TRAFFICKED: A Mex Anderson Novel Read online

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  TRAFFICKED

  Peg Brantley

  Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright ©2017 by Peg Brantley

  Cover design by Patty G. Henderson, Bouelvard Photografica

  Edited by Peggy Hageman

  Formatted by LiberWriter and Patty G. Henderson

  Author’s photo by Kelly Weaver Photography

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, electronic sharing of any part of this book without the express permission of the author constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author through her website, www.pegbrantley.com

  ISBN (electronic version): 978-0-9853638-6-4

  ISBN (trade-paperback): 978-0-9853638-7-1

  Other Books by Peg Brantley

  Aspen Falls Thrillers:

  Red Tide

  The Missings

  Mex Anderson:

  The Sacrifice

  For the men and women who work ceaselessly to stop human trafficking in its tracks, and for those who strive to bring a measure of hope to its victims.

  And always, for George.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  Author Notes

  RESOURCES

  Acknowledgments

  3,287 people are reported sold or kidnapped and forced into slavery every day. That’s almost 137 people an hour. More than 2 people every minute. Reported. What about those who aren’t?

  —Statistics from Force4Compassion

  CHAPTER ONE

  JAYLA

  Mama dumps her cup of instant coffee, laced with whatever booze she had on hand this morning, into the sink. “Jayla, I need you outta here by eight tonight.”

  A few years ago she would’ve just told me to shut my door and be quiet when she had a boyfriend over. At least then I could do my homework. Now she sees me as competition.

  “Where am I s’posed to go?”

  “Don’t matter. Just want you gone by eight.”

  “Until?”

  “Don’t mess with me, girl.”

  “Fine.”

  “You gone then?”

  “I’m gone.”

  Mama looked at me. “You know I love you, right?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Mama does her best. Most of the time, anyway. She feeds me and clothes me except when she doesn’t. Her focus has always been men and she only feels like she’s worth something if she’s got a man in her life.

  Me she could do without some days. It isn’t exactly that she resents my mind and desire to learn, it’s more that she doesn’t understand it. To her way of thinking my common sense is about as abysmal as my daddy’s and she never fails to remind me of that fact whenever the opportunity arises.

  I’ve seen my daddy exactly four times in my whole life. As a little girl, I pretended he had a very important job that kept him away from Denver for years at a time, and when he could come home, I was the draw. Not Mama or any cash she might happen to be flush with at the moment. He always brought me a stuffed animal of some kind. The last time I saw him, when I was thirteen, I gave it back to him and told him to keep up. I wasn’t ten anymore. I think he got the message.

  Because I want to keep Mama happy and make her proud of me, I do my best not to sound “white” when I’m around her. And I sure don’t talk about a new concept I recently read about or some story that touched my heart with pure light. I talk about clothes and current music and what I need to pick up at the grocery store to fix the little kid’s meals over the next week. What for Mama is normal and easy to wrap her head around.

  On my way to the school bus stop I watch a gust of wind pick up a piece of trash and toss it down the street. The crumpled paper hits the pavement and skitters, wearing a little of it away with each contact. I feel like that every day. It’s like I work toward this one life and then a gust of wind comes along and pushes me towards another one, scraping off a part of me every time. Sometimes I wonder what will happen when my bone is exposed. Is that when I die?

  So where am I going to sleep tonight? I have a couple of friends I can check with. Trouble is, their families have as many issues, or more, than mine. I’ll give Chris a call. Since he got his own place he’s let me sleep on his couch a couple of times. I’ll stay there if he’ll let me.

  * * *

  “We’ll be square then, right? I won’t owe you anything? You’ll leave me and my family alone?”

  “That’s the deal.”

  Chris hung up the phone. He couldn’t believe his good luck. Just when it looked as if his days, hours really, were numbered, his luck had turned around. Who said being nice didn’t pay? He’d let Jayla crash on his couch before when she had no
where else to go. And tonight she’d be here again.

  He knew better than to believe what he’d been told about why they wanted a girl—that they were engaging in a college prank—but he wasn’t in a position to ask too many questions. And honestly, he didn’t want to think about it too much. Jayla would probably be pissed at him for sure, but eventually she’d get over it. Instead of thinking how scared shitless she’d be, he concentrated on how years from now they’d share a laugh.

