Tears in the darkness, p.24
Tears in the Darkness, page 24
The map showed Los Angeles County overlaid with circles of varying intensity—red for frequent presence, yellow for occasional, green for single pings. Most of the activity clustered in downtown LA, but there were those anomalous yellow spots near the coast.
“San Pedro,” Finch said, zooming in. “Not just San Pedro. The ports.”
The realization hit Izzy like ice water. “They’re shipping them out. Container ships.”
“It’s a massive area. Two separate ports technically—Port of Los Angeles and Port of Long Beach.” Finch pulled up statistics on another screen. “Combined, they’re the ninth busiest container port complex in the world. Twenty-five percent of all U.S. container traffic. Thousands of containers move through daily.”
“Another needle in a haystack.”
“Enormous haystack,” said Finch. “The ports cover 10,700 acres combined. That’s approximately 16.7 square miles of terminals, channels, and rail yards.”
“But we can narrow it down. Look for ships heading to Dubai.”
Finch worked the keyboard. “Multiple vessels would have Dubai as an eventual destination. It’s a major transshipment hub. Cargo going anywhere in the Middle East, South Asia, or East Africa might route through Jebel Ali Port.” She pulled up more statistics. “It’s the ninth busiest container port globally, handling over 14 million TEUs annually.”
“TEUs?”
“Twenty-foot equivalent units. Standard measurement for container capacity.”
Izzy pressed her palms against the desk. “We need to think like a trafficker. You want to move human cargo illegally. Multiple ports mean multiple chances for inspection, discovery. You’d want the most direct route possible.”
“Minimize exposure.” Finch said. “Looking for direct service from LA to Dubai.”
The screen populated with shipping lines and schedules. Most showed multiple stops—Hong Kong, Singapore, Colombo. But one stood out.
“Here,” Finch said. “Pacific Direct Lines. They run a premium express service. Los Angeles to Jebel Ali, no intermediate ports. It’s marketed to high-value, time-sensitive cargo.”
“How long is the journey?”
“Twenty-eight days.” Finch clicked through to the schedule. “Departs Port of Los Angeles every second Friday.”
The words hung in the air for a moment before their significance registered.
“That’s today,” Izzy said. “Or last Friday?”
Finch clicked through to the Port of Los Angeles loading schedule. “The port operates twenty-four hours, but most commercial departures happen during daylight hours for safety and efficiency. If it hasn’t left yet, it will soon.”
“We need to go.” Izzy was already moving, snatching up her phone. “Now.”
“The port is thirty miles from here. Friday traffic starts early.”
“Then we’d better move fast.” Izzy grabbed her blazer from the back of the chair. “Bring your tablet.”
Finch unplugged the device from its charging cable. “I always do.”
They moved through the FBI building with purpose but not panic. Drawing attention would only slow them down. In the elevator, Izzy’s mind catalogued what they’d need—port authority cooperation, probable cause for a search, backup if they actually found something.
“We should contact port police,” Finch said, apparently following the same mental checklist.
“All we have is a theory and a company name.”
“It’s a logical theory based on available data.”
“Logic doesn’t get us through port security or onto a ship.”
“But it might get them thinking.”
Izzy nodded. “Then call them.”
They emerged into the parking garage. Izzy’s SUV sat where she’d left it hours ago, though it felt like days. The engine started immediately, and she navigated out into the Los Angeles afternoon.
“Pull up the Pacific Direct Lines website,” she said, merging onto the 10 freeway. “Find their terminal location, berth numbers, anything useful.”
Finch’s tablet screen reflected off the passenger window. “Vessel name is the MV Jade Phoenix. Container capacity 8,500 TEUs. Status says it’s at dock and loading.”
Chapter
Thirty-Three
Finch made the call as Izzy merged onto the 405 south. The Port of Los Angeles lay somewhere ahead, thirty miles of freeway between them and a ship that might hold at least one young woman who didn’t belong there.
