My best friend and colleague, Jerome, has finally earned his wings. He’s not my “Assistant” anymore, damn it; he’s now a full-fledged investigator at GIW.
Personally, he and his husband, Gary, have been trying to adopt internationally for some time, and eventually settled on working with an international firm, the World Placement Agency, headquartered in Johannesburg, South Africa. Run by Sebastian Marchand, Jerome senses that something is amiss after a failed adoption attempt with the organization.
Learning from the best—that’s me, of course—Jerome asks Jim, our commander-in-chief, to allow the team to investigate the World Placement Agency and Sebastian Marchand. To Jerome’s surprise, Jim gives his blessing, and we’re off and running on a new investigation.
Drawn back into the child trafficking underworld that I investigated years before, my team and I discover the trade is still alive and well, operating in world-wide chorus.
– Nelson Mandela –
Lufua held the scalpel delicately, tilting it so the tiny blade caught the dim overhead light. For a brief moment, he glimpsed his own eye reflected in the steel and allowed himself a faint smile at the irony. Eyes had always been his obsession—their form, their complexity, their worth. The procedure he had just completed was flawless, as always.
With precision born of decades of practice, he cleaned the instruments, his movements methodical. Each tool was washed, sterilized, and placed in its designated spot. The staff hovered near the door, waiting for his signal. He dismissed them with a nod. There was still work being done in the adjacent surgical suite—colleagues harvesting kidneys, lungs, and other organs. But those procedures didn’t interest him. Lufua’s focus had always been singular. Eyes.
As he peeled off his blood-speckled surgical gown and cap, Lufua let his mind wander. How many surgeries had he performed over the years? Hundreds? Thousands? The precise number had long since ceased to matter. For the past two decades, his patients had been exclusively cash-paying clients, each transaction cloaked in the utmost secrecy. Records were deliberately sparse; anonymity was paramount. Even his donors were stripped of identity, reduced to clinical alphanumeric designations.
Patient EYE12B04. Patient EYE6917AQ.
Every evaluation, procedure, and recovery was documented in code and guarded with fanatic rigor. Confidentiality wasn’t just policy; it was gospel. Any staff member who violated that sanctity faced consequences far beyond termination. Lufua himself saw to it that those who breached the rules became part of the system—donors themselves, repaying their betrayal with the ultimate contribution.
Today had been uneventful by comparison. Only one procedure—a corneal tissue procured from a healthy twelve-year-old boy for a German client in her forties. The donor was flawless, as they all were. Lufua prided himself on his meticulous selection process. Each donor was prepared to perfection, groomed like prize livestock for their eventual purpose.
After a quick shower, Lufua left the clinic, his senses keen as he stepped into the warm sunlight. The house was only a short walk from the facility, a convenience he’d insisted upon. He had once owned a small farm kilometers away but had found the distance inefficient. Living on-site allowed him to monitor the children’s health—his future donors—and address medical issues before they became problems. A sick child was a wasted investment and Lufua abhorred waste.
He strolled down the dirt-and-gravel path, whistling a soft tune as his eyes followed a white-eared barbet flitting from branch to branch. His thoughts lingered on his morning conversation with Marchand. The man had been a reliable partner over the years, but his rigid, authoritarian demeanor grated on Lufua’s nerves. Marchand clung to his intermediator role like a miser guarding gold, even as some clients began bypassing him to deal directly with Lufua. That arrangement suited him fine; fewer layers meant fewer complications.
Today, fate seemed to have smiled on him. Three clients from three different countries had arrived in Johannesburg, each with unique needs, and each perfectly matched to the same donor. The timing was exquisite—the kind of synchronicity that Lufua considered a gift. By the end of the day, one boy’s contributions would save three lives and fatten Lufua’s already substantial accounts.
The path curved, and the house came into view. Set against a backdrop of trees, its plain exterior belied the sinister work conducted within. As he emerged from the break in the tree line, Lufua’s gaze caught movement on the horizon. A white microbus taxi approached, trailing a plume of dust.
Lufua stopped, frowning. Visitors were rare, unannounced ones even more so. His clientele valued discretion and the only recent disruption had been from those two men—the ones who wanted to adopt Rafael. The boy had been “taken care of” the night before. Marchand was handling the grieving couple; they would have no reason to visit again.
So who could this be?
Lufua stepped into the shadow of the house, his eyes narrowing as he watched the taxi draw closer. It slowed to a stop near the main entrance, the dirt cloud settling around it. The side door slid open, and a large Black man climbed out, his posture radiating purpose.
Lufua’s unease deepened. He stayed hidden, silently observing as the man scanned his surroundings, then started toward the house with deliberate steps. Lufua’s mind raced, cycling through possibilities. Had something gone wrong? Had Marchand’s assurances faltered?
His hand drifted instinctively to the phone in his pocket. Whatever was happening, Lufua would ensure it was handled. Failure was not an option.
Not here. Not ever.
