Officer Diaz paced nervously in the evidence room, Monroe's message playing over in his mind. He'd tried calling the agents phone repeatedly, straight to voicemail every time. The tracking system showed Monroe's last known location on County Road 23, but the signal had gone dark hours ago. This was bigger than a simple arrest gone wrong. People were dying.
Faulner's voice crackled over the radio. Team two, push northeast along the creek bed. Team three, set up containment along the highway. She's out here somewhere. Rusk joined the search, eager for action.
Hey boss, what about that FBI guy? The one who kept calling. taken care of," Faulner replied flatly. "Focus on finding her before she reaches civilization." In the container, Trina finished gathering her essential gear. Everything else would have to be abandoned.
She reached into a hidden compartment and removed a weathered photograph, handling it with unusual gentleness. The image showed a young girl with bright eyes and a gap-toothed smile standing proudly next to a science fair project. Emily Martinez, age 13, last seen at a rest stop just like the one where Trina had been arrested. That case had brought her here, chasing leads that pointed to a trafficking network protected by corrupt law enforcement. Trina's jaw tightened as she looked at Emily's innocent face.
The girl would be 16 now, if she was still alive. All the evidence suggested this region was a major hub for the traffickers, and Faulner was clearly their enforcer. Her expression hardened as she tucked the photo into her vest pocket. Every moment she wasted, that transport truck got further away with its human cargo. She checked her watch.
5:47 a.m. Time to move. The fluorescent lights flickered inside the empty gas station as Trina worked quickly at the manager's computer. Her stolen police credentials had gotten her through the back door, and her signal jammer ensured no alarms would reach dispatch. The morning sun streamed through dirty windows, casting long shadows across the empty aisles. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, accessing the regional security network.
Years of FBI cyber security training had taught her how to navigate these systems blindfolded. The screen filled with camera feeds from every major intersection and business along Highway 15. "Come on, where are you?" she muttered, scanning through hours of footage. Her side throbbed where she'd stitched herself up, but she pushed the pain aside. A flash of black caught her eye.
There, the transport truck, exactly as she remembered it. No plates, heavily tinted windows, custom exhaust stack. She tracked its movement through multiple cameras, watching it turn east onto County Road 86 before disappearing into an industrial zone. The meatpacking plant stood out immediately, officially closed for three years, but satellite imagery showed recent tire tracks and power usage. Perfect cover for trafficking operations, remote location, soundproof walls, cold storage units.
Her jaw clenched as she thought about what might be happening inside. Trina pulled out her burner phone and dialed the FBI's secure line. Three rings, then a click. This is Agent Daniels. Authentication code Sierra 947.
I need immediate backup at the line crackled with static. A distorted voice cut in. Sorry, Agent Daniels. Lines been temporarily disconnected. Her blood ran cold.