ESCAPE FROM AMBERGRIS CAYE Read Free

find her body.
    Branding
the product was his way of tracking sales. It was like the bar codes stores use.
He kept a ledger hidden under a loose floorboard in which he recorded the dates
of the product acquisition and sale; the product’s code number: state of origin
and number and the buyer’s name and address. That way he had a complete history
of the transaction. Sounded cold, but after all—business was business. How else
would he know if Seymour was being straight with him?  Leon knew the
ledger had to be kept out of the wrong hands, but then who would ever figure
out what it meant anyway?  It looked perfectly legitimate.
    Too bad
he’d never made it through school. He had a good brain and a nose for business.
If it had been a legitimate product, he could’ve started his own company, even
offered shares on Wall Street. He would’ve been an entrepreneur.
    Leon sighed.
Instead of high society, he was forced to live on the seamy side of life,
staying in the shadows, carefully hidden by the hypocritical bastard whose
bidding he did. He was only a puppet. It wasn’t much different from life in the
gangs or at home with his brothers, for that matter. Seems like he was always
under somebody’s thumb.

Chapter 5
     
    Jackson sat in the edit bay; his hand cupped his
chin as he stared at the monitor. The tape was paused at the point in his
Gasparilla coverage where he’d panned down the street and zoomed in on a girl
watching the parade from a balcony. He stared intently trying to figure out
what he was looking at. Was that girl simply a recalcitrant teen being
disciplined by her dad, or was it something more sinister? 
    Recently he’d been reading about human
trafficking—mostly women from third world countries lured to wealthy nations on
the promise of better lives, only to be forced into slavery—everything from
prostitution to sweatshops—even servitude in private homes.
    Surely that wasn’t happening here, not in front
of his very eyes. That girl seemed young, couldn’t be more than thirteen or so.
He took a closer look. His imagination was probably running wild as usual. He
told himself to forget about it. Nothing unsavory was going on. Not in a
beautiful place like Tampa.
    He took a final bite of his cheese and baloney
sandwich and a swig from a bottle of ice water. Several stray drops fell onto
his blue standard-issue shirt with the station’s logo on the front. He wore
khaki pants and jogging shoes.
    Izzie poked her head around the corner. “Hey
Jackson, I’m headin ’ out for lunch. Want something?”
    Jackson shook his head and gestured to the
half-empty sack on his desk. “I brought my lunch, thanks.” A baggie with three
chocolate chip cookies and an apple were all that remained. He was disappointed
not to be able to take his reporter up on her rare display of kindness,
    Izzie Campbell was attractive in that annoying
“Aren’t I just the prettiest thing” way many beautiful women have. Intelligent
and stuck-up, she apparently thought a year of broadcast journalism made her an
authority. Her slim, five foot five figure, sapphire-blue eyes, long blond
hair, milky white skin and a generous smile—the rare times she chose to use
it—resulted in Miss America quality beauty, a fact upon which she too-often
capitalized.  
    Self-absorbed and overconfident, Izzie didn’t
seem to realize cameramen like Jackson, made her look good. She often treated
him as though he was little more than a mule, schlepping heavy equipment around
for her benefit. Jackson sighed. Working alongside people like that came with
the territory.
    “So what ’cha looking at?” 
    Jackson looked up, surprised to find she was
still there. “Just something I caught on the shoot yesterday.”
    “What?” Uninvited, Izzie leaned over, touching
Jackson’s shoulder. She wore a short blue skirt, a crisp white blouse with a
gold pendant and gold hoop earrings. Her black heels were low, styled for
comfort. Jackson got a whiff of