Epilogue Two
FIFTY YEARS LATER
The quiet sound of the heart monitor beeps steadily in the background, the noise a stark reminder of the inevitable mortality of humans. We are so fragile, even in our younger days when we think ourselves invincible. But I know better than most. There’s no such fucking thing.
Everybody dies eventually.
I’m comfortable in my bed, covered by an array of blankets keeping me warm and cozy during the snowy winter months. And despite the sadness permeating the room, I’m still grateful to be nowhere else but here.
My tired eyes glance around my bedroom, catching glimpses of the family I’ve built over the years, and I wish I could offer them more than these final fleeting moments. But the best I can do is smile in silence.
Eighty-five years is a long time to live. And fuck did I ever live it.
Daphne, my hospice nurse, brings in another vase of flowers and sets it on the credenza next to all the other flower arrangements sent to my home.
I’ve received about a dozen from various organizations and nonprofits I’ve worked with over the years, each blooming with multiple accomplishments I’m incredibly proud of.
I’ve lost track of the number of people we’ve rescued from human trafficking rings in the decades I led the charge. Men, women, children, impoverished countries, war-torn countries and rich countries alike.
The slave trade is still alive and well all over the world.
It’s just conducted in different manners, depending on the resources and corruption of the governments and local authorities.
The poorer the country, the worse the conditions for the victims are.
But it makes eliminating the targets so much easier since no one cares to investigate the slaughter of criminal-run enterprises.
They assume it’s just capitalism taking out its competition.
We could leave a bloodbath in our wake, and the local authorities would just burn the place down and wash their hands of it. But a couple of years to a couple of months later, another group would try their hand in the game and ultimately meet the same fate one way or another.
Unfortunately, it’s impossible to take on every human trafficking ring in existence. Rescue operations are often expensive and exceedingly dangerous and voluminous in numbers. But we did what we could for as long as we could.
We’d organize several charity events every year to increase our sponsors and wealthy donors willing to fund the operations, which also allowed us to develop new technology to assist in prevention, community education, and training for our next set of operatives.
We worked with politicians, police task forces, analysts, and multiple engineers to stay ahead of the game and combat the ever-evolving tactics of the slave trade.
And this time, we did a thorough investigative background check on everyone we worked with, careful not to show too much of our hand to any would-be moles.
It was a long, fulfilling career that had inspired many to follow in my footsteps to help survivors of the slave trade in any way they could.
Marie took on the role I had initially sought when I was in my early twenties, practicing international law to facilitate global collaboration in fighting the human trafficking practices of each country.
She made substantial contributions to the cause, even speaking in front of the United Nations to address the issues of poverty and cultural disparities that impact a region’s susceptibility to human trafficking. I couldn’t be more proud of her.
When I eventually chose to retire from the tactical fieldwork at sixty years old, it was a hard but necessary decision.
I still led the development of extraction strategies and logistics for another twelve years.
After that, I transitioned into a rescue consultant and chose to spend the majority of my time relocating and rehabilitating the survivors for another ten years.
And for the past three years, I’ve been teaching myself how to finally rest in the world I would soon be leaving behind.
And for the most part, I think I did alright.
Lying in my bed, I look out the window into the snowy white winter of December.
Christmas is right around the corner, but I have a feeling I won’t be around to see the holiday this year.
And I’m okay with that. Instead, I focus on all the pictures that decorate my bedroom—family portraits, newspaper articles, awards, snapshots of successful missions, charity events, vacation spots—all beautiful moments captured eternally behind a thin sheet of glass.
So many reminders of happy times in spite of the four most traumatic years of my life.
But they made me who I am today, and after decades of tilting the scale, my light finally outweighs the dark.
From time to time, my mind wanders back to those dark days when my world was ruled by a man born of ruthlessness and merciless brutality. I don’t wander for long, my mental strength so much greater than it was when I first escaped that life.
It’s easy now for me to close the door behind those memories when I want to, no longer plagued by the stickiness of the web I struggled to free myself from.
I’m in control now, and Darren Davis was nothing but a distant thought from another short life.
And I made sure to live my new life to the fullest, spending every precious second with those closest to my heart, especially the ones I had been denied for so long.
Warmth fills my chest as I zero in on the last photo Jason and I had taken together before he passed from heart disease five years ago.
Just a simple family barbecue at our daughter’s house, a perfect way to end another German summer.
And ever since his passing, I was eager to see him again.
Maybe I’ll even find Camaro somewhere out there too.
Losing her was so hard on not only me but also the rest of the family and the team.
She was the best companion a girl could ever ask for.
A sense of heaviness falls over my eyelids, a wave of exhaustion flowing down my spine and filtering into my limbs all the way through to my fingertips.
Upon seeing this, Daphne rises from her seat next to my heart monitor and walks over to my daughter.
Her words are quiet, but I can still hear them.
“She doesn’t have much longer,” she murmurs to her, and Marie nods solemnly.
She then sits closer to my bed and takes my old, withered hand in hers.
“Mom, do you need anything?” she asks me, her eyes glossy with worry.
I memorize her face at this moment. Her strawberry-blond hair has become lighter over the years. Time has written itself into her aging skin, reflecting decades of wisdom and experience that did nothing to diminish how beautiful she still is.
Behind her, my granddaughter Astrid stands by her shoulder, holding her four-year-old daughter, Lila, in her arms. Four generations in one room, all made possible by the actions of one man who raised hell to help rescue me from a life not worth living.
A man who I knew was waiting for me on the other side.
“No, baby,” I whisper, clutching her hand weakly with my own. “I love you all so much, but I’m ready.”
And I am.
She nods as she sniffs back her sorrow, but a single tear still manages to slip down her cheek. I wish I had the energy to say more, but I can feel myself fading with each second that passes.
“We love you so much, Grandma,” Astrid murmurs as she balances Lila on her hip.
I smile in response, too tired to find the words as I glance at my beautiful great-granddaughter.
Astrid's red hair gene skipped a generation, but Lila reclaimed the gift with her gorgeous copper locks braided into little pigtails.
I will miss her terribly. I will miss them all.
At the sound of potential goodbyes, my younger brothers stand with their families, my nieces and nephews clutching their children as they surround my bed.
My son-in-law and grandson-in-law stand beside Marie and Astrid, offering their support and respect.
I was so grateful that my children and grandchildren had found such good men in their lives, that they have partners they can trust to care for them.
Each of them have their own accomplishments and passions, and live their lives exactly how they see fit.
Undoubtedly, I did my job as a parent and grandparent, and now it was time for me to claim the rest I was more than owed.
I’m surrounded by beauty, comfort, and love—everything I need in my final moments. I wanted for nothing.
Exhaling my breath, I feel myself sink further into the covers of my bed, bundled in a comforting warmth that soothes my aching bones. And as the seconds tick by, the pressure accumulated in my joints slowly eases away, my body becoming noticeably lighter with each breath.
After a while, shadows creep into the corners of my vision, the darkness silencing the brilliant colors of the world. It’s a heartening encouragement to close my heavy lids and allow what must come to pass, the sound of the heart monitor alarm growing softer and softer in the background.
As the world fades away, I welcome the silence that lifts me from the human anchors weighing me to the earth for eighty-five long years.
Finally accepting the sweet embrace of death, I happily let go and drift off into the open void above me, peace and serenity reclaiming my eager and weary soul for the rest of eternity.
And then I hear it.
“Hello, princess.”
The End.
Or is it…?