Page 70 of Fallen Stars

The further I dig in this case, the more atrocities I unearth. By no means am I an idiot. With the number of missing persons in the area and their ages, I’ve had my suspicions. But hunches are nothing more than persistent gut feelings, and I need concrete proof.

Hundreds of people go missing every year in Washington and Oregon for various reasons. In all my research, the number of disappearances was never this high in such a short period of time. Statistics don’t lie.

Unfortunately, my intuition is spot on with this case. Four words are all it takes for bile to claw its way up my throat. With four words, the horrid truth is validated.

In black and white, the most despicable and degrading phrase stares at me from the screen.

Fresh filets coming soon.

For weeks, I’ve held on tight to the smallest sliver of hope. I’ve said countless silent prayers to whoever listened and beggedfor a simpler outcome than this. In this case, prayers are worthless.

This isn’t a run-of-the-mill transaction. No, this is vile, barbaric and inhumane. A fucking gavel-clapping transaction to the highest bidder. These pieces of shit spend tens of thousands of dollars… to own, enslave and conceal people until they are no longeruseful.

“Fuck…”

I twist in my chair, grab my garbage can and hurl the meager contents of my stomach into the liner. Several minutes pass before my body stops heaving. Straightening in my seat, I take a swig of water from the bottle on my desk, swish it a few times, then spit it in the can.

Capping the bottle, I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose and inhale several cleansing breaths. When the cramps in my stomach ease a little, I turn back to my screens and shut off my emotions.

“This is the only way,” I tell myself in an attempted pep talk. “This is how you bring all these people home.”

I read the thread on the screen again. No definitive date is announced in the conversation, but a vague period in their cryptic language is there for everyone to see.

New deliveries arriving at port daily. Available not long after the gust passes.

“New deliveries” easily translates to the hundreds of abductees. The “port” is wherever they are being held. Those two points are rather obvious, to me at least. The back half of the clue takes reading it several times to decipher. Only someone whose been in this world for a while or with in-depth analytical skills will pick up on the latter.

…not long after the gust passes.

The gust.

August.

In roughly two months, these sick motherfuckers are selling kids to the trashiest humans in existence.

I need to get to them before then. I need to shut this shit down now.

“But how?” I mutter to myself.

The rational part of my mind says I should let Tymber in on the news. Together, we can brainstorm and possibly cut this off sooner rather than later. It’s the right thing to do.

So, of course, I ignore my logical brain. I opt to keep the news to myself and trudge down the darkest path of all. An avenue no one should take alone. An approach that should be met with a team, not one or two people.

Donning my invisible cape, I walk the path of the vigilante.

fall_or_rise39

any chance at sampling the catch before the gust passes?

I close my eyes, inhale deeply and remind myself over and over that this is just a job. All I need to do is meet up with one of these assholes and wiggle my way into their regime. Play the part and I can get these kids back to their families.

hook_n_release_cap

@fall_or_rise39 this is your first time at the market, so you don’t know the rules. To prevent contamination, there are no samples.

“Dammit.”

I shove away from my desk, bring my hands to my face and rub my eyes. Running my hands through my hair, I open my mouth, ready to scream, but am cut off when my computer pings with a new message.

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