  And in the meantime his gambling debt would be paid and he could get on with his life.

  * * *

  “Thanks, Chris. I mean it.” I stow my backpack at the end of the couch that is my bed away from bed.

  “No probs. What are friends for?” Chris grabs a dishcloth and wipes down countertops that already look pretty clean to me.

  “Is everything okay? Do you want to talk about something?” I ask him as he rubs away at the shining surface and doesn’t once look at me.

  “Nah. I’m cool. I imagine it’s an okay thing to be away from your moms for a while. Am I right?”

  I think about this and wonder how much Chris suspects. Why is he asking this now? I don’t want him, or anyone, to think badly about my mom. At the same time, it’s clear she’s the reason I have to find someplace else to sleep. “Even when you love someone, short breaks can be a nice thing.”

  “That whole absence makes the heart grow fonder thing? Or is it that your mom’s heart is aimed in another direction?”

  “Don’t be mean.”

  “Sorry. My bad.” Now he grabs a pan he’s already washed and puts it in the sink, adds dish soap, and starts washing it again, still not looking at me. Something’s not right.

  “What’s up, Chris?”

  He gives the pan a final rinse and puts it back on the towel to drain. “You caught me. A friend of mine is coming by later and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

  Heat flames my face. “Oh, uh… I’m sorry. I don’t want to mess up your plans. I can—”

  “No, no. Not that kind of friend. Just a guy. He wants to hang out while his wife has her girlfriends over to talk about books or something.”

  “Books? A book club? You know I love to read. Do they live around here? Maybe I could join.”

  “Maybe not books. Maybe only girlfriend shit.” Chris opens his refrigerator and stares into it. “I’ve gotta go get some beer.” He closes the door and looks at me. “You cool if I leave?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Cool then.” He picks up his keys and looks back at me. “See you in a few. If he gets here before I’m back, let him in.”

  “No probs.”

  I’ve known Chris all my life. He lived in the building next to mine. He graduated high school last year, has a great job repairing computers, his own place, and is attending night classes at Metro.

  Something is bothering him. I can tell.

  Is he feeling put out because I’m sleeping on his couch? Surely he knows I’d do the same for him if I could. I’ll pin him down when he gets home with the beer. I’m sure we can work it out.

  I spread my homework over the coffee table in front of the couch. There’s a science test tomorrow and I have to get better than just a passing grade to keep my average up. Science isn’t my best subject… unless it involves science fiction and then I’m all in. But tomorrow is all about protons, neutrons, and electrons in the real world, not a story world. Too bad.

  The clock on the stove says forty minutes have passed. Where’s Chris? Where was he going for the beer? Did he get mugged or something? Horrible images pass through my head.

  I grab my backpack and head to the door.

  The buzzer rings. Maybe Chris forgot his keys.

  “You were starting to scare me,” I say into the intercom.

  “Excuse me? I’m here to see Chris Wilson. He’s expecting me.”

  “Oh, sorry. Yeah, come on up.” I press the button that opens the entrance door for the building.

  Where’s Chris? He only went out for beer. It’s not like him to be gone this long, especially when he has a friend coming over.

  I dig my phone out of my backpack just as there’s a knock.

  “Hi, come on in,” I say to the rough looking man standing in the doorway. I’m surprised at his appearance and the fact he’s so much older than my friend. “I’m trying to find out what’s going on with Chris.” I punch in the speed dial number and then turn away to better hear when he answers the phone.

  “Hey, it’s me—” I’m aware of a sweet-smelling cloth pressing up against my nose and mouth and there’s something dark covering my head. “Chris!” My cry is muffled in the cloth.

  “Hines would control his victim through beatings and through the use of drugs,” the district attorney’s office said in a news release Thursday. “At one point, Hines, who was in a halfway house, traded his victim to a pimp in Fort Collins so she could continue to support him while he was in custody.”—Denver man gets 24 years in prison for sex trafficking in metro-area hotel rooms, by Jesse Paul, for The Denver Post, December 15, 2016

  CHAPTER TWO

  JAYLA

  I wake up to a mantra in my brain. This isn’t good. This isn’t good. This isn’t good.

  My arms are folded in such a way that I can feel my heartbeat. If this isn’t good, why is my heartbeat so steady?

