This case isn’t special and it’s happened before where I come across a random case that has nothing to do with my business, yet I’m compelled to investigate. Usually, if I find something the police can use, I’ll drop the info into the right hands and walk away.
Part of my job includes a lot of trolling…of the dark web, online, and police scanners. While we work with law enforcement and the private sector in identifying targets, I’m always listening and looking for predators hiding in plain sight.
More often than not, human trafficking gets misclassified in police databases as other crimes through no intentional fault of the police. Some aren’t adequately trained to recognize the signs, and the targets aren’t willing to divulge anything about their captors.
This particular night, I was listening to scanners all over the country when a police dispatch came in for a convenience store robbery along the Florida panhandle.
A man was shot and the gunman got away. I’m not sure what caught my attention.
None of the details screamed human trafficking, just another senseless act of violence, but I was intrigued enough to follow up a couple of days later. I hacked into the police files.
The photos.
The murder.
The hunt for the shooter.
Then I listened to the 911 call.
Her voice.
That was it. Her indescribable fear and desperation. Her utter helplessness.
Even if our situations were different, and I knew nothing about being held at gunpoint, I knew her. I had a pretty good idea how Morgan felt and I’d never wanted anything more than to end her suffering.
The urge to help her, deep in my gut, grew until I could no longer ignore it, no matter how nonsensical.
It was easy to get swept away in this real or maybe imagined connection to Morgan and her plight because I wanted a distraction from my life. For a delay in facing the career choice I had to make.
So, like a tourist, I came to Destin and rented a condo by the week and watched this woman from afar. But I’ve done this long enough, and if I’m to help her, I need to make contact.
Generally, I’m direct. Why waste time with bullshit when straight through is the shortest and easiest route to answers. Like everything else in my life right now, I need to act, not languish in indecision, so with that thought, I get out of the car and hit the key fob to lock the doors. I amble toward the entrance with my cased weapon and gear in hand. I’ve contemplated going inside before but never have.
Once I pay, sign the paperwork, and put on eye and hearing protection, I enter the range. The steady din of shooters hits my senses first, followed by the stink of burning gunpowder. Empty shells litter the range with more than a handful of strays on the wrong side of the yellow line.
Down the length of the room, almost all the stalls are occupied with a few people against the back wall, watching the shooters. I spot her immediately at the far end of the line, two stalls from where I’m assigned.
Her stance is set, long ponytail motionless, and gun aimed at the target. Without thought, my feet take me to her stall where I pause, watching her exhale and pull the trigger.
Surprisingly, barely a muscle moves with the release. She’s accustomed to the weapon’s kick, and it makes me wonder just how long she has been coming to the range.
She places the clip on the tray in front of her, then the gun with the muzzle aimed downrange. Her body tenses the instant she senses me, and my gut tells me all the hairs on the back of her neck are standing at attention.
Turning slightly in my direction, she quirks one perfectly shaped eyebrow and stares at me. It’s difficult to make out her voice but I read her lips. “Can I help you?”
I’m deliberate and slow in forming the word no so she understands me over the gunfire.
Without taking her eyes off me, she presses the red button on the wall to bring the paper target sailing toward her. “What do you want?”
This time I catch fragments of her lilt and tone, but she still isn’t clearly audible. I don’t need the sound of her voice to know she’s on edge though she hides it well.
I shrug, not knowing how to answer. Do I want something from this woman?
No…well, yeah. If I’m to help, I need answers.
Yet, my normal approach—direct—might not be the best. She’s been through a lot and spends a lot of time perfecting her aim, maybe feeding a deep, dark need to shoot the shit out of something.
I don’t intend to make myself the target.
Her fingers pinch the corner of the target sheet but she hasn’t looked at it. No, she’s still fixed on me. Not impressed with my silence or likely the fact that I’m unperturbed by her direct nature.
I’m still standing here.
Unlike her, I take a long look at the tight cluster of bullet holes smattered within the orange ring at the head of the silhouette target, then the similar pattern at center mass. She follows my gaze, shifting her neck for a cursory glance before releasing the sheet.
The paper flutters backward, and she drops her hand and pivots to face me, expression blank. “Run along, now.”
Her words and tone are meant to be bland, but the tight lines around her usually plump mouth and the sharp narrowing of her eyes say this is a warning.
Undeterred, I jerk my chin toward the target practice sheet then down to the handgun. “Great shot. You been shooting for a long time?”
What the fuck? I sound like a creep.
She partially turns away from me to place the weapon in its case, clearly done here, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s forgotten about me. But no, her rigid, on-alert posture says otherwise. She’s more than aware of my presence, and everything about her screams that I’m not welcome.
I’m scaring her. No, maybe scared isn’t the right word. I’m making her uneasy, and a fierce sense of urgency surges up my throat.
Any minute now and she’ll leave. Her departure will put me out of my misery, end this weird kind of torture, but I can’t let her leave. Not like this.
She picks up her case and turns to walk away. I shoot out a hand, readying to stop her but drop my arm. Touching her is the last thing I should do if I don’t want to freak her out even more.
“Morgan, wait.” My voice is loud and clear.
Her name on my lips. Every atom of her being freezes, her muscles tighten, and she’s ready to attack…or run.
We stand like that, face to face, for a beat, maybe two. Her eyes, steely and cold, slice through me before she brushes past me. Our near touch causes a sweep of adrenaline to prick at my nerve endings.
Dread like a cold bucket of ice water douses any flames of hope of getting her to talk to me as I watch her move like lightning, fast and electrifying, out the doors. I spooked her.
If I had the balls, I’d ask one of these guys to punch me in the sack, lay me out for that pathetic attempt at contact.
Usually my tragically bored demeanor works like a charm. Why would I mess with the tried and true and initiate conversation? Fuck my life.
A large man steps in front of me, wearing a T-shirt with the gun range logo on it. “Hey, you gonna shoot or not? You can’t stand here.”
He attempts to move me along by reaching for my arm. I hold it up in surrender, nod, then lope toward my assigned stall.
Rifles and guns aren’t my weapon of choice. I much prefer doing damage with a keyboard, hacking into mainframes and online files, destroying things from afar with a few quick strokes.