In her vest pocket, Emily Martinez's photo seemed to burn against her chest. A reminder of what happened when these monsters went unchecked. The signal jammer beeped, warning her that police frequencies were active nearby. Search teams were sweeping this area now, working their way systematically from the station. She'd stayed in one place too long.
Trina wiped the computer's logs and gathered her gear. Through the gas station windows, she could see dust kicked up by approaching vehicles. Time to disappear again. But now she had what she needed. Proof of Faulner's operation and its location.
The drone feed continued streaming to her phone as she slipped out the back door. On the screen, another black SUV pulled up to the plant. More suits, more guards, more lives being destroyed. While the world looked away, the diesel engine rumbled as Trina guided her semi-truck down the empty industrial road. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cracked pavement, and the meatpacking plant's rusty sign creaked in the wind.
Her truck, once just cover for surveillance, now served a different purpose. She'd reinforced the front bumper with steel plates and filled the trailer with tactical gear. Parked in a secluded spot half a mile from the plant, Trina methodically prepared her equipment. The bulletproof vest felt familiar against her skin as she secured the straps. Memories of her Army Ranger days flooding back.
She checked each smoke grenade twice, arranging them on her belt for quick access. The suppressed Glock slid smoothly into her thigh holster. This ends today," she whispered, touching Emily Martinez's photo one last time before tucking it away. Her mind drifted back to three months ago when the operation first started. The FBI had solid intel about girls disappearing along I-7, but every time they got close, the traffickers seemed to vanish.
Now she knew why. The memory made her blood boil. The transport will hit the rest stop at 0200, Agent Monroe had said, pointing at the map in their mobile command center. We'll have teams here, here, and here. But the truck never showed.
Instead, state troopers flooded the area, forcing their surveillance teams to pull back. The same pattern repeated for weeks, their targets always one step ahead. Someone's feeding them information, Trina had insisted. We need to go dark. Run this off books.
Monroe agreed and they set up the trucker cover story. But even that had been compromised. The mole ran deeper than they'd imagined all the way to the FBI's regional office. Every move they made, Faulner knew about it first. Inside the meatpacking plant, screams echoed through the cold storage area.
Faulner stood over a teenage girl, maybe 14, who'd tried climbing through a ventilation shaft. Her lip was split, eyes swollen shut. "You think you can just walk away?" he snarled, grabbing her hair. "After what I paid for you," the girl whimpered as he dragged her back to the holding area. Other girls pressed themselves against the walls of their cells, trying to become invisible.
Faulner's phone buzzed. Another buyer wanting to inspect the merchandise. Back in her truck, Trina set up her laptop and connected to a secure satellite uplink. The camera's red light blinked on recording her face in the dim cabin. My name is Special Agent Trina Daniels, FBI Undercover Operations, she began, her voice steady.