Episode Fourteen: Daybreak

The sun poked its glittering fingers through the green palm trees on the edge of La Vista Del Rio.

Despite the previous night's activities, Verity was already up, awake, showered and was relaxing in a seat outside her tee pee hut, drinking a hot Milo and reading from her Bible. If she was honest, she would admit that her sleep had been short and not that sweet. Today was a day she has been looking forward to for five years. The adrenaline had been coursing through her body for hours. She was anxious, but only for their plan to begin.

Today she would get her massive scoop of a story and bring a truly evil man to justice.

She had plenty to look forward to.

Charlotte, in the tee pee hut next door, had not slept well either. She knew what lay in wait. Something about needing to give a statement and testify against Shiloh made her really, really afraid. Shiloh's social media videos always made them look like they were bright and fun and vivacious.

And they could be.

But they could also be vicious and vindictive and violent. They had men they could call on, men who would take their money and kill on command if needed.

She shivered beneath her blanket. And not because of the air con.

She just wanted this day to be over, and soon.

Don was pretty tired after the previous day’s shenanigans. He was sleeping like a baby and snoring like a stuck pig.

Maja, on the other hand, was up and about. She’d already had breakfast. She headed back up to her room and started getting organised for the day.

It was then that her phone rang.

‘Maayong buntag, ma’am!’ a cheery female voice from the front desk greeted her. ‘I received a message for you last night. Can you please come to the front desk to pick it up? The sender said it was urgent.’

‘Okay, I’ll be down right away.’ Maja assured the front desk clerk. She padded down immediately, wondering why the message had been sent or what it could be about. The desk clerk handed her a brown A5 envelope.

Surely this couldn’t be the same envelope she’d used the previous day?

She opened it. There was nothing inside but a piece of paper. She took it out, read it, thanked the front desk clerk, her voice a little shaky with nerves, and then padded back up to her room.

Don’s phone woke him with a start. He leaned over sleepily to turn off the alarm, realised it wasn’t the alarm but a phone call, juggled with it and accidently knocked it to the floor, but it kept ringing. He fell off his bed, grabbed the phone and accepted the call. ‘Hello?’ he asked.

‘Sir Donald? Sir Donald Mac-Leish?’ a young-sounding female voice asked.

Since he had been ‘knighted again’, Don decided to answer with a flourish. ‘Yes, ‘tis he.’ he said, waving his hand in front of him like a medieval knight – as if she could see him.

‘This is Maja Hernandez. I’m coming. Meet me at Shakaz on Quezon Street in Isabel. Come alone. Oh, and I'll need a distraction.’ Maya told him furtively, in case she was overheard.

‘Really? Distraction is my middle name.’ he boasted. ‘Well, it isn’t really. I’d have fallen out with my parents much sooner if it was. Just tell me the details and I'll set it up.’

As soon as the call ended, Don held his phone to his chest and sighed with satisfaction. His plan was working.

Well, partially. But one out of two was better than none, right?

At ten AM, a small Cessna plane landed at an otherwise deserted Ormoc Airport. The door of the white aircraft opened wide and a stewardess ushered Ma’am Norma Jones out of her private flight from Manila and into a black SUV, which would take her, at speed, with two of her junior aides, directly to Residencia Abad, where she would meet with two stars, one of whom was the Mayor of this ‘backwater town’, as she rather snootily called it.

She didn’t have her troubles to seek. Her husband had been a complete fool. Shiloh was a headache. But at least here, among the little people of a little town, she was a big shot.

And she was determined to enjoy it.

Right in the middle of the Leyte countryside, high on top of a hill, with wonderful views of surrounding valley and, on a clear day, the Camotes Sea, Il Fattoria restaurant is something of a glorious anomaly. A ridiculously fancy, and pricey, Italian restaurant in the middle of an island where rice is the number one food by some distance, it almost makes you wonder how their business model could possibly work. Yet somehow it does.

And on that day, Shiloh and their Pink Boy Media crew were making their contribution to its bottom line, having appeared with an eleven AM reservation for brunch. Shiloh's partially plastic nose was actually out of joint because they hadn’t been invited to the Mayor’s Piña Festival Reception, but then, they opined with a whine, ‘People like me aren’t usually asked to grace occasions like that with their presence.’

So they decided to drown their sorrows with reassuringly expensive Italian food in a reassuringly exclusive restaurant.

Everything was as it should be. They were in a beautiful place with their staff and hangers-on. The view across the tropical countryside and out towards the bay was wonderful. All around them, the people they, well, not so much valued, more tolerated, were taking pictures and videos as if their lives depended on it, blowing kisses at cameras and posing like supermodels.

These clowns are so easy to please. Shiloh thought to themself. It's like throwing fish at a pod of dolphins.

The waiting staff were busy fetching their food. Their nameless assistant – the boring one in their merry band (Shiloh found that their business worked if there was at least one person with their feet on the ground) – was busy with spreadsheets and figures and whatnot.

Life was perfect.

Until one moment.

One of the waiters came up to him, a concerned look on his face. ‘Sir... sorry... Ma’am... sorry, whoever... We have someone in the main restaurant who is looking for you. He is creating quite a scene. Could you please come and speak to him?’

Shiloh brushed him off. ‘Just throw him out, my good man.’ Then they added. ‘And for your information, my gender is indeterminate, my sexuality is fluid. I have many spirits. My pronouns are They/Them, but I prefer to be addressed by “Ma’am”. It sounds so regal.’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ the waiter responded grudgingly. ‘But I really think you should come. He’s making quite the scene and making serious allegations against you.’

‘He’s not saying that I'm straight, is he?’

‘He’s saying that you are a people trafficker and a pimp...’

‘Sticks and stones may break my bones...’

Shiloh was frustrating the waiter. He hated his crass indifference towards the stress this situation was causing the staff and guests at this fine establishment. So he went for the jugular: ‘Ma’am, he is saying that you are actually in drag and are really a man.’

Under several layers of expensive make-up, Shiloh’s countenance flashed in a moment to deadly serious. ‘You. Assistant. Flunkey person.’ He called to Maja, who lifted her weary, but in-the-zone, head.

Maja acknowledged her boss’ summons. ‘Yes, Ma’am?’

‘Go and sort this out, will you?’ Shiloh snapped, with a click of their fingers.

Maja rose from her seat, gave a little bow, quickly removed a pen drive from a USB slot in the side of her laptop, put it in her jacket pocket and followed the waiter up the hill from the private function room to the main restaurant.

As soon as they’d left the glass function room, Maja said surreptitiously to the waiter, ‘Salamat kaayo, Gary. I almost thought it wouldn’t work. Great thinking with the “Man” thing.’

Gary smiled. ‘I knew that was his trigger word. Gabriel De La Cruz from the Island Times is here for you.’

‘Why is he here?’

‘To free you.’

They reached the main restaurant, which, apart from a small number of chattering Korean tourists, was nowhere near full. The lunchtime rush had yet to start. Gabriel was seated on a stool at the bar, downing the dregs of a glass of water.

Gary got his attention. ‘Sir Gabriel?’

Gabriel put his glass on the bar, turned around and looked at them both: the young waiter, likely on a small wage but somehow getting by, and the pretty, formally dressed woman, likely on a handsome wage working for a criminal gang.

No wonder the police were so busy.

Gabriel checked the woman’s identity. ‘Maja Hernandez?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Come with me. Your carriage awaits.’

They left speedily down the hill, avoiding, as they did so, a couple of American backpacker influencers who were taking pictures of the surrounding flora. They reached the gate and jogged outside onto the road. A tricycle driver, topless and whipping himself with his ragged t-shirt to keep cool, was waiting for them there.

‘I know it’s not what you’re used to.’ Gabriel told her.

‘It’ll do. They’ll notice I’m gone. Let’s go!’ Maja called out, as she ducked into the back of the tricycle with Gabriel, the driver jumped on his motorbike, started up the engine, which spat and growled, and they headed down the hillside towards Isabel.

