She recognized that voice. Deputy Rusk. Someone at the bureau was feeding them information. Her own agency had been compromised. Back at the sheriff's station, Officer Diaz stood in the doorway of Rusk's office, holding a print out of the fake suicide note.
"This is wrong," Diaz said, his voice steady despite his racing heart. "We both know she didn't write this." Rusk's face darkened as he stood up from his desk. "You need to learn when to shut your mouth, rookie. I'm calling internal affairs.
This whole department needs Rusk's fist connected with Diaz's stomach before he could finish. The younger officer doubled over as Rusk grabbed him by the collar. You ain't calling nobody, Rusk snarled, dragging Diaz down the hallway. They reached a storage room filled with old files and equipment. Take some time to think about your career choices.
The door slammed shut. The lock clicked. Diaz pounded on the metal surface, but the soundproofed room swallowed his shouts. Miles away at an isolated stretch of highway, Deputy Faulner stood over the body of the transport truck's driver. The man had outlived his usefulness.
Loose ends needed tying up. Faulner wiped his knife clean and took the keys from the dead man's pocket. The truck's cargo was secure in the meatpacking plant's cold storage. Seven girls, all under 15, drugged and ready for processing. The buyers were already lined up.
Money transferred through offshore accounts. Everything was falling into place except for one loose end named Trina Daniels. Back at the gas station, Trina accessed a different system, the surveillance drone network used by local news stations. She'd borrowed the login credentials during her initial undercover work. The drones provided real-time aerial coverage of major roads and infrastructure.
She guided one of the drones toward the meatpacking plant, keeping it high enough to avoid detection. The thermal imaging showed multiple heat signatures inside the building, small clusters that didn't move like adults. Her stomach turned. A black SUV appeared on the feed, driving up the plant's access road. The vehicle stopped and a familiar figure stepped out.
Deputy Faulner, still in uniform, carrying a briefcase. He walked with the confidence of someone who owned the place. Because he did. Trina zoomed the camera in, recording everything. Faulner unlocked the main entrance and disappeared inside.
Minutes later, lights came on in the administrative section. Through the windows, she could see him laying out papers on a desk, making calls, running his operation like any other business. "Got you," she whispered, saving the footage to a secure cloud server. "This wasn't just a corrupt cop taking bribes or providing protection. Faulner was the mastermind, using his badge and department resources to run a sophisticated trafficking ring.
The security cameras showed more vehicles arriving, expensive cars with tinted windows, buyers coming to inspect the merchandise. Trina's hands shook with rage as she watched men in suits being escorted inside by armed guards. She checked her weapons and ammunition one last time. The Glock felt heavy against her hip, loaded with hollow points. A backup piece was strapped to her ankle.