Page 94 of Trapped Truth

Unfortunately, that’s what most people don’t realise… You don’t have to be transported overseas to be touched by this plague. Human trafficking can even occur within a single country’s borders. It’s both domestic and international all at once.

“They sold you?”

“An undocumented, runaway child willing to do anyone’s bidding for a scrap of food?” He scoffs without a single hint of humour. “You bet your ass they sold me.”

An unnamed emotion stirs inside my chest cavity, wrenching on each individual heartstring. Surely not. I can’t be pitying the man who sunk a bullet in my gut not so long ago. Yet the emptiness in his voice… it hurts me.

Gunnar stares blankly at the tabletop. “I bounced from gang to gang, kept in a cage, hungry and alone. To earn my freedom, I had to become useful to the criminal class.”

The image of his gaunt face invades my mind before I can halt its path. When Gunnar returned home, he was skeletal-thin. Desperation seemed to cling to him. For a long time, I mistook it for anger and hatred.

Maybe I was wrong.

Was his disgust towards a world that never gave two shits about him? Abandoned by adults. Forced to beg, borrow and steal. Locked up like a stray dog. It’s no wonder he reappeared in such a dire state.

“Why did you track down your mother?”

Nose wrinkling, Gunnar doesn’t lift his stare. “I wanted to hear for myself why she threw me to the wolves. Who does that to their own child? Then… I found out the truth.”

“Your father forced her.”

“I am not related to that scum.”

In what I assume is consternation, Warner quirks a brow. “Right.”

“Whether he forced her or not, she still decided to discard me.” The words burst like skin-carving lashes from Gunnar’s lips, as if he can’t stand the way they taste. “Trash receives better treatment than I did.”

When put like that, it’s no wonder the man wanted to shred our father with his bare hands. Because of him, Gunnar was abandoned to die. Helpless and feeble. That’s sufficient to breed all manner of vengeful rage.

“Was that the first time you killed someone?” Warner carefully probes.

“No, I couldn’t tell you when that was.”

“You were a child, though?”

“A child surrounded by violence,” Gunnar snarls out. “When I was granted a sliver of freedom by the thugs who traded me from pillar to post, I watched, learned and then made myself valuable to them.”

“Did this education involve killing on their behalf?”

“You could say that.”

“Sounds brutal.” Warner sets down his pen.

“Most would call it a baptism of fire.”

Flinching, I run a fingertip down the laptop, over my brother’s mask of forced nonchalance. I can’t possibly be feeling an urge to comfort him. Not after all the bad blood that’s passed between us. So why does this damned screen feel like the only thing holding me back?

“Tell me how you ended up working for the cartel.”

“I never worked for the cartel.” Eyes still downcast, Gunnar offers a slow shake of his head.

Leaning back in his seat, Warner folds his arms. “You admit to performing multiple services for them over the years—in addition to other international criminals, not least of all the Madden family.”

“Services. I’m a contractor.”

“But you had dealings with key players relevant to our case, correct?”

“They often contacted me, I am the best after all.” He lifts then drops a shoulder. “And they paid well.”