It took Shiloh several courses to even notice she wasn’t there, which was quite something as she was seated opposite them.

It took Shiloh even longer to care.

If Don was honest, he was quite enthralled by the modern, Mediterranean style of Shakaz cafe, particularly as the entire place had been built out of two shipping containers. It was clean, petite and very stylish. Its colourful decor reminded him of holidays in Spain or Italy, back when he had annual leave and access to cheap flights. He sat there, at a circular, wooden, two-person table, under the air con, eating some pasta, drinking a Coke and looking intently at his watch.

A curious waitress tried to strike up conversation as she was passing. ‘Are you waiting on a lady, sir?’ she asked teasingly.

‘Yes, actually, I am.’ he told her.

‘Well, I am sure she will come.’ The waitress tried to reassure her.

‘Why? Because I'm devastatingly handsome, debonair and desirable? Don asked her.

‘No, sir. Because you are an Americano.’ she laughed as she headed to the kitchen.

A few minutes later and the cafe’s glass door opened. There, in the doorway, was a pretty, well-dressed Filipina in a dark business suit, light orange blouse and sensible flat shoes. It didn’t take her long to find Don. He was the only ‘Americano’ in the place.

She wandered slowly over to the table. ‘Is this seat taken?’ she asked.

‘If you are taking it, then it is.’ came Don’s reply. ‘But first, tell me: what is a pretty lady like you doing in a pretty place like this with a man like me?’

The pretty Filipina smiled a hugely relieved smile. ‘I am surrendering. At last. My name is Maja Estrella Hernandez.’ She extended her hand for Don to shake it. He rose up from his pasta, shook her hand, beckoned her to sit down and then sat down with her.

‘How do you know me?’ Don asked her.

‘Five years ago, Shiloh held a recruitment event in the Cebu Grand Convention Centre. My sister passed the auditions to work for him in a domestic capacity. I did not. But he saw my admin degree and office experience and hired me anyway as his assistant. I didn’t know...’ She took a second to compose herself. ‘I didn’t know much about him or what he did, other than that he was a rich and famous influencer. I didn’t see my sister for months. When she told me what he’d forced her to do...’ She gazed up at the ceiling to stop tears from falling and sniffed. ‘I decided to stay and bring him down from the inside.’

‘But where do I fit in?’ Don asked.

‘My sister contacted your NGO. They put her in contact with you. You spoke to the PNP. They raided the house in Mambaling and rescued her and her colleagues. She said told me that if I ever wanted out, I should contact your NGO. It was them who told me what to do to keep both of us safe.’

‘And now it’s over? You’re handing yourself in?’

‘Yes. And I’m bringing something else with me.’ Maja pulled a pen drive from her pocket – it was bright pink, like the others. ‘This contains all of his records: locations of branches, financial dealings, contacts, clients... everything. And it’s yours...’

Don reached out to get it. Maja pulled it away.

‘...but I want one thing first.’ she explained.

‘What do you want?’ Don asked her.

Maja smiled, through eyes reddened with stress and tears, and then said one single word:

‘Immunity.’

Roberta was in her office, having changed into her blue satin dress for the Mayor’s reception, when her phone buzzed. She picked it up. It was a text message. ‘Meet me. Battle of Ormoc Bay War Memorial. Now.’

She sighed deeply. She was looking forward to this reception.

Why did this stupid man have to ruin things? Why did he have to be the mosquito in the ointment?

But she knew what he would do if she didn’t go.

So she snatched at some keys on her desk and drove an unmarked police car through the late morning traffic, parking on Malacadios Street, and walked through the park as smoothly as she could to avoid sweating through her dress.

When she arrived, Michael was staring wistfully out at sea in front of the memorial plaque to the UN Naganami, while drinking from a plastic container of bubble tea. The roar of traffic behind him and the excitable chatter of people milling around the city, preparing their spot for the Piña Festival parades, had dulled as he’d wandered further from the road.

‘Can you make this quick, please? I have a much better place to be.’ She snapped.

‘Lots of people died here to bring freedom to this beautiful country.’ Michael mused. ‘Men like Valdez abuse that freedom and seek to remove it from others.’ He turned from his seaward gaze to face her. ‘That cannot be allowed.’ he said, with deep determination.

‘Yes, but there must be another way. Killing someone like this... it isn’t right.’ Roberta argued.

‘If there was another way...’ Michael argued.

‘There is. We’re working on it.’ Roberta shot back.

‘How long will it take? How many women will get hurt and abused in the meantime? Can you have them on your conscience?’ Michael parried. He sighed. ‘I know a lot of innocent people got caught in the cross-fire during the War on Drugs. But this clown is the lowest of the low. He is far from innocent. He deserves it.’

‘That won’t persuade me. Those woman deserve justice.’ Roberta told him, passion bleeding through her tone. ‘Moments like these are why I joined the police.’

‘Look, here’s the thing: sooner or later we will get this guy.’ Michael told her. ‘We know where you and your little gang hide out. That little performance last night was amusing, but it fooled no-one. We know you are hiding a key suspect in this case. When we get him, if we find you aided and abetted him, there will be consequences.’

That riled Roberta. ‘You have no jurisdiction here.’ she snarled.

Michael smiled arrogantly. ‘We are the CIA. Since when has that stopped us?’

Minutes later, a highly stressed Roberta called Don as she exited the Memorial Park. ‘Did your plan work, Sir Don? Do you have both of them?’

Don replied from his multicab. ‘I only have one. Only Maja. I’m taking her to a safe house now.’

‘Where? Not La Vista! You can’t have both women there! What if Valdez or the CIA find them? We could lose both of them!’ Roberta pointed out.

Don quickly reconsidered. ‘Okay, plan A version 2. I know where to take her, where the CIA won’t even think to look.’ he told her, before ending the call.

Fear flashed over Maja’s face. ‘CIA?’ she asked.

Don flapped the notion away with his hand. ‘Nothing to worry about, believe me.’

A few minutes later, he pulled to the edge of the road close to a blue concrete house in Barangay Libas. He stood at the gate and called out, ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

A woman in her late teens ran to the gate, eyed Don and Maja with suspicion, but let them in. They followed her down the steps and were met at the wooden door by two elderly people, the woman a foot or so smaller than the man.

Don cleared his throat and introduced himself. ‘Hi, Mr and Mrs Defensor. You don’t know me and I don’t know you. My name is Donald McLeish. This is Maja Hernandez. We’re acquaintances of your granddaughter, Verity. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind taking care of Maja for a while.’

They both looked at him darkly. Suspiciously. Like he could not be serious.

‘I’ll pay you a thousand pesos each and cover all your expenses.’ he offered, holding out four five hundred peso notes.

The two elderly people smiled and took the money. ‘Welcome, Maja! Come on inside!’ Diego beckoned her. ‘And what is it you do?’

‘Do you ride one of those infernal motorbikes? You’re not a lesbian too, are you?’ Dolores asked her.

Don grinned as he left.

Maja would get along with them just fine.

Michael was also leaving Memorial Park. ‘Orlov! Meet me in Rizal Park in front of the Art Museum. Now!’ he barked into his phone.

Ten minutes later, Alexei Orlov and Michael sat down on a bench underneath a tall tree to shelter from the scalding heat in the relatively peaceful greenery of Rizal Park, in front of the white facade of the Art Museum.

Michael spoke first. ‘New rules of engagement, Orlov. We now know when and where the meet will take place. It’s at the Bellavista Event Centre, just outside of Isabel, at five-thirty today.’

Alexei nodded.

‘But you have a chance to make some more money. A whole heap of it.’ Michael continued.

‘Tell me more.’ Alexei responded, grinning and highly engaged.

‘We have reason to believe that international traffickers will be present at that meeting. All men like Valdez. Well, not completely. Some of them accept that they are men and don’t swing both ways. If you eliminate them too, it’s a million dollars each on proof of death.’

Alexei stroked his chin. ‘A million each, eh? Not a bad offer. I’m going to need a lot more bullets. So tell me: what have you got for me?’

