Page 3 of Breaking the Code

Dear Son,

I have come across information that is highly disturbing. Included with this letter are documents and photographs regarding several missing young men and women and the people responsible. Some of these children are as young as twelve or thirteen. They are from countries around the world and are underprivileged and sometimes are homeless or orphaned.

I have found that they are being bought and sold to the highest bidder. I shudder to think what these children are going through. My heart hopes they are going to decent families who only wish to provide them with a home, but I am not that naïve, and my gut refuses to let my heart deny the truth.

I will take this information to the authorities as soon as I post this letter to you, but I don’t know who to trust, so that is why I am sending it to you. I am afraid my discovery of this information has come to the attention of those responsible or in the know. I know I can count on you to get it into the right hands if things go awry.

Dillon, I pray I have not placed you, Cora, and the children at risk, but I couldn’t stand by and let them get away with this depravity.

Your mother and I are looking forward to seeing you all for the holiday. I hope this letter arrives after you have left Scotland for Sweden. I do not wish to tarnish the time I get to spend with the four of you with the sickness contained within these pages.

Your loving father,

Carl.

Looking at the postmark on the inner envelope, the letter, along with all the paperwork before me, went out in the post to my father just days before he, my mum, and sister died. My grandfather, Carl, and grandmother, Arabella, died on the date he mailed the package. A gas main exploded, leveling their home and all the surrounding homes. The explosion took out a city block in every direction, killing my grandparents and many others. I remember the police informing me o’ their deaths as I left my parents’ and sister’s funeral.

It’s been nearly ten years since they died, leaving me alone in the world. The devastation o’ that day lives on inside me. Closing my eyes, I can still feel the rain on my face and smell the wet earth that permeated the air the day o’ my parents’ and sister’s burial.

“Dray, how long have you been home?”

I open my eyes, and my husband stands before me. We got married a few years ago, a small ceremony that a few friends attended since neither Simon nor I had any family.

“Not long,” I tell him.

I’d been out most o’ the day dealing with the running o’ the estate and meeting with local officials about various matters. The death o’ my mother’s father passed the family estate to my mother, and with her passing, it came to me. After Mum’s death, they held it in trust for me until I came o’ age.

Simon comes around the desk, stopping next to me and leaning his ass against it. He peers at all the papers strewn about and asks, “What’s all that?”

“The truth.”

“You’re being cryptic, Dray. What’s going on?” Simon asks.

I’m not sure how to tell him what I’ve discovered or what my grandfather discovered, so I hand him the letter from my grandfather.

I watch him read through document after document, his eyes growing wider and wider with every piece o’ paper he picks up and casts aside. He reads through some o’ them more than once before casting them aside, and he shuffles back through the cast-offs to re-read some o’ them several more times.

Finally, he stops and looks at me.

“Is this saying…”

I nod. “That there’s a secret society o’ wealthy men who traffic drugs, guns, and people and that my family was killed because my grandfather found them out? Yes, that’s what I believe those documents are saying.”

“Bloody hell, love. What are you going to do?”

“What the fuck do ye think I’m going to do, Simon?” I ask incredulously.

He stares at me. Questions bounce around in his eyes until understanding dawns.

Finally, he asks, “You don’t mean…” His question trails off.

I set my jaw, stare up at him, and say, “I’m going to hunt them down. Every last fucking one o’ them, and I’m going to gut them like the pigs they are.”

“Draven…”

“Nae!” I scream. Indignation and agitation boil through me. My blood runs hot through my veins, and I surge to my feet, slamming my fist onto the desk. Pain shears through my arm, pulsing in my wrist. I cannae believe he thinks I can let this go.

“Take a breath,” Simon implores.

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