Yaw stood in the shadows of the vacant office building and looked out the window from his third floor perch to the quiet streets below. This was his operation, and after the incident in Mexico, he prayed there would be zero bloodshed.
There had been an unspoken shift in responsibility within the family, as the small group of martial artists had grown more and more focused on liberating the victims of human trafficking. Alex had retreated into a more philosophical figure, providing tools, guidance, and training, while Yaw had become more of the tactical leader. This shift of responsibility suited Yaw just fine.
So much had changed since the birth of his daughter. Kylie had given him a new perspective on life, specifically how fragile and how important it was to protect the most vulnerable. The instinct to protect the vulnerable had always been a part of Yaw, but his observations of Alex and his relationship with his friend had really brought things into focus.
Yaw was beginning to understand that, while studying under Master Winn, he had found peace. However, with studying under Alex now, he had found purpose.
All of which led him here, at 3:00 a.m., to the fashion district of Los Angeles, working with those close to him to free several individuals from trafficking.
Established early in the 20th century, the Los Angeles fashion district, a design, warehouse and distribution center for all manner of clothing and related accessories, took up over 90 blocks in the heart of downtown and was considered the hub of the clothing and apparel industry on the West Coast.
During the day, thousands of clothing and garment vendors lined the streets, with countless customers from all over the world rummaging through clothing racks and piles of shoes, moving through the 90 block maze in search of a deal from the latest designer of latest knockoff.
But at night all was quiet. The streets were empty and the storefronts were boarded up or secured behind metal gates. And on the third floor of an abandoned building, one that had been built in 1929, eleven refugees from mainland China sat huddled together under a pile of dirty blankets.
The room was dark and stripped down to the concrete, save for an occasional office chair or empty filing cabinet. Standing watch over the eleven was a Mexican man with Calderon Cartel markings, carrying an AR-15. The cartel soldier paced the floor as he waited for the buyer’s representatives to arrive.
Across the street from the building, on the third floor, was where Yaw watched and waited. He put a pair of night-vision binoculars to his eyes, turned toward the window, and scanned the building across from him. He made out the forms of the refugees, as well as the Calderon Cartel soldier, along with his AR-15.
Yaw carefully scanned the floor above and then the floor below. He saw no movement. Yaw pulled the binoculars from his eyes and saw a late model panel truck parked across the street. He knew Joey Nugyen was behind the wheel and that Chris Aldrich and Masha Tereshchenko were waiting in the back of the vehicle.
Yaw checked his sticks, which were slung across his back. This one should be easy,” he thought.
He quickly wheeled about and headed for the stairs.
“Just one guard?” Chris whispered to Yaw as he slipped to the street from the back of the truck.
Masha quickly followed and stood beside him.
“The streets and floors are empty,” Yaw answered. “Let’s clear the stairwells to be sure, and then let’s get them out of there.”
Yaw looked up and down the street one last time. The lanes were quiet save for one parked car that he had already confirmed was empty. The building windows were dark.
In less than four hours, this area would be swimming with activity, and the people they were trying to rescue would be lost forever.
Yaw turned back to Chris, Joey, and Masha. Kali sticks strapped in holsters across their backs, they were ready to go.
“Joey, watch the streets, and be ready to roll when we come out.” Yaw looked over the remaining two. “Chris, clear the stairs from the back of the building. Masha and I will work the entrance. I’ll get the guy with the rifle. Masha, you keep the people calm and get them moving.”
Chris and Masha nodded affirmative.
“Okay let’s move.” Yaw watched as Chris sprinted across the sidewalk and disappeared around the side of the building. He nodded to Masha before he made for the entrance.
The building, built in 1929, had a pair of large oak doors at least 50 years old that made up the entrance. During their initial reconnaissance, it had been discovered that the lock was broken, and Yaw carefully turned the brass knob and opened the door. He did a check to make sure all was clear before he signaled Masha to follow him inside.
Yaw and Masha did a quick scan of the first floor. In the darkness, shapes were clear: A dust covered reception desk, corner office entrances, along with a short hallway leading to a single elevator bank, and behind the elevator bank a stairwell. Yaw led as they padded silently around the reception desk, past the elevator, and into the stairwell.
Once inside the stairwell, the two sprinted up the stairs, two at a time, quick and silent. At the third floor, Yaw carefully approached the door that led to the large empty space where the refugees were being held. He signaled Masha to stand behind him. He carefully opened the door an inch and peered inside.
The man with the AR-15 stood looking over the eleven Chinese refugees. He held the rifle low, and his back was toward Yaw. The distance between Yaw and the man with the rifle was less than twenty feet. Yaw knew he could cover that distance before the man could react, let alone turn around.
Yaw took a deep breath and bolted from behind the door.
The man barely had time to turn his head before Yaw cracked him in the jaw with a Kali stick, knocking him out cold.
The man instantly crumpled to the concrete, the AR-15 clattering to the floor beside him.
Yaw picked up the rifle, removed the clip and bullet from the chamber before sliding the weapon across the floor.
He immediately turned his attention to the refugees. All eyes were on him, and all eyes were frightened.
That’s when Masha quietly spoke. “Come with us. You are safe now.” Her voice was gentle and soothing, filled with the emotion of experience.
Masha had had her own experiences with oppression, and it came out in her voice. It transcended the language disparity. Yaw was happy he had Masha on this mission.
“Back stairwell is clear,” Chris said as he entered the room.
Masha already had the refugees on their feet.
“Let’s meet Joey in the back alley,” Yaw replied.
Yaw and Masha led the group of seven women and four men with Chris trailing behind. They navigated the switchbacks of the stairwell in serpentine fashion, and Yaw quickly led them out.
A bright spotlight abruptly illuminated the alley, stopping them in their tracks.
A Lenco Ballistic Engineered Armored Response Counter Attack Truck, more commonly known as a BearCat was parked at the entrance, the letters SWAT emblazoned in yellow along the thick metal frame of the military vehicle.
On top of the vehicle was the spotlight, along with a fifty caliber cannon. A SWAT officer, dressed in black storm trooper fatigues and armor, manned the gun.
Twenty other similarly-attired officers stood in attack formation, all training AR-15s and other high tech rifles at Yaw, Chris, Masha, and the eleven refugees.
“Put your hands up,” a male voice blasted across a loud speaker.
Yaw did as he was told. He noticed that Joey Nugyen was face down on the ground next to the panel truck, his hands zip-tied behind his back.
“You are all under arrest,” the bullhorn continued, “for transporting illegal immigrants for the purpose of terrorist activities on American soil.”
Those were the last words Yaw heard before an officer struck him on the head with the butt of his rifle and everything went black.