The great and the good and their various hangers-on were gradually descending on Residencia Abad for the Piña Festival Reception.

Already there, and chilling in the cooler, less humid mountain air, seated at a wooden terrace table with a cold iced tea in her hand and an absent stare on her scrupulously made-up face, was Norma Jones. It was delightful, simply delightful, for her to be away from the office, and to be oblivious to the chaos around her for a change instead of directing it. Everywhere she could look, employees of the Mayor and her husband were frantically buzzing around with last minute preparations for the arrivals of their honoured guests. But Norma? Well, she was British. She would just sit there and let the chaos happen.

After all, it was beneath her.

One by one they arrived: local TV and movie stars, lesser city functionaries, heads of schools and universities and local investors. They all came to glad-hand and to be glad-handed. The Mayor and her husband, of course, used this opportunity to bring the community together and make connections.

More than a few saw this as an opportunity to make connections with them.

Norma, however, saw this as an opportunity to be a big player and to meet with business leaders who could, perhaps, assist her to promote her proud nation. Because, my goodness, after the horrors of Brexit, it really needed promoting.

Among the lesser lights who were arriving was the Editor-In-Chief of the local rag, the Island Times. Norma shook Gabriel’s hand and they introduced themselves to each other. However, she was more interested in businesses that weren’t, in her opinion, dying on the vine, and so the introduction was brief and distracted and the conversation short and stilted.

What a hambogera! Gabriel thought to himself. I hope you enjoy what’s coming to you.

Don, fresh from dropping Gloria at the port for the midday sailing to Camotes, and carrying Roberta and Rohelio in the back of his multicab, was pulling up at the gates of Residencia Abad, where he heard the roar of a motorbike engine behind him. He eased his vehicle through the gates and parked it as directed by the Mayor’s staff, as did the bike rider.

Only there wasn’t one rider: there were two. One had spent the last hour clinging to the bike for dear life while the other had weaved her way through the steadily worsening city traffic.

While Roberta and Rohelio shuffled their way out the back of the multicab, and Don jumped out the front, Verity and Charlotte dismounted from the bike. Roberta was in her best, most pristine, police uniform and Rohelio was wearing a smart shirt, tie, trousers and polished shoes ensemble.

Don, however, looked like he hadn’t received the memo. He was wearing dark jeans and a polo shirt.

The bikers, on the other hand, had gone all out. Charlotte wore a bright top and culottes, and Verity was wearing a black, strappy mini-dress.

‘No expense spared for you, then.’ Verity jested with Don.

‘Hey! Come on! They’re ironed!’ he protested. ‘What about you? That must have been difficult to ride in. I bet you flashed more than your indicators.’

‘I have shorts on underneath.’ Verity informed him, as she dangled their helmets off the handlebars. ‘Besides, do you know how hard it is to combine potentially prize-winning journalist with international class whore?’

‘So the look you were going for was “Babe Station newsreader"?' Don quipped, which received a sharp dig in the ribs from Verity’s elbow.

‘Are Scottish people always like those two?’ Roberta asked Charlotte.

‘Only if they like each other.’ Charlotte joked.

The five of them entered the house, met up with Gabriel, and were soon introduced to pretty much everyone on the terrace, all while carrying a plate with snack food on it from the buffet laid out by the Abads’ stressed-out but still smiling staff.

Verity spied Norma, staring into space, glass of local wine in hand.

‘Here goes nothing.’ she whispered to Don.

‘Go get ‘em, tiger!’ he whispered back.

Which was met with a scolding stare.

‘Fighting!’ he whispered, sticking two thumbs up, a cheesy grin on his face.

Verity looked away and chuckled, before wandering slowly over to her prey, as if Norma was a deer she was trying hard not to spook.

‘Ma’am Norma, long time no see.’ she greeted her.

Norma seemed taken aback. She took a quick glug of wine, composed herself, cleared her throat and turned around to face Verity. ‘Yes, it’s been, what, just over two days?’

‘Have you been well?’

Norma showed her stiff upper lip. ‘Yes. Yes. I think so. One mustn’t complain.’

The normal British pleasantry dance over, Verity skipped directly to the point. ‘Ma’am Norma, we know what’s been happening.’ she began gently and compassionately.

Norma stared out into space across the countryside once more. ‘Oh, you do, do you?’

‘We have a copy of the video. I’ve seen it.’ Verity told Norma. ‘I don’t know where he was going with the whole Nazi thing, though. Was he trying to get himself on the New Year’s Honours List or something?’.

Norma shook with anger. ‘My husband’s peccadillos...’ she began, before realising that her voice was way too loud for such a conversation, especially as several people’s gaze was now in their direction. She lowered her tone so only Verity could hear. ‘My husband’s peccadillos are no-one’s problem but his, mine and our divorce lawyer’s. No-one else’s.’

‘I completely agree.’ Verity told her. ‘That’s why I won’t publish the video. In any form. It would be wrong for me to gain from other people’s pain.’

Norma laughed ironically. ‘Wow! You are not cut out for politics. Or journalism. But thank you. I appreciate it.’

Verity wasn’t done. ‘Ma’am, Shiloh Valdez has had you in his grip for years. He’s gotten away with the most horrendous crimes against men, women and children, all with British diplomatic immunity. But if that privilege is removed from him, we have more than enough evidence to convict him.’

Norma tried to excuse herself. ‘You don’t know what it's like. He has a lot of friends in high places.’

‘No. He has no friends, just a huge number of victims.’ Verity corrected her. ‘But with your help, every one of them becomes a witness that can put him behind bars for a very long time, while you will be free.’

‘Just divorced, a single parent in a foreign country, the subject of tittle-tattle and likely with my career ruined.’ she replied. ‘All thanks to one stupid Herr who couldn’t keep his weapon in his pants, and the cross-dressing fairy god-thingy who made all his perverted fantasies possible.’

‘But free.’ Verity added. ‘Valdez doesn’t need to control your life anymore. He’s done enough damage. Don’t let him do any more.’

‘And you won’t publish any of this. Anything about me or my soon-to-be ex-husband.’ Norma asked.

‘I can’t guarantee it won’t come out during the trial, but I won’t publish it until then. No big exclusives. No front page news. My boss will likely kill me, but, no, I won’t publish it.’ Verity reassured Norma.

Norma turned again to face Verity, the red rings to her sad eyes now painfully visible. ‘You may be the first thoroughly decent journalist I've ever met. Okay, here’s what you do. You go after him. You make him pay for what he's done to my family. Put him behind bars. And I promise you that when it comes time for him to be charged, there will be no objection from the British government.’

‘Thank you, Ma’am.’ Verity sighed, and headed back towards her friends.

Norma called after her. ‘Oh, and just one more thing, Ms Defensor.’

Verity turned towards her once more. ‘Yes, Ma’am?’

‘When you write your article, which you will, because you must: be kind to me. Or if you can’t be kind, give me an alias. I have tried, you know. I have tried to do the right thing. It’s just not always easy.’

Verity smiled. ‘I can do that, Ma’am. Enjoy the party!’ And with that, she walked away, leaving Norma Jones alone with her thoughts.

Which right then was the worst place she could be.

The bad and the worse were descending on Ormoc City.

Some by private plane into the tiny airport with zero commercial flights.

Some into the port, by public catamaran, sunglasses-wearing minders in tow, or by private bangka or speedboat.

None of them, not one, had the common sense to sail into the Isabel Ro-Ro port closer to the venue.

All of them – every last immoral one of them – found themselves snared in ever-worsening traffic, their chauffeurs thumping SUV steering wheels and shaking furious fists in utter frustration, as the joyous explosion of colour that is the Piña Festival parade danced and shimmied and swaggered around them.

Verity, meanwhile, and her friends, were all either on her bike or in the multicab and on their way away from the city, towards the town of Isabel.

They left Charlotte at La Vista, for her own safety, and then headed up to Isabel town centre, meeting in conference in the middle of the manicured greenery of Isabel Park.

