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CHAPTER 14

INSIDE RYAN’S OFFICE on wheels, the air conditioner is running, but the air is still stuffy and hot. The interior consists of a bank of computer monitors, radio equipment, and a small desk area messy with file folders. Ryan sits in a sliding desk chair and gestures for us to find seats in front of the monitors.

“I know y’all came over here for this case,” he says, grinning like a kid eager to tell his peers about a secret he can’t wait to share. “But since you’re here, do you want to hear about the case?”

He presses a few keys, and one of the monitors displays a mug shot of a man with a rough, leathery complexion and an ugly scar running down his forehead, bisecting his left eyebrow, and culminating just above his jawline. The left eye, which the scar cuts through, is gray and clouded. His good eye is alert and angry. The mug shot is one of those that you take one look at and know you wouldn’t want to mess with the guy in it. If looks could kill, whoever took that mug shot would have died on the spot.

“This is Llewellyn Carpenter,” Ryan says. “Originally from Dayton, Ohio. Now lives in Roswell. Thirty-eight years old. Former Army. Did tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Dishonorably discharged. He’s been in and out of prison ever since. Narcotics. Possession of stolen property. Assault.”

Ryan presses more keys and the other monitors light up with surveillance images of the man standing next to a blue panel van. There are several grainy images of him at a gas station, where he is smoking a cigarette next to the pumps, and a few clearer pictures of him unlocking a chain-link fence at a warehouse and then driving the van through the gate.

Ryan explains that once his team started comparing notes on various missing persons cases throughout the region, they noticed that there were more than a dozen instances where a blue panel van was seen in areas where women went missing. As far east as Houston, as far west as Palm Springs, and as far north as Denver, police reports mentioned a blue panel van, usually listed as a seemingly unimportant detail buried within the notes. It wasn’t until Ryan’s team started scrutinizing all the cases that they discovered the connection.

The day before a teenager went missing in Sedona last month, a security camera at a gas station got an image of the guy and the van. There was no clear picture of his full face, but the camera did catch his profile, showing the scar, and a clear picture of his left forearm, revealing a distinctive tattoo of a snake coiling around the arm.

“We ran the tattoo through the federal database and came up with a list of matches,” Ryan says, entering a few keystrokes until one of the monitors fills with images of half a dozen tattoos similar to Llewellyn Carpenter’s. “Once we had the names, we looked for someone with a matching scar. It was easy to narrow down the suspect list.”

The van license plate recorded in the security footage came from a stolen vehicle, Ryan says, but the FBI put a stakeout on his last known address in Roswell. He showed up a few days later, and they’ve been surveilling him ever since. Ryan points to a larger image of the warehouse that Carpenter had driven the van into, a run-down facility with boards over the windows and tumbleweeds lodged against the fence.

“We think this is a major distribution center for a large human-trafficking operation,” Ryan says. “Women are brought here, hooked on drugs, and then shipped off to various illegal brothels in the Southwest. We’ve located two already. One in Tucson and one in Colorado Springs. We’re hoping to get a fix on more.”

“And this guy’s in charge of the operation?” I say, gesturing to the image of Llewellyn Carpenter.

Ryan shakes his head. “He’s a kidnapper and driver. He takes women from point A to B. He might be a major player, but someone else calls the shots.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“So where is this warehouse?” Carlos asks.

“And when are you going to bust it?” I add.

“It’s right here in El Paso,” he says. “And we’re going to hit it within the week. We’re trying to locate as many brothels as we can so we can take them all down at once. But we believe there are women inside, suffering, so we’re not going to wait much longer.”

Carlos and I glance at each other, knowing what the other is thinking.

“You need any help?” I ask.

Ryan sits back in his chair. “If y’all want to get in on this,” he says with a smug smile, “I guess I could make room on my team for a couple of Texas Rangers.”

For a moment, I wonder why Ryan’s so agreeable, and then he answers my question for me.

“I don’t see how you can do any harm,” he says. “Besides, it won’t hurt to have the Texas Rangers owing me a favor.”

Carlos and I seem to agree that this is a price worth paying because, without consulting each other, we both know that we want in.

“All right then,” Ryan says. “Welcome to the southeastern branch of the Federal Task Force on Missing and Murdered American Indians and Alaska Natives.”