vii. Meadow
It's a serial child abduction case that finally brings them together, the kidnappings of fifteen girls ages two to seven years old, one of which is the daughter of a French diplomat. That's what puts Emily on the case. She goes undercover as a human trafficker, a potential buyer of the girl. Definitely not her favorite cover. But she does it, because this is her job and what else does she have?
She's in a seedy dungeon of a D.C. bar wearing a dress that's too tight and perfume that's too heady, smoking a cigar and waiting for her contact to drive her to where the girls are being held, so she can inspect the merchandise. Her contact is a rough middle-aged man who looks like he really enjoys his job. He blindfolds her and guides her to the backseat of his car. He doesn't say anything on the ride to the inspection point, and neither does she.
When the car stops, he helps her out of the car like a gentleman and takes off her blindfold. They're at an underground compound hidden in a meadow, no place for young girls. She saunters in like she owns the fucking place, because that's the only way she can do this job. If she pretends that she has full control of the situation, then maybe she can convince herself and everyone else that she actually does.
"Mademoiselle Evelyne Sauveterre, I presume?" For a human trafficker, Mikhail Katz is surprisingly well-dressed. He's flanked by six men with automatic rifles.
"Oui," she answers with her perfect French accent. "Skip the pleasantries. The girl?"
"How I love a woman who knows what she wants," the scumbag says. She doubts he likes women at all. "You wanted a specific model, which I usually don't allow, but for such a large sum of money as you're offering, I couldn't say no."
"Good. I have plans for the little one," she says and her lips curl into something evil. "A diplomat's daughter can serve helpful purposes."
He leads her down a hall of cages, twenty in total, to the last one where the three year old girl is cowering in the corner on a tiny cot.
"She's fresh and clean for you," Katz announces proudly and unlocks the cage to pull her out into the hall. The girl instantly starts crying. "Usually these are full," he gestures to the other cages, "but not when buyers are here."
The smoke bomb comes first. When she hears his voice – and of course it would be him – she knows that she is well and truly screwed. These men are professional human traffickers. They don't bend to law enforcement interrogation tactics. They take their secrets to the grave.
"FBI! Hands in the air!"
Fourteen girls are still missing. At this rate, secrets wouldn't be the only things going to the grave.