Dedication for this write goes to NEWSREP brother David Paul.

I hunt human traffickers; that is what I do. I’m a human traffic hunter, or at least I fancy myself one. I carry kit every day on the hunt; I call it Every Day Carry (EDC), as I am sure many of you do as well.

My EDC goes in a black JanSport shoulder bag with many zippers and pockets because I insist on a level of organization, and black because it’s badass! The content of my kit is anchored by a pistol, a Glock-17 in my case, and a basic load of ammunition. There are other weapons there such as a dagger, a bludgeon, and some very spirited pepper spray — pshhhhhhht!

Mine is a generous suite of communications gear there in that bag: batteries, storage media, pens, tools of the trade conducive to an agent of correction. All is methodically organized in that package such that I can reach into it one-handed in the dark and find what I need in seconds.


A water proofed, padded, and durable case protects the GPS system

On this day I pedaled to my surveillance point opposite a motel where young women were suspected of being trafficked. Mine was an abandoned dentistry clinic just across the street. We had arranged an entrance in the back of the building which had only a modest clearance between the building and a masonry wall.

Having put my EDC bag on the ground by the back door I fumbled with the lock. In a flash, I saw in my periphery a truck that was of interest to my case. I knew the truck’s plate but didn’t catch it as it swung around behind the motel. I quickly darted off on my bike to catch a glimpse of the plate.

The Wilderness Fire Bag

Read Next: The Wilderness Fire Bag

The plate I barely caught but no joy on a number match. I pushed back to my back door. To my abject horror, my EDC kit was gone, simply… gone! My mind reared in flaming-yellow panic. I pictured the pistol in the bag, the sensitive items. Donkey ears popped out of the top of my head, and a swishing tale from my jackass.


With the open case, you can see the fit and padding provided

I rode my bike around and around the area, spiraling outward first, then spiraling back inward again, spewing oaths all the while. And then I stopped; I had to stop. I was trapped in an ephemeral vortex of unproductively and had to get a grip. I needed the grip and a chance to think. Think man! What did you see?

And in my mind’s eye, a saw a man standing next to a cinder dividing wall on one side of my building. He was a nasty-looking sort: dirty, unkempt, fidgety, junkie-like, and guilty of… something. That’s the only person I saw and he did project himself to be an odd sort, he. I now continued my ride slower and with the aim of spotting this same fellow, perhaps a-totin’ my EDC bag?


The underside of the carrying case reveals the powerful magnet used to clamp it to cars

No joy. I came to rest again this time taking a mental inventory of the items in my bag for the sake of cost and accountability. But, hello…

What’s this I see?
What does my mind’s eye present to me?

The GPS tracker that I used to attach magnetically to suspect vehicles. Yes, it was in my bag. Ha ha… and I had even complained to the company that made it that it had no on/off switch, therefore it burned battery time constantly. But now that meant that the device was on. Slowly I raised my smartphone to my face and logged into the beacon service website. I saw my beacon’s location on a map and I lifted my head and eyes to the direction it indicated.

An emergency managers every day carry

Read Next: An emergency managers every day carry

Slowly I rode to the location provided by the GPS. I rode slowly for the beacon was not moving and I was therefore not in any particular hurry. In short, I saw my courier; he and his equally junked-out girlfriend lay peacefully passed out beneath a gloriously spreading chestnut tree. A gentle summer breeze and a stiff dope fix had coaxed them both to slumber. My black bag lay between the two.

There I stood, hands on hips, nose low at 60 degrees I stared at the pair. I stooped to grab the bag and as I stood the local gentleman of incidental leisure awoke with a jerk and grabbed the bag as well, pulling himself up to lunge at me.

His legs never made it to full extension as I coaxed him back to his nap with several short chopping rights, maintaining hold of the bag with my left. As the two snoozed I pulled open the bag to lay eyes on my gat before I proceeded away. There it lay, là dans du sac, next to the magazines of spare ammunition. I closed the bag, but not before I tallied the beacon and gave it a big fat kiss.

As I rode lazily back to my job, I marveled at the weather and began to notice the knuckles of my chopping right hand began to swell and hurt like the dickens. Yes, it had turned out to be such a nice day after all.

And yet it happened.

By Almighty God and with honor,
geo thankfully sends

(photos courtesy of the author)