‘Okay, so we know what we have to do.’ Don told them, his seriousness impressing on them the gravity of the situation.

‘I’ll go in there as if I'm about to be sold. But I’ll be wearing your wire.’ Verity nodded to Don. ‘I'll rub the locket with my fingers if I get in trouble. I’ll record everything.’

‘Roberta and I have a joint command centre set up in a van outside of Tolingon Elementary School. We’ll watch feeds from the cameras, listen to the microphones our teams are wearing and decide when to send in backup.’ Rohelio told them.

‘Sir Don and I are here on a consultancy basis.’ Gabriel stated.

‘Which means we get paid the big bucks to do not very much but tell everyone else what to do.’ Don added.

‘You are getting paid big bucks? Can I have some too?’ Gabriel jested to break the tension.

It didn’t work.

‘This is now Plan B version 1. Is everyone ready for this?’ Don asked.

Most answered ‘Yes’.

Verity answered, ‘Well...’.

They all turned and looked at her. Her role in this would be critical. She had to be ready.

‘Look, there’s something we need to do first that would help me feel a bit more comfortable.’ she told them.

‘What?’ Don asked. 'Give you a jacket so you flash less flesh?'

‘Pray...’ she said hesitantly.

And so, right there, in the front of the white and grey facade of Isabel Municipal Hall, they stood in a circular huddle and prayed, before quietly making their way to their vehicles and driving to Tolingon Elementary School, where they left their vehicles, and from where Verity walked, slowly because of the stifling heat and humidity, towards the Bellavista Event Centre.

There was no going back now.

Completely unknown and unperceived by then, a black SUV with tinted windows passed Verity on the street, and then a side street, before reversing into it, much to the curious interest of those who lived there.

They would later bear witness to this to the police.

Inside the SUV, Alexei Orlov looked at the armoury he had at his disposal, which rested on the rear passenger seat: an automatic weapon, two pistols, a sharp hunting knife and at least twenty rounds of ammunition. Not to mention a camouflage jacket and trousers.

And his personal favourite: a Russian-made grenade launcher captured previously from the New People’s Army.

The gun salesman the FBI had given him had really come up trumps. He had more than enough here to take out that effeminate mudak.

Now all he had to do was wait here until the other mudaks arrived and then he could have some fun.

He looked at his watch. It was 5.30pm precisely.

So where were they?

The international traffickers had barely rounded the Ormoc Rotunda and were just inching through the thinning traffic in Barangay Cogon as Verity approached the security gate at the Bellavista Event Centre. She could feel her palms becoming sweaty. Her heart felt like it was trying to thump its way out of her chest.

This was not pleasant.

She showed her passport and her invitation card to the security guard, who beckoned her inside.

What she saw really took her aback. In front of her was an exquisitely ornate white fountain – of a type normally seen at European castles or stately homes. Behind it was a two-level mansion, with spacious floors and huge, sweeping, arched windows. This was their main event space. And there, to its right, across the car park, was a further, and even bigger, mansion house, with the same design of arched windows. Both mansions had a red roof that sloped gently from its apex to its extremities.

Verity was deeply, deeply impressed.

But how could somewhere so beautiful become embroiled in something so horrifically ugly?

She followed the directions on the card, and the milling, excitable skimpily-dressed girls and guys, and headed to her right, down the path past perfectly manicured lawns and trees. The staff told her, rather concerningly, that this building also had hotel accommodation.

She dreaded any of these traffickers being tempted to try before they buy.

‘Don, can you hear me? Don’t want any issues like last time.’ She murmured into her locket microphone.

‘It's paired with your phone, not mine, so it should work this time. Unless, of course, they make you surrender your phone or there’s a brownout.’ Don told her.

Verity was stunned. Her stress levels rising like fireworks, she whispered into the locket, ‘Don, I am meeting with some serious criminals in the Philippines. What do you think will happen?’

Don was sanguine. ‘I wouldn’t worry. I don’t think the NPA will bomb any mobile phone towers tonight. They'll be too busy partying.’

Rohelio intervened. ‘Hey, it’s okay. We’ve got your back.’

A male staffer dressed in a beautiful barong Tagalog and immaculately pressed black trousers bowed slightly as he opened the door and ushered her into the waiting area. Again, she gaped in awe.

This place was simply wonderful. A cream tiled floor so polished she could almost see her face in it. A chandelier above, with tiny light bulbs that reflected in the floor like stars. A sweeping white winding staircase, with a black, ornate, wrought iron handrail, leading to what seemed like a stunning upper level. And at those enormous arched windows, secluded cubby holes contained tables and chairs for the most intimate rendezvous.

No wonder this place was used for weddings.

Which was ironic, because the business they were in would likely end marriages, not start them.

Two young hotel staffers sat on comfortable chairs at a white clothed table. Verity gave them her card and they told her to go to a table: table number 1. And there she sat: next to a heavily made up trans woman in incredibly skimpy clothing, a very effeminate gay man, a young woman who had all the bearing of an influencer, and was dressed in a low cut top and the tightest of jeans, and a nervous-looking girl, who looked like she had lied about her age, and was dressed in cheap Chinese knock-offs of fashionable clothes, bought from an okay-okay market.

The SUVs with the international traffickers in them had now left Curva and were barrelling past the road to San Juan in convoy at great speed, honking their horns at even the faintest sighting of a village to shoo any obstructions off the road.

Shiloh was upstairs, in a flawlessly furnished room, posing again and again in a huge mirror as they examined themselves in a bright pink satin ball gown, white stole and a massive blonde wig that made their head look like the cream topping on a sundae.

‘Yes, yes. There is no-one quite like you, Shiloh. And today you’re about to make so much money – more than your family could ever dream of. And if they want to have any of it, they can go suck an egg.’ they told themselves in the mirror. ‘But those business partners of mine – they do seem awful late. I mean, I’m all for a stylish entrance, but... Do you know where they are?’ They turned around.

Their assistant wasn’t there. For the first time since lunch time, Shiloh noticed that their assistant, whose name they could not ever remember, wasn’t around.

‘Probably in the bathroom or something.’ Shiloh muttered. ‘Now, where was I? Oh, yes: hating the haters. And all you bullies and homophobes who made my life miserable... well, look who’s on top now?’ they cooed into the mirror.

After introductions, and the de rigeur compliments about what each of them were wearing, Verity noticed a degree of anxiousness among the group.

‘Do any of you understand what’s going on here?’ Verity asked them.

‘Yes.’ the clearly gay man sing-songed excitedly. ‘We’re being recruited. For a job. Abroad. I’m hoping for Paris. Or Milan. Or Rome. I’d even take London.’

‘Close, but not quite.’ Verity told them.

‘Well, what is it then?’ the trans woman asked, in a deep voice that instantly betrayed the gender of their birth.

‘Shiloh Stalker Valdez is not just an influencer. They are also a trafficker.’ Verity explained.

‘Well done to them for breaking into such a cis-dominated industry. I take my hat off to them.’ the gay man told her.

‘You’ll be taking a lot more than that off, because Valdez is planning to traffic us. Right now. That’s why they brought us here: to sell us like chattel slaves to their business partners.’

‘You mean, for sex?’ the gay man asked.

Verity nodded. ‘Yes.’

The young girl’s expression immediately contorted with a heady concoction of disgust and fear.

The trans woman was unfazed. ‘Well, if that’s what he wants to do, honey, I’m fine with that. I mean, how else is someone like me supposed to earn a decent living? Do you think singing karaoke in clubs is going to keep this body looking so fine? I have dreams, and those dreams need cash.’

Verity was incredulous. ‘And you're quite happy to sell yourself to get it?

‘So long as I go for top dollar.’ came the response.

‘I’m with her.’ The influencer looked away from her mobile phone with the rhinestone-trimmed case and disco ball charm. ‘It will be interesting to pin my self worth on something that actually has, you know, worth.’

