Page 14 of Her Mercenary
How wrong I was.
Days of chasing my fucking tail later, Samantha’s bones were found on the outskirts of a remote village in the Sierra Madre Mountains. No one in the village had reported seeing her or anyone suspicious—though they wouldn’t tell me if they had.
Samantha Greene was officially declared dead by the US government and her case was closed, along with any hope of finding the USB drive.
This is where the story of many missing women end. News of the deceased is delivered to the family. Tears are shed, funerals are held, lives are changed forever. This is where the women become memories, soon to fade into nothing more than the cold black lines of a human trafficking statistic. Soon to be completely forgotten by everyone.
Everyone except me.
Kieran was right. I’d been officially dropped from the case. He was also correct that I was stubborn.
I didn’t believe Samantha was dead, because unfortunately, I knew this story all too well—the real story, I should say. I knew that most of the time, human remains are used as a diversion. Teeth or bones are extracted from the victims, then planted in indiscriminate locations to throw off investigations.
You see, if someone is considered dead, there’s no reason to continue searching for them. The planted bones are intended to erase the victim from society and resurrect them as an identity-less product to be sold and traded for profit. These once active, “normal” members of society become modern-day slaves, forced by torture, fraud, or coercion to engage in commercial sex.
The world has labeled them as dead. However, in reality, the victim is still alive, living a horrific life that only few can imagine.
Seasoning, as it is called, is phase one of the breaking down of the slave. This process serves to recalibrate what the slave once considered life, or freedom. Traffickers use a combination of psychological manipulation, intimidation, gang rape, sodomy, torture, deprivation of food or sleep, isolation, drugs, and threatening or holding hostage something dear to the victim to control them.
The process typically lasts for weeks, for the stronger-willed sometimes longer. The victims are kept in cages, assigned numbers, given dog collars, and treated like animals.
After being seasoned, the victims are transported to various locations around the world to be sold and traded like cattle at a livestock auction. Some are sold to individuals, some to other trafficking groups, and some are sold into organ harvesting—something that I won’t go into here.
Samantha was just one of three women taken in Puerto Vallarta that night, one of twenty-one million victims sold into slavery worldwide, a global business of $150 billion. It’s one of the largest issues facing humanity today. An industry that is primarily run by a rapidly expanding global cartel, one that I had an intimate relationship with.
The Cussane Network (the CUN) was started in Ireland, my homeland, in the late 1970s as a drug cartel. After quickly earning a reputation for their brutal coercion tactics, the CUN expanded into firearms dealing and smuggling, and then into human trafficking, quickly monopolizing the Irish black market. In 1981, the organization branched out to Mexico, where they laid roots, capitalizing on the corrupt political system.
The leader of the CUN was a man named Conor Cussane, son of its founder, Oisin Cussane. While Oisin had been the face of the organization, posing for more than a hundred photos that appeared in the media over the course of his reign, his son, Conor, had been nothing more than a phantom since he took over after his father’s death, ruling the group with an iron fist from behind a wall of protection.
Rumored to rarely leave his South American beachfront mansion, Conor gained the reputation of a brown recluse spider—just as elusive, and just as deadly. This exclusivity, combined with whispers of his rumored good looks, created a sort of mystical allure around him, making him idolized by young and old thugs alike. Some even considered Conor an actual god with supernatural powers.
But, as we know from every Greek tale ever told, every god has a weakness.
Conor’s weakness lay in the USB drive he carried with him—on him—at all times. This drive contained a list of every man, woman, terrorist, head of state, president, senator, governor, priest, and/or chief of police who had ever purchased a drug, gun, or human from the CUN, or had been involved in any way. It was rumored that the list contained the date, time, and location of every transaction on the list. Conor used it for blackmail.
It was, without question, a list that could singlehandedly take down a billion-dollar industry, save millions of lives, and bring closure to thousands of families.
The thing was, Conor Cussane lived almost in total isolation, with only a select few of the most sinister and trustworthy criminals allowed to see him and bear witness to his business dealings. It was rumored that only a dozen people had met the man face-to-face.
Soon to be thirteen.
For fourteen months, I’d been working undercover to help the CUN breach the US border. I’d divulged confidential information, forged paperwork, and laundered money, each questionable undertaking bringing me one step closer to being allowed behind the iron curtain.
Finally, I got my chance.
After securing a transport of slaves into Texas, I received a call from one of Conor’s closest business associates informing me of Conor’s interest in me becoming part of the leadership of the US branch of his business. He requested a meet. I invited him to one of my private residences, offering extended use of the lodge by his men.
I was in.
I’d worked my entire life for this—for coming face-to-face with Conor Cussane. The son of the man who’d killed my mother. The man who carried a single object that could save thousands of lives.
I was so damn close.
The missing American, Samantha Greene, provided the perfect opportunity. She would give me the insight and intel I needed to locate the USB, and I’d save her in the process.
Two birds with one stone.
Problem is, the clock was ticking. In seven days, Samantha and the rest of the slaves would be transported overseas.