“Eh, I wasn’t worried. Been in way worse scrapes than that.”
“Well, I was scared out of my mind. People normally don’t shoot at me in my line of work, thank you very much.”
Trent glances over at me, eyes full of query. “What is your line of work, exactly?”
After a sharp intake of breath, I speak in a tone a hair too casual. “I’m an auditor.”
My answer makes him frown, so I explain it better.
“I’m a controller. I was sent here to Brazil to investigate Sister Isabella’s charity.”
“Hmm,” Trent purses his lips and mulls this over. “That’s part of the truth, but not the whole truth. What’s this Factory you were talking about?”
I grind my teeth in frustration. There’s one rule about the Factory I usually follow; it’s not to say it’s name out loud among outsiders. Trent is as outside as one could get, and I’d blabbered on about it when I thought he couldn’t understand me.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “All you need to know is they’ll pay you for your trouble.”
“Handsomely, you said.” Trent grins at me. He’s not an unattractive man, when he’s not acting a fool. “I like the sound of ‘handsomely’.”
“For someone who claims the forest gives him all he needs, you sure are materialistic.”
“I’m opportunistic. There’s a difference. Normally I’m ferrying goods for people without much money to spare. Sometimes I don’t even make a profit at all. Hell, some days I even operate at a loss. This is my chance to stick it to whatever corporation you represent, so I’m going to enjoy it to the fullest.”
I purse my lips and consider him for a long moment. The engine drones on as we fly over the mist-shrouded forest below. The Amazon appears as a blue ribbon reflecting the brilliant sunlight, dappling the plane’s interior.
“Do you know anything about any human trafficking rings operating in this area?” I ask at length.
“No, though I’ve heard rumors.” A scowl crosses his face. “Though I’ll bet you dollars to donuts your charity—”
“It’s not my charity,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Whatever. Dollars to donuts they’re involved in the human trafficking ring somehow.”
“What makes you say that?” I hadn’t really considered that angle. I just figured Isabella was filching, caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar.
“Because they’re an organization, duh.” He sighs and shakes his head.
“You don’t think much of organizations, do you, Mr. Trent?”
“It’s just Trent, no Mister required. And why should I not hate organizations?”
“Some organizations aren’t bad. Some of them are formed by like-minded individuals who want to make the world a better place.”
He snickers bitterly. “Like your Factory? Let me tell you what. A person, an individual person, is capable of making smart, moral decisions. As soon as you create an organization, that organization’s chief goal is to perpetuate itself. Period, full stop.”
“That’s a rather cynical worldview, Mr. Trent.”
“Just Trent.”
“That’s rather cynical of you, Just Trent.”
He chuckles, a welcome break from his growing ire.
His scowl returns soon enough as he says, “It’s not cynicism. It’s realism. Look, the Brazilian government came in here with the best of intentions. They wanted to build a hydroelectric dam and provide electricity to a huge chunk of the country, right? But it didn’t work out that way. They’re ruining the lives of millions of indigenous people, all in the name of the greater good.”
“I thought the Brazilian government didn’t interfere with native tribes by policy?”
“Yeah, unless they want their land. The tribes have been offered relocation money, but they don’t want it. They want to stay in the Green and live like their ancestors have for longer than Brazil, or America for that matter, has even existed. And they should be allowed to.”