‘Wait... so you're telling me that an influencer, with more followers than this island has people living on it, is actually a people trafficker?’ the gay man asked. ‘How does he get away with it?’

‘He’s hiding in plain sight.’ Verity told them. ‘He runs brothels, and then uses pictures and videos to blackmail people in power.’

‘So he’s powerful too?” the gay man asked. ‘I like him already.’

Verity was exasperated. ‘Do you people have any concept of what’s going to happen to us?’ she snapped in a hoarsely, aggressive whisper.

‘I do. I’ve found me a lot of daddies. Finally I'm gonna get me some sugar.’ the gay man said flatly.

‘If I vlog about any of this, I’ll quadruple my following.’ the female influencer added.

‘I’m getting surgery so I can finally be the woman that I am.’ the trans woman piped up.

Verity sank back to her chair and sighed pure frustration.

‘Some people just don’t want to be saved, honey. Just get over it and move on.’ the trans woman told her.

But not everyone had spoken.

‘I do.’ the young girl said nervously. ‘I get it, and I don’t want it. I mean, I’m here because my Mama made me. She’s sick. My Papa’s sick. Hospitals are expensive. They need the money. But I don’t think they knew, you know, about Shiloh. It doesn’t matter anyway, because I don’t want this. I don’t want any of it.’

‘But the money, darling.’ the trans woman told her.

‘I'll get it. Somehow. But not like this. No way.’ the girl replied. She turned to Verity. ‘Can you please get me out of here? I don’t want this. I want to leave.’

‘Come with me.’ Verity stood up with her and made for the door.

Without warning, the male staffer closed the door and blocked the door. ‘Nobody leaves.’ he told them sternly.

‘She’s underage.’ Verity explained to them. ‘Anyone who sleeps with her will be committing a crime.’

He stared them down with an iron gaze and said slower, and angrier. ‘Nobody leaves. Shiloh’s orders. You leave when you are sold. Not before.’

The young girl’s lips began to tremble. Verity led her away, back to her seat. ‘Look, don’t cry. Don’t show any sign of emotion. These people: they are not worth it. By the way, what’s your name?’

‘Amihan. Amihan Montero. My friends me Ami.’ the girl sniffed.

Verity spoke softly to her. ‘Listen, Ami, I am getting you out of here. I have a lot of friends with me, and they are going to rescue us, I promise. You will not be trafficked. Do you hear me? This is all going to be fine.’

Ami pushed back the sob that was rising within her. ‘Thank you.’ she said weakly.

The trans woman overheard her. ‘Are you going to rescue us too?’ they asked, their tone soaked with cynical sarcasm.

‘Yes. Yes we are. All of you.’ Verity told them all.

The influencer wasn’t convinced. ‘What if we don’t want to be rescued?’ she asked, folding her arms in defiance.

‘I’ll still try anyway.’ Verity replied.

‘What are you: some kind of Evangelical?’ the gay man sneered.

‘I am.’ Verity told them confident of her identity for the first time in years. ‘And I am not ashamed of it.’

‘Good for you, darling. I’m happy for you. But you might want to put that plan on hold, because our bright future awaits.’ The trans woman told her, spying three black, tinted SUVs swishing their way into the car park in the half-light of dusk, as night began its slow journey across the archipelago.

Shiloh heard them too. ‘They’re here! They’re here! My fairy godfathers who will make me rich! So, let the cattle auction begin!’

‘All units in position. Standby until we assess what we’re sure of what we’re dealing with here.’ Roberta commanded her team, as the black SUVs pulled to a halt, the doors slid open and the vehicles disgorged traffickers, and their armed bodyguards, onto the asphalt outside the building where Verity was watching and waiting.

Roberta’s radio crackled. ‘Three vehicles. I can see at least one, maybe two traffickers in each. Four bodyguards each vehicle. As far as I can see, they have automatic weapons.’ her team member told her.

‘Stand by.’ Roberta told them. ‘Do not engage yet.’

Verity nodded at the SUVs and their dangerous-looking, armed passengers, readying themselves in the yellow glow of the light seeping through the windows. ‘See? I told you these guys were bad news.’

‘Except for those who like their man like their eggs... hard and spicy.’ the gay man cooed.

The traffickers – apparently one Arab and five Caucasians – were welcomed into the building and ushered up the ornate staircase to the upper rooms. Within a few minutes, a radio at the table near the staircase crackled onto life. One of the hotel staffers walked over to Verity's table and told them, ‘Table number one, please come with me.’

The gay man clapped excitedly as he stood up. ‘Our destiny awaits!’ he announced, his pitch getting higher in anticipation.

‘Don’t you take this away from us.’ the trans woman glowered at Verity.

They headed for the stairs and began to walk towards their future.

Don was alert to what was happening. ‘Back-up is in place. Remember our signal. You are getting out of this.’ He told her.

They were led upstairs to a large bedroom, with fantastic views over the courtyard and the twinkling lights of the village beyond, and a huge balcony through its French windows.

But they didn’t notice a fourth SUV arriving.

The guard at the gate had. However, the perilous threat of an automatic weapon to the head kept him quiet.

The police team had. ‘Fourth vehicle arriving. Single occupant. No bodyguard.’ one of them relayed back to Roberta, Rohelio and Don.

The blood drained from Don’s face. ‘It's the CIA assassin. The Russian guy. We have to stop this. It’s too dangerous.’

‘Don! No! We have to let this play out!’ Roberta scolded him.

Don was undeterred. ‘Someone will die in there, Roberta. Someone will die and it might be Verity. You know the Russian Army: they blow up hospitals because one doctor says his prayers in the wrong church. People could get caught in the crossfire. Innocent people.’

‘We have battling these traffickers for years. Far too many women and children have been hurt. That battle ends tonight.’ Roberta argued.

‘What do you say about this?’ Don fired at Rohelio.

Rohelio answered without a second thought. ‘I say we find his bloodied remains and throw them into the Camotes Sea.’

‘You’re sick, both of you. Completely sick. You lived through years of this and you still think it's a good solution. Well, maybe I’m too British, but I don’t. I'm pulling Verity out.’ Don ranted angrily. ‘And then... And then I'm putting a stop to this. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, both of you.’

Don made for the van door, wrenched it open and stormed his way towards the school gates.

‘Don! Don!’ Roberta called out vainly.

‘Leave him.’ Rohelio told her. ‘Let him be fish food too if he wants.’

Table number one was paraded in front of a panel of traffickers as if they were competitors in some sick reality TV show.

‘I promised you beautiful people. As you can see, I did not disappoint. How much am I bid for the first group?’ Shiloh beamed with excitement

The Arab was the first to respond. ‘The man who thinks he is a woman is a little too niche for my tastes.’ he said, much to the trans woman’s deep, and clearly expressed, chagrin. ‘The homosexual is good, but such behaviour is punishable by death in my country, so someone using him would really need to have a taste for extreme sports. The three girls are good: one is young, so there will be at least the impression that she is a virgin – very important for my customers; one is less young, but with an understated beauty; the other is pretty but appears to be a little stupid. Some men like that. I will give you one million dollars for each of the women, but I am not interested in the men.’

Another of the traffickers, a chisel-faced British man with undesigned stubble and a pool of sweat forming on his forehead, muttered, ‘Out-priced for the top players by Arab petrodollars. Now I know how the English Premier League feels.’

Out in the courtyard, Alexei had parked his SUV across from the fountain, its back facing the others. He leapt outside, opened the back doors, and then got into the rear passenger seat, where he began to prepare the grenade launcher in the dull interior light of his vehicle.

The traffic on the main road through Tolingon was intense. Car after car barrelled past Don at unsafe speeds. When there were no cars, tricycles sped past, overtaking and weaving round each other as they did so, as if in a race.

‘Verity! Abort! Abort! Get out of there!’ Don shouted into his earpods.

The road finally cleared. He dashed across it and sprinted as fast as he could to the Bellavista Event Centre. But the guard stopped him. ‘Trust me, sir, you do not want to go in there.’ he told Don.

