The truck, a Ford extended cab pickup with a camper on the back, turned into the gravel driveway, and the driver immediately killed the lights. There was no signal of any kind, no tapping of the horn or flashing of the headlights. Instead, Sykes turned on the porch light and opened the trailer door, stepping out to stand on the highest of the three wooden steps leading up to the door.
The driver turned off the motor and climbed out. “Hey, Sykes.” The guard stayed in the cab.
“Have any trouble?” Sykes asked.
“One of the girls got sick, puked a couple of times, but I figure it was just from riding in the back. Stunk, though. I had to stop and hose out the back, to keep the other girls from puking.”
“Let’s get ’em inside, then, so they can clean up. Mr. Phillips is anxious to see this bunch.”
“He’s waiting on the young one, right? She’s a pretty little thing, but she’s the one been puking so much, so she’s not real spry right now.”
In the distance came the sound of another car, and everyone in hiding froze. The driver looked alarmed, and Sykes made a staying motion with his hand. “Hold what you got,” he said softly. “It’s nothing to worry about, just a car passing.”
But the car seemed to be slowing. The driver stepped back toward the truck cab and opened the door, sliding half inside with one leg still on the ground, and the men under the trees knew he’d just armed him-self. They all held their fire, though, waiting to see what happened.
The car turned into the driveway, headlights on bright. Glenn Sykes immediately turned to the side to save his night vision, his hand up to shield his eyes even more.
The car, a white Lexus, pulled up right behind the truck, and the headlights were turned off. A man got out from behind the wheel, a tall man with graying blond hair brushed straight back. He wore a suit, though the night was muggy, and who wore a suit at three o’clock in the morning, anyway?
“Mr. Sykes,” said a smooth voice, with the hammy kind of southern accent that actors always used. After two years in the south, Jack could pick up some of the nuances now, and he knew that wasn’t a north Alabama accent. Something about it struck him as fake; it was just too exaggerated.
“Mr. Phillips,” Sykes said, surprised. “We didn’t know to expect you.”
That was true. The Scottsboro police hadn’t been able to locate Mr. Phillips, though they’d been very low-key about their search. Until he was in custody, everything was being kept as quiet as possible, because they didn’t want him forewarned and perhaps able to destroy evidence, or even skip town completely. He had enough money to live very comfortably in Europe or the Caribbean, if he wanted.
Sykes glanced at the driver and guard. “It’s all right. Mr. Phillips owns the operation.” The two relaxed, getting out of the truck. Their hands were empty; both of them had left their weapons in the cab.
“There’ve been a series of mistakes lately,” said Phillips, walking toward Sykes. “I wanted to personally supervise this shipment to make certain nothing went wrong.”
Meaning he couldn’t wait to get his hands on the thirteen-year-old girl in the back of the truck, Jack thought, and disgust curdled his stomach. Slowly he centered his sights on Phillips, because his presence was unexpected and in Jack’s experience the unexpected meant trouble.
“Nothing will go wrong this time,” said Sykes, his voice calm.
“I’m sure it won’t,” Phillips purred, and pulled a pistol from the right pocket of his suit jacket. He aimed and fired at Sykes before any of the men surrounding them could react; Sykes slammed back against the trailer, then toppled off the steps.
Jack’s finger gently squeezed the trigger. His shot took Phillips exactly where he’d wanted it to, and Phillips went down screaming.
All hell broke loose.
To the uninitiated, the explosion of noise, lights, and motion as black-clad, heavily armed men burst from their hiding places, all shouting, “Police! Get your hands up!” or identifying themselves as FBI—whichever the case might be—would be nothing more than terrifying confusion. To Jack, it was a well-oiled operation, practiced over and over until each man knew what to do and what to expect. The two men still standing knew the drill: they froze, their arms automatically going up to lock their hands behind their heads.
The Russian girls inside the camper went into hysterics, screaming and crying and trying to escape, beating against the locked camper door. The INS agents got the key from the driver and opened the door, reeling back at the stench. The hysterical girls erupted from their prison, kicking and scratching as they were caught and held.
One girl managed to slip past everyone and run full speed down the dark country road before sheer exhaustion made her stumble and fall; the INS agent who gave chase picked her up and carried her like a baby in his arms, while she sobbed and made hysterical exclamations in her own language. The INS, forewarned, had a Russian-speaking agent on hand, and she began trying to calm the girls, saying the same phrases over and over until they actually began to listen.
There were seven of them, none older than fifteen. They were thin, filthy, and exhausted. According to Sykes, though, none of them had been sexually assaulted; they were all virgins, and were to be sold for ridiculously high prices to gangs who would then charge wealthy, depraved men even more for the privilege of being the first to rape the girls. After that, they would be used as prostitutes, and sold over and over among gangs who would work them for a while, then sell them off. None of them spoke English; all of them had been told that if they didn’t cooperate, their families in Russia would be shot.