DRONE by Nick Hahn (due 2017)



“A drone is often preferred for missions that are too “dull, dirty, or dangerous” for manned aircraft.”

There are more slaves in the world today than at any other time in human history, an estimated 27 million in bondage across the globe. Men, women, and children being exploited for manual and sexual labor against their will.


Her name was Cosita. She was eighteen, looked fourteen and thought like twenty-two. One of nine children from El Chorillo, a poverty-stricken barrio on the outskirts of Panama City. Her brother, Javier, had been snatched from the streets six months earlier. He was nine years old and beautiful.

Cosita completed high school at the top of her class, spoke fluent English and Spanish with an advanced degree  from the streets of El Chorillo. There she was known as jefe Mujer, (boss woman).

In the developed world she would be a CEO, respected by her peers and feared by her competitors.

Interpol, the world’s largest international police organization, was recruiting undercover agents to infiltrate the dark world of human trafficking.

Panama was well known as an international hub for slave traders. They operated  with impunity while local officials  lined their pockets with the boodle from entrepreneurial traders. She was smart, street savvy, motivated and pretty; the perfect candidate for Interpol and their undercover investigation of human trafficking.

They were looking for beautiful young women with her skills, she was looking for Javier, a perfect match.

Cosita would be a Drone.


The graffiti was Spanish, neon colors highlighting varicose cracks covering the wall, like an alcoholic’s nose. The building smelled of urine and pot; there was a metal door with four bolt locks and a dirty sign:


Was a nine-year-old boy, the victim of sex traffickers  a trespasser?

The windows had frosted glass embedded with chicken wire; they swung out and up like fake eyelashes supported by notched adjustment bars.

This factory building was on the near-west side of Cleveland, an industrial area on the Cuyahoga River, known as The Flats. This building had a pedigree, a sweatshop garment factory, a warehouse for imported cheese, and a crack den for teenage potheads.

It was now headquarters for Magic Slim, the only pimp in Cleveland with a film studio, a training facility and a dormitory fit for the Ivy League.

Slim’s girls came from nothing, life in his building was an improvement.  Slim understood this, he knew about poverty, cold and hunger. The West side of Chicago was his training ground.

He was now a successful entrepreneur, business was good and he intended to make it better.

He weighed 140 pounds soaking wet, no one knew what held his pants up, he would only say “it’s magic”, the name stuck.



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