“LA Port Police, dispatch.” The voice in her ear sounded tired.
“This is Special Agent Olivia Finch, FBI Los Angeles Field Office.” She kept her tone flat, factual. “Badge number seven-four-nine-two-eight. We have a potential human trafficking situation involving vessel MV Jade Phoenix. Currently en route to your location.”
“Copy that. Can you provide details?”
“Container ship operated by Pacific Direct Lines. Request immediate verification of vessel status and dock location.”
“Stand by.”
Finch lowered the phone, pulling her tablet from her bag. The screen illuminated with pending notifications—the GPS warrant approval had triggered automatic data retrieval. Files were downloading, percentages ticking upward.
“Historical GPS data’s coming through,” she said.
Izzy changed lanes, accelerating past a delivery truck. “Finally.”
The dispatcher came back on the line. “We have officers going to check the vessel now. We’re going to need to some paper to board.”
“Our ETA thirty minutes.”
“Roger that. Please proceed to the dock master’s office for verification.”
“Will do.”
The download completed. Finch opened the file, watching months of movement patterns crystallize into colored dots on a map overlay. She zoomed to downtown LA, finding the expected clusters around Thorpe’s workplace and the Gateway Center. But there—regular stops at an address she recognized.
“He was at the Amaranth Clinic.” She expanded the timeframe, watching the pattern emerge. “Multiple visits.” She traced the dots northeast, through Santa Clarita, into the high desert. The coordinates matched their evidence logs. “Always followed by pings that match the coordinates of your Old Kendrick Place. Direct routes from clinic to farm.”
“Bingo,” Izzy said.
Finch scrolled through timestamps, cross-referencing dates. The pattern held—Amaranth to Darkness, Amaranth to Darkness. Thorpe had been the courier, moving pregnant women from city to desert. But something else emerged in the data.
“There’s more.” She filtered to show only Port of LA area pings. Yellow dots appeared in a regular pattern. “Thorpe visited the port on a schedule.”
“Let me guess—every second Friday?”
“No.” Finch checked the dates against her calendar function. “The day before. Thursdays. Including yesterday.”
The implication settled between them. Preparation day. Getting everything ready for Friday departures.
“Where exactly at the port?”
Finch zoomed in, watching the GPS coordinates resolve to specific buildings. Not the docks themselves—the phone’s signal showed him repeatedly visiting a structure two blocks inland from the water.
“Not at the actual berths. A building nearby.” She grabbed Izzy’s phone from its dashboard cradle, opening the navigation app and inputting the address.
The calming voice announced seventeen minutes to destination. Finch returned the phone to its holder and pulled up property records for the address. Pacific Provisioning Services LLC. Ship chandlers and suppliers.
“They provide food and supplies to container ships,” she said.
Izzy’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “That’s how they get the women aboard. Hidden in food deliveries. Maybe the women are portrayed as staff.”
“Why would they agree to that?”
“A promise to see their child again.”
They took the exit for San Pedro, industrial sprawl replacing city skyline. Refineries and warehouses lined the road, everything painted in that particular shade of institutional beige that seemed mandatory for port facilities. The air carried salt and diesel, heavy with maritime commerce.
Pacific Provisioning Services occupied a corner lot—loading bays on one side, offices facing the street. Delivery trucks sat in various stages of loading, workers in high-visibility vests moving pallets of shrink-wrapped supplies.
Izzy pulled into a visitor space. Finch closed her tablet, securing it in her bag. As she reached for the door handle, a wave of sensory anticipation crashed over her—fluorescent lights ahead, strangers to navigate, confrontation inevitable. The familiar pre-interview anxiety crawled up her spine.
She stopped. Planted both feet on the asphalt. Arms at her sides, she widened her stance and pulled her shoulders back, lifting her chin slightly. Hands on hips. Power stance.
Her lungs expanded with a deep breath. Hold. Release.
Izzy stood by the driver’s door, watching. No questions, no jokes about superhero stances. Just a firm nod when Finch met her eyes.
