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.
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.
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.