the work we’re doing, though I’m not sure I can get Beckett to agree with that, considering his implication that I have ulterior motives.
I know the Commander put him in his place, but I also know how it works with men like Beckett, and that he could only be behaving for now.
I head back to my desk and lay the folder down, exhaling fully.
My mind goes back to Allee, and I’m filled with a surge of energy. I can’t give up hope. I have to stay strong and hold onto the belief that not only will I find my sister, but that the love of my life is going to wake up, and things are going to be okay.
It’s been almost a week since I’ve been back at the hospital, and I’m itching to get down there. It’s only an hour from where I’m at, but I’ve been forcing myself to stay put and focus on the task at hand unless I hear from Camilla.
I told her I would be back to see how Allee is doing by the end of the week and I’m looking forward to being able to see her again with my own eyes.
Camilla texted me – shocker – that the swelling has gone down in her face, and her other injuries are healing, too. So I imagine she’s looking a lot more like the Allee I know and love, and it’s giving me hope that she’s going to wake up at some point.
When I get back to the office, I’ll put the files in my backpack. I’ll send copies to the appropriate parties, then I’ll make sure I can step back from this whole thing for a few days and head back down to visit Allee.
I’m not sure how Camilla will take it when I get back, and I’ve wondered if she thinks I’m really not going to come back. I’m okay with doing the work to prove her wrong.
Alejandra is the love of my life, and even with the other things I have going on, she is the reason I have to get up in the morning. She’s my everything, and I don’t care how many times I have to make the trip. One of these days, she’ll be awake and waiting for me.
“Are you ready to leave, buddy?” I ask Gunner. He wags his tail, and I grab my things.
He follows me as I head out of the office, and I remind myself that even with how challenging our mission goals sometimes seem—in terms of making an impact or even reducing the sheer number of victims—each person we save is another victory in the grand scheme of things.
Even if that woman in the photo isn’t my sister, she deserves to be liberated.
And that’s exactly what we’re going to do.