Alexei took aim. He pressed the trigger. A live grenade shot out of the tube of his launcher with a thunk. It arced through the air. It struck its target.

BOOM!

The furthest of the three SUVs from the event centre was blasted into the air, shattering glass and shrapnel and vehicle parts every which way.

‘Get down!’ a resort worker yelled.

Debris smashed into the huge resort windows. Glass clattered onto the floor like sharpened confetti. Screams. Shouts. Yells.

The air was blackened with smoke.

‘What is happening?’ the Arab trafficker asked.

‘I think your cheque just bounced.’ Verity retorted sarcastically.

Another thunk.

BOOM!

Another SUV blown to smithereens. Shrapnel and vehicle parts shot into the air like fourth of July fireworks. Window panes clanged and smashed into smithereens on the floor. A cacophony of screams.

Thunk.

BOOM!

The third SUV blown to pieces.

With no more windows to smash, tyres and fittings were hurled like missiles into the reception hall. They bounced and crashed and smashed into any obstacles they found, breaking tables, chairs, people.

Above the lick of the flames as they reached higher and higher, and screams and moans and desperate cries for help, a Russian-accented voice boomed.

‘Do I have your attention? Bring me Shiloh Stalker Valdez. Now!’ Alexei commanded, before adding, ‘Or else every one of you dies today.’

The answer was not slow in coming. Bodyguards ran to the balcony, hid behind the parapet, and peppered Alexei's SUV with automatic gun fire.

Alexei grabbed his grenade launcher, strapped a Kalashnikov assault rifle around him, and leapt out of vehicle.

Seconds later, it too blew up with a deafening boom.

‘Ha! You missed!’ Alexei yelled from behind the fountain. ‘For that, I will give you five seconds for you to give me Shiloh Stalker Valdez. If you refuse, you will all die.’

Shiloh panicked. ‘I don’t think he's joking. Russians don’t know how. I need to get out of here.’ He turned to the Arab. ‘I’ll accept half now. Other half on delivery. I take G-Cash.’

Verity took charge. ‘We need to go. Now!’

Alexei began to count down in Russian, under the constant rat-at-at hail of automatic gunfire. ‘Pat... četyre.’

Verity led them down the staircase, which was not so grand now. It was littered with shards of glass, broken metal beams, blood, and the bodies of two people who had tried, but failed to escape the blasts.

‘Oh, I really wish I had my Balenciaga kicks on now. My feet will be sliced to ribbons in these sandals.’ Shiloh moaned.

‘Come on! If you want to live.’ Verity bellowed above the din.

The countdown continued. ‘Tri... Dve...’

Verity, the remainder of Table One, and the traffickers, two remaining bodyguards in tow, scampered down the stairs.

‘Odin... Lift off!’ Alexei readied his grenade launcher on his shoulder, poked his head above the rim of the fountain, took aim and pressed the trigger.

BOOM!

The room where the sale had taken place exploded, hurling several bodyguards to the ground.

The blast inside the building was blinding. Deafening. Shrapnel shot in every direction.

Verity yelled, ‘Get down!’ and crouched down on the step where she stood, as did her companions. Dust and masonry and tiny shards of glass showered down on them.

‘Verity! Verity!’ Don yelled in vain.

‘Sir, you really cannot go in there.’ the guard told him as he stood front of Don, blocking his way.

‘Oh, bite me!’ Don snapped, shoving him out the way.

Don ran into the grounds in front of the Event Centre buildings. The SUVs were less then scrap now – just a mess of smouldering metal, shattered glass and melted upholstery, still licked by wild and untameable flames. He could see Alexei, hiding beneath the lip of the fountain, still exchanging fire with some remaining bodyguards on the singed balcony.

Don knew what he had to do.

He spied a section of exhaust pipe, thrown far from the fountain. He snuck as quickly as he could around the treeline: unheard by Alexei, undetected by the shooters on the balcony. And then he dashed towards the fountain. Bullets hailed to the ground around him. One scratched his arm. He kept running. He lifted the pipe above his head. Alexei raised himself up to return fire. Don swiped the piece of pipe down. Hard. It struck Alexei square on the crown of his head. He fell backwards. He slumped to the floor, blood forming a muddy puddle at his feet.

Don ducked for cover and called Rohelio. ‘Activate your people. The shooter is down.’

‘Roger!’ Rohelio acknowledged him.

The volley of shots from the balcony did not receive a response. The bodyguards stopped firing. They had their man.

Or so they thought.

‘The shooting has stopped. We need to go. Now!’ Verity snapped, leading Ami by the hand as they crunched through the broken glass and made for the spaces where beautiful decorative windows once stood. ‘Come on!’ she shouted to her companions.

Shiloh wagged a skinny finger at her. ‘Eh, no way I’m following you. Nuh-uh! The cis police will arrive soon and, as much as I like men in uniform, I do not suit orange. I’m making my own way.’

‘You do you, then, Shiloh!’ she barked back, as she led Ami towards the exit, and Shiloh, two bodyguards and three candidates for trafficking headed in the opposite direction, to the small beach, where a few boats were tied up on small stakes in the ground.

Don saw Verity as her and Ami were fleeing towards the guardhouse and the exit gate. He sped over to her as fast as his legs could carry him.

‘You’re alive, then. Nice of you to say.’ he snapped sarcastically.

‘Yeah. Sorry. Too busy surviving. Take her to the guard and leave her there, please.’ Verity told her.

‘Why? Where are you going?’ Don shot back.

Verity pointed to the sea. ‘To get Valdez.’

Don tried to stop her. ‘Don’t you think you should leave that to the...’

‘Police. Stop! Now! Or we’ll shoot!’ Police personnel poured out of the undamaged building, swarming in their bark blue uniforms, stab-proof vests and helmets and pointing their guns at Shiloh’s escapees.

They ignored the police.

‘Stop NOW!’ the police commander yelled.

The bodyguards turned round. They stared down their assailants.

‘Get down!’ Don yelled. Don, Verity and Ami hit the dirt.

The air was thick with smoke. The constant rat-at-at of automatic gunfire was deafening. The police took cover behind their building, popping out to fire on the bodyguards.

The bodyguards kept moving backwards, making sure they were as hard to hit as possible.

‘Untie this boat.’ Shiloh snapped at the influencer.

‘Do you know how much these nails cost?’ she protested.

‘Untie that boat and you won’t have to worry about that.’ Shiloh retorted.

She did as she was told.

‘Get in. And take me to Malapascua. Now.’ Shiloh ordered.

‘I’ll try, but I'm no sailor.’ she told him.

‘Take us with you!’ the trans woman cried out.

‘We’ll make you money!’ the gay man shouted.

Shiloh scoffed as the influencer started up the engine. ‘You two? I couldn’t even get an Arab with more money than sense to buy you.’

A bullet whizzed by the trans woman. They ducked. ‘Save us!’ they shouted.

‘No.’ Shiloh called to them as the boat pulled away from shore. ‘Save yourselves.’

Thwack! Thwack!

The left behind applicants turned round, just as the bodyguards fell to the floor like a house of cards in a breeze.

‘We surrender! We surrender!’ they yelled, hands aloft, as the police rushed on them, forced them to their knees and cuffed them roughly.

‘We’re not getting trafficked now, are we?’ the trans woman moaned.

‘Not this time.’ the gay man agreed sadly.

‘I hate karaoke!’ the trans woman cried.

‘My sugar daddies are all diabetic!’ the gay man whined.

Verity ran to the shoreline. All she could see was a small bangka, speeding out across the sea. She doubled over, winded, wilting in the heat, and puffed out into her locket, ‘I’ve lost him, Don. He’s gone. I’ve lost him.’

Down the road, in La Vista Del Rio, the owner and his wife were becoming increasingly concerned. They were a little resentful at missing the Piña Festival Parade, but they had a guest – a paying guest at that – and they couldn’t leave her.

However, her behaviour was becoming very odd to say the least.

She’d paddled in the pool for a while after breakfast – a perfectly rational thing to do.

