“Don’t play stupid. I heard you through the wall. The bidding. How much for the girl?”
The girl’s eyes went wide. Betrayed. She thought I was another buyer. Another monster.
I pulled out my wallet. Showed them the cash. I’d withdrawn fifteen thousand for my brother’s memorial. Burial costs. Hadn’t spent it all.
“I’ve got ten thousand right here. Cash. No questions.”
They looked at each other. Calculating. Was I a buyer? A cop? Something else?
“Why should we trust you?”
“Because I’m standing here with ten grand cash at 3 AM. Because I ride alone. Because I don’t look like a cop.” I paused. “And because that van’s got no plates. You’re running. Something went wrong. You need cash fast and you need to move faster.”
I was guessing. But their faces told me I was right.
“Where you taking her?”
“Denver,” one said. The others glared at him. He’d said too much.
They hesitated. Ten thousand cash right now versus the risk of driving to Denver with a girl who’d already tried to escape at least once based on the bruises.
“Let’s see the cash.”
I counted it out. Slowly. Making sure the girl saw. Making sure she understood I was buying time, not buying her. But she didn’t know that. She just stared at the money with dead eyes.
“Deal,” the leader said. He grabbed the cash. “She’s yours. But word of advice—keep her drugged. She’s a runner.”
They walked away. Got in the van. Drove off. I memorized what I could. White Ford Transit. 2018 or 2019. Dent on the left side. Broken taillight.
Then I turned to the girl.
She backed away. “Don’t touch me.”
“You just bought me.”
“No. I just got you away from them.” I pulled out my phone. “I’m calling 911.”
“No!” She lunged forward. Tried to grab my phone. “No police!”
“Why not?”
“Because they’ll send me back! To the group home! That’s where they took me from! That’s where this started!”
I lowered the phone. “Tell me what happened.”
Her name was Macy. Sixteen years old. Been in foster care since she was eight. Bounced between homes. Last one was a group home in Kansas City. Seventeen girls. Two adults supervising. One of those adults was selling the girls.
“Mrs. Patterson,” Macy said. Her voice was flat. Dead. “She’s been doing it for years. Takes the troublemakers. The ones nobody cares about. The runaways. Sells us to truckers. To men with vans. To whoever has cash.”
“The police—”
“Won’t believe me. I’m a foster kid with a drug problem. She’s a respected child care professional. Who do you think they’ll believe?”
She had a point. I’d seen it before. System protecting its own.
“The tracks on your arms,” I said. “They mentioned that.”
Macy pulled up her sleeves. Track marks. Fresh and old. “Mrs. Patterson got me hooked. Said it would make the work easier. Said I’d fight less.” Tears started falling. “I’ve been clean for three days. Since I ran. But they caught me at a truck stop in Topeka. Been passing me around since then.”
Three days. This sixteen-year-old had been trafficked for three days across multiple states and nobody had noticed.
“You said your mom’s looking for you.”
“I lied. My mom’s dead. OD’d when I was seven. That’s why I went into foster care.”
“Other family?”
“Nobody.”
Of course. That’s how they picked victims. No one to miss them.
I looked at this kid. Sixteen. Addicted. Trafficked. No family. No hope. The system had failed her at every turn.
“What’s your full name?”
“Macy Rodriguez.”
“Macy, I’m going to help you. But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
She laughed. Bitter. “Trust a biker who just paid ten grand for me? Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m about to cut those zip ties. Give you my phone. Let you call whoever you want. And if you want to run, I won’t stop you.”
I pulled out my knife. She flinched.
“I’m just cutting the ties.”
I cut them off. Handed her my phone. “Call whoever you trust most.”
She stared at it. “I don’t have anyone.”
“Then let me call someone who can help.”
I called Luther. My club’s lawyer. Woke him up at 3 AM.
“Luther, I need help. Human trafficking situation. Got a sixteen-year-old victim. Need safe placement. Need someone who can handle this properly.”
Luther was silent for ten seconds. Then: “Where are you?”
I told him.
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