They entered through glass doors into an office that hadn’t been updated in fifty years. Wood paneling, metal desks, the persistent hum of overtaxed air conditioning. A receptionist directed them to the manager’s office—second door on the left.
The manager, Greg Hoffman according to his desk nameplate, looked up from invoices with barely concealed irritation. Mid-fifties, polo shirt straining over his stomach, the harried expression of someone perpetually behind schedule.
“Help you?”
Finch displayed her credentials. “FBI. We need to see your manifests for the past twenty-four hours.”
“Manifests?” Hoffman leaned back, chair creaking. “You got a warrant?”
“We don’t currently have a warrant for this premises,” Finch said. “However, we can obtain one. The process will consume the remainder of the business day.”
“Then come back when you have it.”
“That’s one option.” Finch shifted her weight forward slightly. “However, we have probable cause to believe vehicles from this location are being used in the commission of federal crimes. Under the automobile exception to the Fourth Amendment, we can search every vehicle on this property without a warrant.”
Hoffman’s expression soured. “That’s ridiculous—”
“Additionally, to prevent destruction of evidence or continuation of criminal activity, we would need to restrict all movement in and out of this facility until the warrant is obtained and executed. No deliveries leave, no trucks enter. I estimate completion by tomorrow afternoon, accounting for bureaucratic processing time.”
The manager’s face flushed red. “You can’t just—”
“We can. Carroll v. United States established the automobile exception in 1925. California v. Acevedo expanded it in 1991. Your trucks, their cargo, all subject to immediate search if we articulate reasonable suspicion.”
“This is extortion.”
“This is law enforcement.” Finch kept her tone level. “Twenty-four hours of manifests, or twenty-four hours of shutdown. Your choice.”
Hoffman’s jaw worked like he was chewing something bitter. Finally, he yanked open a filing drawer, pulling out a clipboard thick with carbon copies.
“Yesterday’s deliveries.” He slapped it on the desk. “Happy?”
Finch picked up the clipboard, scanning through handwritten entries. Each page detailed a different vessel—supplies loaded, delivery times, dock numbers. Her finger tracked down the columns until she found it.
“You supplied the MV Jade Phoenix?”
“Yeah, last night. Standard provisioning run. Food, supplies, the usual.”
“What time?”
Hoffman glanced at the manifest. “Loading started at nineteen hundred hours. Probably took two hours.”
“Which dock?”
“Berth 47. But you need port credentials to access—”
“We have them.” Izzy was already moving toward the door. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
They left Hoffman muttering about the collapse of free society. Back in the SUV, Izzy started the engine while Finch pulled up the port facility map on her tablet.
“Berth 47 is here.” She traced the route with her finger. “East entrance, then south along the water.”
The port police were already waiting at the dock master’s office when they arrived—two officers in tactical vests, their patrol vehicle parked beside the building. But they were relaxed against the counter, not wired and ready.
The dock master’s office overlooked the berths through salt-smeared windows. Computer monitors displayed ship positions, loading schedules, a constant flow of maritime data. A weathered man in rolled-up shirt sleeves watched Finch flash her creds.
“Patterson. Dockmaster.”
“Finch. This is Llewellyn. You check out the ship?” Finch glanced to the police officers, then back to Patterson.
“Yeah, MV Jade Phoenix.” He squinted at his screen. “Yeah, she was here. Berth 47.”
“Was?” Izzy stepped forward.
Patterson turned his monitor so they could see. The berth assignment showed empty, departure logged.
“She left dock twenty-three minutes ago.” He pointed through the window where the empty berth stretched along the water, massive container cranes standing idle. “Probably clearing the breakwater about now. Another hour to leave territorial waters, hour after that to hit the contiguous zone.”
“Can you recall her?” Izzy’s question carried desperate hope.
“Not our jurisdiction once she’s left the dock.” One of the port officers shook his head. “That’s Coast Guard territory now, and only if you’ve got solid probable cause. International waters in two hours? Might as well be the moon.”
