Now she could barely feel her hands.
Dale opened the door.
"Come on."
Kayla stepped out.
Her legs almost collapsed beneath her.
And at 4:37 p.m., she walked into the Desert Star Truck Stop.
The Woman in the Booth
Sarah was refilling iced tea when the door opened.
She looked up automatically.
Three people entered.
Two men.
One woman.
Sarah noticed the woman immediately.
She looked young.
Maybe twenty-two.
Maybe younger.
She was painfully thin.
Her blonde hair was soaked with sweat despite the freezing air-conditioning.
Her face was bright red.
Her lips were cracked and bleeding.
But it was her hands that made Sarah's stomach tighten.
There were marks around both wrists.
Thin.
Circular.
Like plastic restraints had been pulled tight against her skin.
Sarah had worked around truckers long enough to know what fear looked like.
She had seen domestic violence.
She had seen drunk drivers.
She had seen people running from bad situations.
But this was different.
The young woman wasn't simply afraid.
She had been trained to be afraid.
She sat in the corner booth between the two men.
Her shoulders were hunched.
Her eyes stayed on the table.
She didn't speak.
Sarah approached with three glasses of iced tea.
"What can I get you folks?"
The man in the expensive shirt barely looked at her.
"Three iced teas."
Sarah poured them.
When she placed the glass in front of the young woman, their eyes met.
Only for two seconds.
But Sarah saw everything.
Terror.
Desperation.
A silent question.
The woman's lips moved.
No sound came out.
Sarah leaned slightly closer.
Then she understood.
Help me.
The young woman immediately looked down.
Sarah walked away.
Her hands were shaking.
She looked toward the windows.
Then the parking lot.
Then the corner booth again.
The woman was dying.
Sarah didn't need to be a doctor to know it.
Her breathing was too fast.
Her skin was dangerously flushed.
Her eyes were unfocused.
She was dehydrated.
Severely.
And the two men sitting beside her seemed completely unconcerned.
Sarah's heart began pounding.
She looked around the restaurant.
A dozen customers.
Families.
Truckers.
An elderly couple.
And four men sitting together at the counter.
They wore leather vests.
Motorcycle patches.
One of them was an Asian-American man in his forties with sharp, intelligent eyes.
Sarah remembered something Miguel had once told her.
"Don't judge people by the patch on their back, Sarah. Some of the best men I've ever known wear those patches."
She looked at the woman in the booth.
Then at the bikers.
She picked up the coffee pot.
And made her decision.
Code Red
Sarah walked toward the bikers.
She tried to look casual.
Her hands were shaking so badly that coffee spilled over the edge of the pot.
She stopped beside the biggest man.
"Coffee?"
He nodded.
Sarah began pouring.
Then she whispered.
"The woman in the corner is being trafficked."
The man's hand stopped.
Sarah kept her eyes on the coffee cup.
"Restraint marks on her wrists."
The biker looked at her.
"She's dying from heat stroke."
His eyes narrowed.
"They left her in a hot car."
Sarah swallowed.
"She mouthed, 'Help me.'"
The biker didn't move.
"They're leaving soon."
Sarah's voice trembled.
"Please."
The man looked at her face.
Three seconds.
Then he looked toward the booth.
Something changed in his expression.
His name was Marcus Wolf Cross.
Before becoming a biker, Marcus had spent eight years working with an FBI human-trafficking task force.
He had seen this before.
Thirty-seven times.
The same body language.
The same control tactics.
The same terrified eyes.
He quietly put down his coffee.
"Keep serving."
Sarah nodded.
"Act normal."
She walked away.
Marcus turned toward the three men beside him.