“My name is Annie Hamilton. I’m an American citizen. I was kidnapped from a cruise ship five years ago. You’re my last hope. Please save me.”

What the fuck? This bitch wanted me to believe she was a sex-trafficked American? What kind of con was this heroin-addicted whore trying to pull on me?

“I gotta go.” I shoved her off me. This was not my problem. She was not my problem. I walked out of that smelly room and didn’t look back.

The streets of Curaçao were bustling now in the early evening, tourists strolling through this idyllic Caribbean town, unaware that around the corner from where they were buying shot glasses and sundries, women were turning tricks for less than the price of the tourists’ margaritas. The view of the beach was blocked by the endless taxicabs and the cobblestone streets were littered with cigarettes.

Dammit. Of all the brothels, all the whores. Why did I go there? Why did I choose her? I didn’t need this shit. I headed to the closest bar to get drunk. Not one of those pretty tourist joints that served up fruity drinks. A seedy local dive that offered nothing but hard liquor. No pictures of palm trees and beaches. The walls were barren, the air was thick with tobacco, and the bar stools had been cut with blades.

I should’ve listened to Kyle, fucked some college girl.

“Tequila, straight.”

The bartender poured me a drink, then another. Smooth, sweet, salty, tart.

The more the liquor flowed, the more I tried to push her out of my mind. I thought about my dog back home, my mother, my ex-girlfriend, my truck. I made small talk with the bartender; lied about my job, told him I was a tourist on a business retreat.

By the end of the night, I was blazed senseless. I stumbled back to the U.S.S. Ronald Regan, our huge, Naval nuclear-powered super carrier, and collapsed onto my rack.

But there was one problem. Her voice. She had spoken with a perfect American accent; sounded like she was from California. And her vaguely familiar face now made me think that I had seen her picture once on a magazine.

Christ. One fucking blowjob and now the whore was a constant presence in my brain. Maybe Kyle was right—I did need to get laid more often.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, praying to erase her from my memory.

2.

I rolled out of my rack the next morning and hit the head to take a piss. A hot shower would’ve been nice, but I had something more important to do.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, black, and went over to our computer and typed in the name she had given me. A-N-N-I-E H-A-M-I-L-T-O-N.

The screen lit up—articles, news clips, videos, websites. “American Analía ‘Annie’ Rose Hamilton Vanishes on Romantic Cruise.” There was even a wiki: “The Disappearance of Analía Rose Hamilton.”

Could the drug-addicted prostitute from last night really be America’s missing sweetheart? Maybe she was part of some elaborate con job? A light-skinned prostitute could’ve faked the American accent, learned the story, and used it to bilk johns like me out of cash. How could I be certain that woman was Annie?

I clicked on the first image—the cover of People Magazine. “Vanished Without A Trace: Annie Hamilton.” Those deep hazel eyes from last night stared back at me.

Fuck.

I skimmed the first line; five years ago, just as she’d said. And by all accounts, she was still missing.

After five years, surely she was dead, right? Yet no trace of her body had ever been found. Now I remembered hearing about her disappearance, but I was deployed in Iraq at the time so I never knew all the details.

I read the first article. Annie and her boyfriend, Chris Porter, had taken a spring break cruise to the Caribbean. They’d partied until around two a.m. in the nightclub on the cruise ship and multiple guests saw them dancing together. By all accounts, they’d both been extremely intoxicated and a few guests recalled that Chris seemed to be jealous when Annie climbed up on stage to sing with the members of Divi Divi, the house band. At two thirty a.m., her boyfriend’s key card was used to enter their room, and he swore that she was with him.  Chris stated that the last time he saw her was around five a.m. sitting on the balcony of their suite the morning the cruise docked in Curaçao. He figured she just wanted to get fresh air and watch the sunset so he went back to sleep. A few other passengers claimed that they saw her at around six a.m. in the elevator with a member of the house band. Chris passed a lie detector test and had repeatedly stated his innocence. The FBI had conducted a bomb search of the ship but found nothing. Authorities believed she’d fallen overboard in a drunken stupor, committed suicide or was pushed by her boyfriend after a fight, but despite a search of the waters, no trace of her had ever been found.

I didn’t believe that she had drowned, because the ship had already been in port when she vanished.

Suicide? Doubtful. She was young, hot, in college, in love. Came from money. I guess she could’ve been depressed but I figured it was a long shot.