Chapter
Thirty-Four
Izzy pushed through the Coast Guard office door, Finch right behind her. The government-issue furniture gave the space a familiar bureaucratic feel, but the nautical charts covering the walls only served to increase the urgency thrumming through her veins.
A lieutenant sat behind a metal desk, reviewing paperwork. He looked up at their entrance, assessing them without a word.
“Sheriff Llewellyn, Mirage County.” Izzy displayed her badge. “This is Special Agent Finch, FBI. We need a ship intercepted. The MV Jade Phoenix just left Berth 47.”
The lieutenant checked his watch, then tapped the space bar on a computer to bring the screen to life. “She’s approaching the breakwater.” He set down his pen. “U.S. vessel?”
“Panama registry,” Finch supplied.
“Then I’m going to need paperwork before I can authorize boarding a foreign-flagged vessel in U.S. waters. What’s the nature of the emergency?”
Izzy fought to keep her voice controlled. “We believe a woman is being trafficked on that ship. Possibly more than one.”
The lieutenant’s expression shifted slightly, but his tone remained measured. “Human trafficking is serious, but I need more than belief to intercept a commercial vessel. The shipping company will file complaints, the State Department gets involved—”
“Show him the data,” Izzy said to Finch.
Finch opened her tablet, turning it toward the lieutenant. “We’ve been tracking this operation for seventy-two hours.” Her finger traced across the screen. “GPS data shows regular movement patterns between this location”—she tapped the Amaranth Clinic—“and a farm in Mirage County where pregnant women were being held.”
She swiped to the next screen. “Three women confirmed missing. This is Alyssa Painter.” The CCTV image from Union Station filled the display. “Rescued from a crashed van in downtown LA three days ago. She’d given birth within the previous forty-eight hours. The baby was taken from her immediately after delivery.”
Another swipe. “Gabriela Navarro. Eight months pregnant when she disappeared. Her boyfriend positively identified this man”—Thorpe’s photo appeared—“as the person who took her. Same man who was transporting Alyssa.”
“The driver works for a medical transport company,” Finch continued, pulling up the Southland Community Access records. “But his GPS data shows regular stops at Pacific Provisioning Services, the ship supplier that serviced the Jade Phoenix last night.”
The lieutenant leaned forward, studying the screen. His wedding ring caught the fluorescent light as he leaned forward.
“The shell companies that own the farm and pay the driver all trace back to nominee directors in Dubai,” Finch said. “The Jade Phoenix runs direct service to Jebel Ali Port. No stops, no inspections, twenty-eight days at sea.”
“Do you have children, Lieutenant?” Izzy’s question cut through the data presentation.
He looked up from the tablet. “Two daughters.”
“These women had their babies stolen. They’re being sold to wealthy couples while the mothers disappear forever. Gabriela Navarro is somebody’s daughter. Right now, she’s on that ship heading for a life of slavery, if she survives the journey at all.”
The lieutenant straightened in his chair, his posture shifting from bureaucratic gatekeeper to military officer.
“Sir, we’ll write whatever report you need,” Izzy pressed. “Make it as thick as you want to cover your ass. But every minute we wait, that ship gets closer to international waters.”
“You’re absolutely certain she’s on that vessel?”
Izzy started to respond with conviction, but Finch interrupted. “No. Based on available data, there’s a ninety-seven percent probability.”
Izzy winced at the literal take, but the lieutenant surprised her.
“Nothing in life is better than ninety-seven percent.” He stood, reaching for his phone. “Including the chance my daughters come home safe every night.”
He punched numbers rapidly. “This is Lieutenant Manix, Sector LA-Long Beach. I need a boarding team mobilized immediately for the MV Jade Phoenix, currently outbound from Berth 47.” He paused, listening. “Suspected human trafficking. Federal agents on scene with evidence.” Another pause. “Yes, foreign flag. I’ll take responsibility.”