However, after lunch she’d been a bag of nerves: pacing up and down like a man awaiting the birth of his first child; staring into space, totally detached and distracted. Now she was up on the river view deck, sometimes sitting and drumming her feet on the floor, sometimes pacing up and down, often muttering to herself, never interacting with anyone or anything.

‘British tourists are weird.’ The resort owner’s wife and manager told her husband. ‘Do you think she’s on drugs?’

‘Verity said she was clean.’ the owner replied. ‘I don’t know. I think something is going on with her. Maybe you could try to speak with her.’

The owner’s wife smiled craftily. ‘You’re picking up goat poop for a month then.’

She left the check-in desk where they had been talking. She walked slowly toward her skittish guest, not wanting to alarm her in case she did something foolish. One pace after another, twigs cracking under her feet, she snuck past the volleyball net, closer to the river view deck.

She reached within earshot of their guest. ‘Charlotte?’ she said softly.

Charlotte turned round to face her. Her face looked thoroughly spooked.

‘Are you okay?’ the resort manager asked.

‘No!’ Charlotte shouted.

And then she ran.

She ran down the steps from the river view deck.

She ran past the volleyball net and the gazebos.

She ran across the car park.

She ran out the gate.

Before they could stop her, she’d ran down Siapon Street and was gone.

The owner knew what he had to do.

He picked up his phone.

Verity took the call. Her face turned white as a sheet. She turned to face Don, who was approaching her from the guard house once again across the debris.

‘It’s Charlotte.’ she told Don. ‘She’s gone.’

‘Right, well, we need to get control of this, don’t we?’ Don told her firmly. ‘We need a plan.’

Left and right armed police were picking their way across the mess, extracting distressed casualties and applying rudimentary first aid until ambulances arrived from Ormoc City. They also located the dead, covering them in black sheets.

Alexei Orlov was alive when they found him, but he was unconscious and bleeding. They dressed his wound and prepared him for medical evacuation. The other traffickers – the few that survived Alexei’s wrath – were all swiftly brought to their knees and detained.

Don called Rohelio. ‘Valdez is heading out to sea in a bangka. Any chance we could get a coastguard on him?’

‘Negative.’ Rohelio replied. ‘They’re all tied up playing cat and mouse with the Chinese at Ayungin Shoal. Do we know who he’s with?’

Verity told him. ‘Some influencer woman.’ Don told Rohelio.

Rohelio chuckled. ‘Nancy Ortiz? Instagram handle: NorTeezer? Trust me, he isn’t getting far.’

‘Why?’ Don asked. ‘Is she a poor sailor?’

‘No.’ Rohelio told him, his knowing grin almost audible. ‘She’s one of ours.’

Don passed the information back to Verity.

Verity had a sudden realisation. ‘Charlotte is new here. Not a lot of places she knows about. In fact, just three. And I think I know where she's gone. Come on! We’ll need your multicab.’

While Verity and Don were making their way through the smoky chaos at the Bellavista Event Centre and out towards where the vehicles were parked at Tolingon Elementary School, the influencer (Nancy Ortiz, a.k.a. NorTeezer) was showing herself to be particularly adept at gunning the bangka through the choppy surf. Even Shiloh was impressed. Although they weren’t the type to show it.

However, around fifteen to twenty minutes into their journey, Shiloh began to notice a bit of a problem.

‘Hey!’ they shouted back at the tiller, where Nancy was showing her prowess. ‘Aren’t we headed in the wrong direction? I wanted Malapascua. That’s north-west – so, right. We’re headed left, so, south-west.’

‘It's easier this way.’ Nancy lied. ‘Closer to the islands. More light. Less baud.’

Shiloh might not have much of a sense of smell left. Years of cocaine usage had eaten away at their olfactory cells. But even they could smell something was off. ‘Turn this boat around!’ They snapped. ‘Take me to Malapascua! This instant!’

Nancy pretended to not hear them.

‘What are you doing? Do what I say!’

Nothing.

Shiloh had had enough. They shuffled towards the rear of the boat, which made it wriggle and shake.

‘Stop! You’ll sink us!’ Nancy shouted at them.

Shiloh was undeterred. They pushed Nancy. They wrestled her for the tiller. They yelled, ‘Give me that! Give me it now!’ They tussled. They battled. The boat rocked from side to side, its stabilising poles smashing into the surf. It turned this way and that. It pitched. It rolled. They held each other to stay out of the water. They held the boat. They fought for the tiller. They fought hard. They pushed and they shoved until...

Shiloh was hurled from the bangka and fell, bottom first, into the water with a huge splash.

Right then and there, Nancy abandoned them in the drink. She turned the bangka away, out of Shiloh’s desperate grasp, and left them, yelling for help, battling the raucous and merciless surf.

And it was dark. Darkness you could feel. The twinkling lights of the shore might as well be a million miles away. Shiloh battled to keep their head above water. But the swell – that mighty, relentless swell – kept ducking them down and throwing them up.

Their wig was the first to go – ripped from them by the tide that thumped them and bumped them and dunked them under water. Then the false eyelashes bobbed away. Their make-up washed off in an instant, leaving behind only an oily slick. Their ballgown was leaden with water. A dangerous encumbrance. A dead weight. They slipped it off like a snake scratching off last season's skin. They had to. They had to survive. They watched helplessly as the water snatched it far away, its waves wearing it with mocking pride.

And there they floated, everything that once mattered disappearing into the distance, leaving only a sodden, sorrowful man behind. A man in ill-fitting woman's underwear.

But then they saw a light. A tiny light that loomed closed and closer through the gloom. And then the steady, throaty thud of a two-stroke engine. And then that voice, that elderly, authoritative, female voice, echoing out over the crashing waves. ‘Shiloh! Shiloh! Shiloh!’

‘I’m here!’ Shiloh cried out. ‘I’m here!’

The light edged towards him, closer and closer, until it nearly blinded him.

‘Salamat sa Deus! I've found you.’ The voice exclaimed with relief. ‘Swim over here, if you can. I’ll save you.’

Shiloh couldn’t help but comply. They swam, closer to the light, closer to the motor, which was stilled so they could be rescued.

But then they saw her. ‘No! Not you! I don’t want to be saved by you!’ Shiloh squealed.

‘Who else will save you, Shiloh?’ the woman called out of the darkness. ‘Who else is there?’

‘I don’t know. Someone. Anyone. Just not you.’ Shiloh panicked. They tried to swim away, but the tide slapped them back towards the light.

They felt a hand grasp their sodden bra strap and lift them up.

‘No!’ Shiloh writhed like a fish in a net to escape. ‘I don’t want to be saved by you!’

‘I’m not giving you a choice.’ The voice said.

Something stung Shiloh. Something sharp. Something small.

Shiloh stopped fighting.

Shiloh became limp.

Shiloh surrendered.

Ever since she was a child, ever since she had known Charlotte, Verity had told her of a place. A place where she had danced and laughed and played and sung and been silent. A place where she had been welcomed and hugged and kissed and loved. A place where she’d had friends and family and confidants. A place where she had been truly herself, and been accepted for who she was.

She had only ever known one place where all of that was true.

So she knew Charlotte was headed for that one place.

Because where else would she go?

The trusty little multicab rounded the bend close to Lamanok and sped towards Barangay Libas. There, just at the edge of the village, was a little independent church. It was the pastor’s wife's turn to clean it, but as she’d opened the doors, a blonde foreigner had brushed passed her at speed, dashed through the sanctuary and bowed down on repentant knees at the small table in front of the pulpit, wh. There she knelt, weeping and praying like a latter-day Hannah, only she was confessing her many, many sins and begging forgiveness, her voice muttering in a barely discernable mumble.

The multicab drew to a halt outside.

‘Are you sure she's here?’ Don asked Verity.

Verity nodded. ‘She has nowhere else to go.’

They leapt from the cab and Verity led him inside the building. The pastor's wife – a gentle woman greyed by struggle as well as by years – met them as they entered.