  The floor beneath me is cold and hard. A blanket has been thrown over me that stinks of body odor and urine and scratches my skin when my breathing causes it to shift.

  Maybe the urine smell is mine. Please God, don’t let it be mine.

  Why is my heart rhythm so steady? I’m scared out of my fuckin’ mind and my heart should be beating out of my chest.

  When I try to change position my head screams out with the worst headache I’ve ever known.

  What’s happening to me?

  Lying here isn’t going to get me any answers. I throw the blanket off and rise slowly to a sitting position, focusing on my lap while I wait for the dizziness to pass. Feeling more settled, I raise my head and look around. I’m in a corner of a windowless room.

  The floor, walls, and ceiling are all cement. A bare bulb hanging on a wire overhead doesn’t cast enough light to illuminate the corners. But over there, across the room from me, I can make out a foot.

  I’m not alone!

  “Hey.” Even speaking softly sends a shard of pain through my skull. “Hey,” I try louder, ignoring the agony. The foot doesn’t move.

  From another corner, a man comes toward me out of the shadows and I instinctively go quiet.

  This isn’t good.

  He takes a long look at me and leaves through a door I hadn’t noticed before.

  A minute later a woman rushes into the room carrying a bag or duffle of some sort. “Well, Jayla Imani Thomas, I see you’ve decided to join us.”

  How does she know my name? I remain silent, but can’t help looking at the foot in the corner across from mine. Is that Chris? Is he dead?

  As if reading my mind, the woman takes my hand. “Jayla, don’t worry about the others in this room. They are safe, as safe as you are.” She opens the bag which I can now see is a medical kit. “I’m going to take a few vitals to confirm you’re in decent health and unharmed. Relax, this won’t take long.”

  I stiffen involuntarily at her words. The man I’d seen is now standing, blocking the light, and holding a camera.

  What the hell is going on?

  “Move, asshole. I can’t see what I’m doing.” The woman’s tone is sharp, different from the gentle way she’s speaking to me. Is this something I can work with? My brain clears and I realize what a foolish thought that is.

  My clearing brain brings paralyzing fear. This is real, not a movie.

  The pungent odor of visceral fear is enough to send me into a gagging fit, but I manage to swallow it down. Focus. Pay attention. Figure out how to get out of here.

  She takes my temperature and records it in a thick note
book. How many people are represented in those pages? Then she puts a cuff on my arm to get my blood pressure, and after that I peek through half-closed eyes while she draws enough blood to fill three vials.

  The woman reaches out to touch my shoulder, almost like she’s asking for permission. Sneaky bitch. “Jayla, honey? Can you hear me?”

  Instinctively I start to clench my hands into fists but stop before it happens. I force a shallow nod. An arm wraps around me.

  “You’re safe, Jayla. You’re safe.”

  Safe? I’ve dealt with Mama and her boyfriends and her booze and her drugs. Dealt with uncertainty and rejection. Yet I’ve never felt less safe or more confused. And completely vulnerable.

  This isn’t good.

  “How did I get here?”

  The woman ignores me.

  “How did I ge—”

  “You feel safe, don’t you Jayla?” The woman’s voice has a hard edge to it.

  I shrug and dip my head.

  “Excellent. I’ve got new clothes for you. Do you like clothes?”

  “Uh-huh.” Heaven help me if she knows I’m lying.

  “Very well. I’ll have your new clothes brought to you.” She fishes in her pocket and presents a pill and a cup of water. “This will help you continue to feel safe. Take it for me, will you? I don’t want you to be afraid.”

  Now I have an idea why my heart rate is so steady. Drugs.

  I want to ask where I am. I want to ask why I’m here. I want to ask about Chris. I want to ask when I can leave.

  I know I can’t ask any of these questions.

  The pill slips easily into the outside of my gum. I swallow the water and hand the woman the empty cup. “Thank you,” I manage.

  She smiles at me. “That’s a girl. Someone will be here to pick you up soon. Be sure and have your new clothes on.”

  When she leaves I pop the pill out of my mouth and stick it in my own pants pocket. Will I be able to keep my old clothes? Who knows? Probably not. I might not be able to figure out what drug they’re giving me, but it’s clear it’s to keep me calm. Sedated even.