Choke Point by Ridley Pearson

entire operation is expedited. The risk is also a rush.
    “It might move the story forward, get us paid sooner.”
    “I like being paid,” he says. “Until something better comes along, why not?”
    Sonia uses the pen to cross-hatch half the wider of the two circles around the clinic. The dividing line falls on a street. “We will start from the clinic and work our way out.”
    “We? You said you’re too well known.”
    “Yes, well, how much time do you think Berna has? Her face is known as well. She’s a threat to them. Her story’s out there.” She hesitates. “My fault.”
    “The school records,” he says. “Expediting that search—”
    “I’m on it.”
    —
    T HE SIGN IS where the vendor told her it would be. MALL . Grace expected a retail center, but the sign is above a darkened alleyway. She walks past on the opposite sidewalk and continues to the next street corner, where she pauses and leans against a wrought-iron railing. It’s five thirty-five but feels more like midnight.
    The entrance to the building to the left of the dark alley is up four steps from the sidewalk. It’s an unattractive brick box, a single structure occupying the space of four canal houses. There are security bars across most of the lower-level windows, potted flowers on either side of the steps. She’s guessing five to ten apartments. Was this the address the vendor meant to give her, or did she mean the alley itself? Grace has no idea what to expect: Berna? her family? a school chum? a girl who looks like Berna? the thugs responsible? Had the vendor called ahead to make sure that a curious EU official is greeted appropriately? There can’t possibly be a shopping mall down the dark alley beneath the sign.
    She double-checks her iPhone confirming the “Find My iPhone” feature is activated. She texts Knox.
    if no text in 10 mins use Find My iPhone
    Her finger hesitates above the blue iMessage bubble. She knows if he’s not back there watching her already, he’ll take the text as a call to action. She regrets it, but she can’t be responsible for Knox’s decisions.
    She hits SEND .
    —
    A C HINESE GUY speaking Dutch and wearing Tom Ford gets take-out.
    Sonia’s voice is tight when she speaks. “I shouldn’t have published the piece.”
    “It’s a sweatshop,” Knox says. The restaurant has become claustrophobic. “They need workers. They don’t get rid of what they need.”
    “Berna was not going home at night. You don’t chain girls who go home.”
    “So they’ll keep her alive.”
    “I believe we’re talking about two different kinds of workers. Those who are recruited locally, and those who were not offered a choice. This second group of girls never leaves.”
    “Locals and residents,” he says.
    She grimaces. “There’s another more lucrative market for girls this age.”
    Knox’s collar is suddenly too tight. He reaches there only to realize he’s wearing a T-shirt under the windbreaker. “We have a girl in a sweatshop. That’s all.” She forces images into his thoughts. Maybe he’s a photographer after all.
    “We,” the writer says.
    The buzzing of his phone rescues him. He reads the incoming text.
    “I have to go,” he announces. “I’ll start tomorrow morning.”

T he enclosed alleyway reminds her of a subway tunnel. One with no lights. One that smells sour and sordid. Tobacco. Marijuana. Stale beer. Human piss. Dog excrement. The entire urban experience reduced to olfactory overload. She enters the dark with trepidation. The woman in the scarf haunts her.
Be careful,
haunts her. The path beneath her is covered in a viscous goo, a residual sediment not washed away by rain. Her soles smack with it. It seems to move beneath her. She’s through the space in less than thirty seconds, but in that short time her heart accelerates to an aerobic level and her mouth goes dry. She’d give anything for a Coke.
    God hears her: there’s a lighted vending machine alongside the entrance to a