As for the boyfriend? I felt bad for the guy. He was a pretty-boy, wealthy surfer from La Jolla who probably never worked a day in his life. Tan, blonde, looked like one of those guys who sat on the beach smoking weed laughing at the BUD/S SEAL candidates while they were running around carrying logs over their heads during Hell Week. Came from a good family, played water polo at San Diego University. He seemed normal enough, but how did anyone really know how he treated Annie behind closed doors? Maybe he abused her. If he killed her, then he got away with the perfect crime. If he was innocent, his life was ruined from the suspicion and the guilt he must’ve felt not knowing what had happened to her.

I gazed across the ocean from my porthole. The cruise ship dock was only a mile away. If she had fallen, someone would’ve seen her, either on her ship, from the surrounding cruise ships, or in the port. It didn’t add up.

In the weeks, months, years that had followed, there’d been a few sightings of Annie on Curaçao and on other neighboring Caribbean islands, but nothing ever panned out. Her family had even supposedly once paid some con man pretending to be a former SEAL three hundred thousand dollars to find her, but he turned out to be a fraud. I fucking hated any motherfucker who lied about being a SEAL. It was easy to figure these assholes out—just ask them their SEAL training class number. Not knowing your SEAL training class number is like not knowing your last name.

But I still wasn’t convinced yet that the prostitute was who she said she was. I didn’t want to stake my career on a maybe.

I studied a few more websites. Her parents had made www.findannie.com.

There were childhood photos, lists of sightings, news articles, links to television programs.

There was a letter begging for her return posted from Chris with pictures of the happy couple.

Then a photo caught my eye.

The tattoo on her ankle.

That little cartoon alien. So that’s why she made sure I saw it. Just in case I was the man she thought I was.

The words of The Navy SEAL Code, our warrior creed, echoed in my head.

“In times of war or uncertainty there is a special breed of warrior ready to answer our Nation’s call.

A common man with uncommon desire to succeed.

Forged by adversity, he stands alongside America’s finest special operations forces to serve his country, the American people, and protect their way of life.

I am that man.”

Fuck.

The girl from last night was Annie. I was certain.

I clicked on another picture.

Yup—the scar on her shoulder. She’d shown me that also.

My heart beat rapidly in my chest, my jaw clenched.

Dammit, why did I run out of there last night instead of talking to her? Because I didn’t believe her—that’s why.

Why hadn’t anyone rescued her? She was an American for Christ’s sake! This wasn’t a fucking movie. There weren’t FBI and CIA agents on the ground in Curaçao searching for kidnapped Americans, especially since there was no proof that she had been abducted. Any sightings of her would first be passed to the local police, which were corrupt as fuck. Her parents could’ve hired one of the many contractor groups filled with former SEALs who did this shit for a living.

U.S. Navy SEALs could rescue her. I could rescue her.

There was a three hundred thousand dollar reward for her safe return. But I didn’t want any money. If I saved her, I had to remain anonymous. Any hint of an active duty Navy SEAL going rogue would ruin my career on the Teams.

I glanced back at her pictures. Man, she’d been beautiful. Could’ve been my high school sweetheart. She was half Latina, looked almost like a young Wonder Woman. Her black hair had been shiny, her hazel eyes had been bright. A soccer star, a prom queen, a little girl in pigtails. And I had treated her like she was a piece of trash.

Fucking traffickers. Most Americans were completely oblivious to the sex trade. They thought it only happened in third world countries. But girls were kidnapped off the streets in middle America, and forced to service assholes like me. I wanted her to be just another piece of ass that I could use and forget, but the pain in her eyes reminded me too much of my own hell.

What the fuck was I going to do? Tell my men? Ask my command? It wasn’t that easy. Everyone thinks that Navy SEALs are above the law—that we can do whatever we please without any consequences. Like that ridiculous story that one of our snipers shot and killed two civilian men and wasn’t even brought in for police questioning. Bullshit. There’s protocol, and busting into brothels was way out of our jurisdiction. I’d have to talk to my commanding officer. He’d send me to Captain’s Mass for going to a brothel.  Any rescue attempt would have to be cleared with the FBI and CIA. There would be an investigation to see if she was who she said she was. They might set up a sting operation. And the cops in Curaçao were crooked and could tip off her pimp. If her pimp had any inkling of what was going on, he’d probably kill her without a second thought.