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Aruba. This neighboring island had the same vibe as Curaçao: tropical, humid, colorful. My eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and not even the black tar that Kyle claimed was coffee could wipe the fog from my brain. A restless night on the piece of shit boat coupled with vivid nightmares of Annie's fate had me feeling edgy and irritable. I couldn't relax until we'd gotten this shit done.
    With the boat safely docked in a slip, the three of us made our way through the energetic market, elbowing through hoards of tourists and locals hocking their wares. The sun was already ba king a sea of bodies on the stretch of beach and though I wore faded jeans and a frayed t-shirt with a cap pulled low over my eyes, I felt the heat heavy on my skin. I couldn't stop Vic from donning a tacky Hawaiian shirt, his attempt to dress like a tourist. Vic followed at a distance, strolling leisurely from shop to shop along the beachfront road.
    We’d rented a car and reserved a hotel room in the middle of town. Until we found her, we wanted to make sure that we were staying in the center of the tourist hub so we could do our best to blend in with the throngs of visitors.
    At night, Kyle, Vic, and I set out again, scouring the red lights. The ones in Aruba seemed more upscale than the ones in Curaçao. Most were set up like bars. Men could sit and order drinks at little tables and chat up the hookers. I guess that was great for the men who liked to pretend that these women were actually interested in them, instead of admitting that they were paying for sex. I preferred to be honest with my intentions so I never needed to play any games or delude myself any more than I already did.
    But after another long night of too many drinks and too bright neon lights, we’d come up empty-handed. No Annie.
    Kyle convinced Vic and I to cool off at the hotel bar, Enrique & Richie’s. It was dark and pulsed with loud music, heavy on the bass. Spring break was out in full force. Coeds writhed on the small dance floor with candy-colored drinks and short skirts paired with bikini tops. Most were already halfway to blitzed and I couldn't help but wonder if one of them would be the next Annie.
    Vic and Kyle hit on girls at the bar, but I was too fucking d epressed to make small talk. I sat alone at a table in the corner, drinking whiskey. Why should I be out having fun in paradise, while Annie was turning tricks in hell?
    Think, motherfucker. What am I missing?
    My mind drifted, and I zoned out listening to the Calypso music. The beat of the steel drums shook my shot glass.
    Steel. Drums.
    Annie had said that the last thing that she’d remembered the morning she had been taken was that the drummer entered into her elevator and drugged her. And the other American girl who went missing, Nicole Race, had been last seen at this bar. Annie had even said she knew Nicole, but Nicole had overdosed. This couldn’t just be a coincidence.
    I glanced over to the drummer and my eyes narrowed. A larger than life man with piercing dark eyes; he wore a pink shirt and played those drums as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
    Kyle was busying grinding some girl on the dance floor, so I told Vic that I’d meet him back in the room because I wanted to take a walk. He gave me a look, like he thought I was up to something, and asked if I wanted them to come with me. When I said no, he just nodded.
    I made my way to the alley near the back of the club. There was a van parked there. A tree was painted on its side door with the words Divi Divi underneath. I moved my rental car around the corner. When the band left, I’d be ready to follow them.
    Hours passed. I was tired as fuck but didn’t so much as close my eyes to risk sleep. Staying up casing this van was easy co mpared to the training I’d endured. In BUD/S Hell Week, I’d survived on only four hours of sleep in five and a half days. To this day, every time I was tired during a mission, I could hear my instructors’ words