MY EYES WERE GRITTY FROM lack of sleep and not even the black tar Kyle claimed was coffee could wipe the fog from my brain. A restless night on the piece of shit boat coupled with vivid nightmares of Annie’s fate had me feeling edgy and irritable. I couldn’t relax until we’d gotten this shit done.

With the boat safely docked in a slip, the three of us made our way through the energetic market, elbowing through hordes of tourists and locals hawking their wares. The sun was already baking a sea of bodies on the stretch of beach, and though I wore faded jeans and a frayed t-shirt with a cap pulled low over my eyes, I felt the heat heavy on my skin. Kyle bought a tacky floral shirt, his attempt to dress like a tourist and blend in. Vic followed at a distance, strolling leisurely from shop to shop along the beachfront road.

We’d rented a car and reserved a hotel room in the middle of town. Until we found her, we wanted to make sure we were staying in the center of the tourist hub so we could do our best to blend in with the throngs of visitors.

At night, Kyle, Vic, and I set out again, scouring the red lights. The ones in Curaçao seemed more upscale than the ones in Aruba. Most were set up like bars. Men could sit and order drinks at little tables and chat up the hookers. I guess that was great for the men who liked to pretend these women were actually interested in them, instead of admitting they were paying for sex. I preferred to be honest with my intentions so I never needed to play any games or delude myself any more than I already did.

After another long night of too many drinks and too bright neon lights, we’d come up empty-handed. No Annie.

Kyle convinced us to cool off at the hotel bar, Enrique & Richie’s. It was dark and pulsed with loud music, heavy on the bass. Spring break was out in full force. Coeds writhed on the small dance floor with candy-colored drinks and short skirts paired with bikini tops. Most were already halfway to blitzed, and I couldn’t help but wonder if one of them would be the next Annie.

The other American girl who went missing, Nicole Race, had last been seen at this bar.

Vic and Kyle hit on girls, but I was too fucking depressed to make small talk. I sat alone at a table in the corner, drinking whiskey. Why should I be out having fun in paradise, while Annie was still turning tricks in hell?

Think, motherfucker. What am I missing?

My mind drifted, and I zoned out listening to the Calypso music. The beat of the steel drums shook my shot glass.

Steel. Drums.

Annie had said the last thing she’d remembered the morning she had been taken was that the dancer entered her elevator. And she had said she knew Nicole before the poor girl had overdosed. This couldn’t just be a coincidence.

I glanced over to the dancer and my eyes narrowed. A larger than life man with piercing dark eyes; he wore a pink shirt and danced to those drums as if he didn’t have a care in the world, his arms wrapped around a blonde tourist. And he was wearing a watch. Was it mine?

I slammed my whiskey glass down, the liquid sloshed over the rim. I’d been wrong before back at the burnt down brothel. I needed to be certain.

Kyle was busily grinding some girl on the dance floor, so I approached Vic.

“I need to get out of here. Just going to take a walk.”

Vic raised his eyebrow at me. He knew me well enough to know something was up. “I’ll go with you. Let me just pull Kyle away.”

At this point, I had a loose hunch, a clenching in my gut. Ultimately this was my mission, my fight. I’d looked into Annie’s eyes; I’d given her my word. Her freedom was my responsibility. “No man, I’m good. I kind of want to be alone. I’ll meet you back at the room.”

Vic nodded, patted me on the back. “Okay, bro.”

I made my way to the alley near the back of the club. There was a van parked there. A crooked tree was painted on its side door. For once, luck was on my side. Our rental car was just up the street. I could watch from inside, and when the band and dancer left, I’d be ready to follow.

Hours passed. I was tired as fuck but didn’t so much as close my eyes to risk sleep. Staying up casing this van was easy compared to the training I’d endured. In BUD/S Hell Week, I’d survived on only four hours of sleep in five and a half days. To this day, every time I was tired during a mission, I could hear my instructors’ words echo in my head, taunting us, trying to get us to ring the bell three times and quit.

Anybody who quits right now gets hot coffee and doughnuts. Come on, who wants a doughnut? Who wants a little coffee?

There was no coffee machine available, so I took a swig of some stagnant bottled water. Time to hurry up and wait.

Eventually, the five-member band loaded their equipment in the van. But instead of taking off, they milled around, talking and smoking ganja, no sense of urgency at all.

Another half an hour passed. Finally, they climbed into the van. When it pulled out on to the street, I slowly followed behind them, keeping my distance.

Dark buildings, broken windows covered by bars. A few blocks away from the tourist hub, we were now in a shantytown. I couldn’t help but fantasize that I was minutes away from seeing Annie again. That in only a few short hours, I’d be able to hold her and tell her that her nightmare was finally over.

After a few miles along the road, the van stopped in front of a one-story plantation-style house. It wasn’t one of the brothels we’d investigated—I wasn’t even sure if it was a brothel at all. No sign, no man out front, just a door with some metal bars on it and some lights in the windows. If it was a brothel, this one definitely wasn’t one of the legal ones we’d been scoping out in the center of town.

Could Annie be in there?

The men got out. Four of them took off in a different parked old model sedan. Then the door to the house opened and the dancer walked inside and greeted another man.

I took out the binoculars I had stowed in the glove compartment and his face came into focus. It was that pimp. The one I’d given my watch to, I was sure of it.

Fuck. Annie had to be in there. But was it a brothel? A drug den? Maybe it was a holding place where they drugged up the women before they moved them elsewhere. And how many men? I could see two—the pimp and dancer. But as far as I could tell, only the pimp was armed, with the same AK-47 he had in Aruba slung around his shoulders.

I drove my car around the building. In a window to the back, I could see a girl stare out the window. She had dark hair, but even with my binoculars that was all I could make out because she had left the window so quickly. Was she Annie? My gut told me she was, but there was only one way to find out.

I needed my men and my night-ops equipment. I drove back to the hotel, careful to mark the path in my mind.

I couldn’t wait another day, another chance for them to move her. We had to move in tonight.

One desperate plea. This wasn’t a Hollywood blockbuster or a New York Times best-selling thriller. I knew this time there was no room for excuses, no margin for errors. I had one chance to put the cape on and be her hero.