I was born and raised in Staten Island; a true New Yorker through-and-through. The moment that I walk into the bar or club or whatever with my partner Amanda Rollins, I feel like I am in an entirely different world. Rollins, being from Georgia, likes to start making fun of me. I tell her we need to focus on the task at hand: undercover work, as we attempt to expose the secrets of a suspected human trafficking organization based here in the south. Not our jurisdiction, but a truckload of victims were dropped off in New York, two dead. It’s our jurisdiction now.

With all that being said, I immediately go for a drink even through we’re not really supposed to drink on the job. I figure just one beer won’t get me in too much trouble. The country music is so loud it’s giving me a headache and I’ve never been too fond of it, anyway. Neither that nor the line dances people are performing in the dead center of the bar.

I groan and spin around on the barstool, watching as Rollins leaves me to return to her roots, or whatever.

“Fucking hell…” I mumble.