‘Have you come for her?’ she asked them, while pursing her lips towards their weeping compatriot.

Verity nodded. ‘I hope she hasn’t been too much trouble.’

‘Only to God, but nothing is too much trouble to Him.’ the pastor’s wife told them.

Verity walked slowly and reverently towards her school friend. The sounds of sobbing and mumbled prayer grew louder as she approached. ‘Charley? Charley? It's okay. The police have him. It’s over. You’re free.’ she gently reassured Charlotte.

‘But how can I ever be free from me?’ Charlotte sobbed. ‘Ver, what have I done?’

Verity was so close she could touch her shoulder. ‘God has your past, Charley. Leave it with Him. It’s forgiven. Dead and gone. What matters now is each moment you live. Don’t squander it again. It’s time to live life as it should be lived.’

Charlotte turned around to face her friend, her cheeks streaked with tears. ‘Thank you. I never thought your faith was useful for anything. Not now. I realise it’s everything now.’

The two women embraced tightly in front of the pulpit. It was truly over.

Charlotte was saved.

‘There’s just one thing that bothers me.’ Verity told her as their embrace loosened. ‘This is an independent Protestant church. People usually do things like this in a Catholic church.’

Charlotte nodded towards the steep pathway to the Catholic Church across the road. ‘Have you seen their stairs? They seemed too much like hard work.’ she quipped.

Don and the pastor’s wife looked on at the happy scene. ‘You know, I know her family really well. I’ve heard the rumours about her being, you know, a lesbian. But now I see her with a woman...’ the pastor’s wife mused.

‘...You know she likes men, right?’ Don set her straight.

The pastor’s wife was surprised. ‘Really? I must tell my son...’

Hours passed. Shiloh could not say how many. They awoke in a bed in a simple bedroom – elegant and demure in its paucity. Sunlight streamed in through a glass window, making a rainbow through the pane.

A rainbow with seven colours. No more. No less.

Shiloh scanned the room. Some nice colourful posters were pinned to the pastel shaded walls. The posters had some form of sayings or proverbs on them. They squinted through eyes and a brain that were both starting to function once again.

What could they be?

And then he saw it. Small. Unobtrusive. But unmistakable.

A feeling of dread flooded over Shiloh. They scrambled up out of the covers and hugged their knees for comfort.

No. No. It couldn’t be. They could not be there. Anywhere but there.

There was an empty wooden cross on the wall.

There was a gentle knock at the door. ‘Are you awake?’ a calm, elderly Filipina asked.

‘Yes, I think so.’ Shiloh offered, without any enthusiasm.

The woman walked into the room. Shiloh immediately clutched the thin sheet they’d slept under in sheer terror. ‘You!’ he exclaimed. ‘I know all about you! You converted people from our community. You won’t convert me!’

The woman smiled. ‘My name is Gloria Amparo. You can call me Ma’am Gloria. And yes, men and women from your community have been here, but I didn’t convert any of them. God did. And they came here because of things that you had done to them. You have quite a reputation around here, Shiloh Stalker Valdez. You should be glad this place is empty now or I could not have taken you in. But I am making you an offer, Shiloh. An offer to change.’

‘No! No!’ Shiloh whimpered.

‘Walk away from your trade. Repent of it. Provide the police with information on all of your business. Do that and I promise I will not hand you over to them.’ Gloria explained gently.

‘No! Never! I’d rather die!’ Shiloh growled angrily.

‘I had a feeling you would say that.’ Gloria told him. ‘So I thought you’d like to meet my friends. Come in!’ she called out.

Verity, Don, Roberta and Rohelio quietly filed into the room. Verity had her phone ready to capture the moment.

‘Can I read him his rights?’ Don asked.

‘Of course not! You don’t have jurisdiction.’ Roberta told him.

Rohelio had the honour, which Verity was only too keen to video. ‘Shiloh Stalker Valdez, I am arresting you on suspicion of multiple counts of people trafficking, sexual assault, sexual intercourse with minors, drug trafficking and blackmail. You have the right to remain silent.’

Roberta moved towards Shiloh to cuff their hands.

Rohelio continued. ‘Any statement you make may be used against you in a court of law in the Philippines. You have the right to have a competent and independent counsel preferably of your own choice. If you cannot afford the services of a counsel, the government will provide you one. Do you understand these rights?

‘Yes, yes. Of course I do. I’m queer, not stupid.’ Shiloh snarked as Roberta snapped cuffs onto his wrist.

Don and Verity looked on in pride as years obsession and investigation finally reached their climax. Shiloh was manhandled out of the retreat into a waiting jeepney and driven, escorted by two NBI officers and two local cops, to the pier for the ferry to Cebu and incarceration.

‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I feel like a holiday after this.’ Don told Verity.

‘Boracay? El Nido? Siargao?’ Verity listed the very best beach destinations the Philippines had to offer.

Don thought hard for a second. Then he gave his verdict with a mischievous smile:

‘Largs.’

Ma’am Norma Jones picked up her bag from the x-ray machine, submitted to a gentle pat-down search and marched towards the spartan surroundings of the visitor's room in Cebu Municipal Jail. As she approached it, a small and weasily looking man approached her, briefcase full of papers in hand. He extended his other hand to shake hers. ‘Glad to see you, Ma’am Norma.’ he told her. ‘He’s looking forward to seeing you. He wants you to do what you can to get him into a female prison before he's transferred. Should be easy enough. I’m sure you can manage that.’

Norma looked at him sternly. ‘Counsel, if I was you, I would think carefully about who you are representing. Shiloh Stalker Valdez will be found guilty. The evidence is overwhelming. And when he is, we will hit him with every Proceeds of Crime confiscation order we possibly can, until his businesses are crippled and he will come out of prison to live in a cardboard box. So I sincerely hope you haven’t taken this case hoping there’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, because, let me tell you: there will not be one when we are finished.’

The lawyer was shocked at her frankness. ‘Thank you. Thank you for telling me.’ he said, as he weaseled off into the dark.

Norma entered the visitor’s room. Shiloh was already there, his spirit broken by his shaved head, bright orange jump suit and complete lack of make-up or beauty treatments since his arrest. His skin was flakey and pale. Acne was already flaring up.

He lifted his head to great her. ‘Ma’am Norma. I’m done here. I want to go home.’ He murmured weakly.

Norma cleared her throat. ‘Shiloh Stalker Valdez, this will be my first and last visit to you. I have been reassigned. Because of you. But before I go, I have taken note of your heinous and unacceptable behaviour and have come to give you this.’

She removed a piece of paper from a folder in her hand and slid it across the table to him.

‘This is an order to remove you from the payroll of the Embassy of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, thereby rescinding your diplomatic immunity. You are now vulnerable to prosecution.’ Norma informed him, in a dry, emotionless drawl.

‘That’s okay. I can be still be transferred, right?’ Shiloh’s once cocky confidence had long disappeared. He was now weakened. Desperate. Almost pleading.

Norma was undeterred. ‘On investigating your case, we found that you have the right to dual citizenship of both the Philippines and the United Kingdom. The decision has therefore been made by the Home Office of His Majesty’s Government to withdraw your citizenship of our proud nation.’ She handed him another piece of paper, and continued. ‘You are a highly undesirable person, Valdez. Your conduct has been truly unbecoming of a British citizen. We want... I want... nothing more to do with you.’

With that, she got up to leave.

‘So, what? I have to spend the rest of my life here?’ Shiloh whimpered.

Norma didn’t answer. She simply opened the door and walked away, her court shoes clacking on the stone hallway as she did so.

Just as the door opened, another prisoner caught sight of Shiloh.

Another Russian prisoner.

Alexei Orlov saw his bedraggled, beaten-down form. He was handcuffed to two officers. But still he had time to shout at Shiloh. ‘Dobry vyecher, Mister Valdez. Wanna dance?’ he mocked.

From deep within his soul, Shiloh let loose a deafening scream of stone cold terror.

This was his personal hell on earth.

And there would be no escape.