Jay and I have been watching this location for the past twelve hours, identifying both the girls and the men. Each second that ticked by felt like an eternity—knowing that they were enduring something horrific.
While Jay kept tabs, I allowed myself five hours of sleep before I came here, enough time to keep my mind sharp. I have to be at my absolute best if I’m going to get them out alive.
“I’m here to get you girls home,” I respond, tucking my gun back in my boot.
She looks at me warily, as do some of the other girls.
None of them are going to trust me.
I get it.
I’m scarred from head to toe, have two different colored eyes—both on the dramatic spectrum—and I’m not a small guy. Not to mention, I just murdered a bunch of men in front of their faces.
“Backup is coming in,” Jay informs, right before I hear the back door open and several people rush in.
“Young man, it’s a bloodbath in here. These poor girls! Shame on you, Z.” I wince at the sound of Ruby's voice. Can’t make me flinch from firing off a bullet two inches from my head but Ruby… God help me.
“It couldn’t be avoided, Ruby. I—"
“Not another word from you. If your mother were here, she’d have your ass.”
I grunt but don’t respond, letting her hem and haw over the survivors while still muttering reprimands under her breath. Ruby was a good friend of my mom’s and likes to remind me—and the rest of the crew—that she used to wipe my ass when I was a baby.
If I could’ve killed the traffickers in private, I would’ve, and I hate that I added to their trauma. But when you have a warehouse full of armed men, there’s no calling them back to your office one at a time like they’re being fired from their job. They need to be taken down swiftly where they stand. Otherwise, there’s room for error, potentially resulting in one of the survivors getting hurt or killed.
Necessary means to get the girls out.
The other two that came in with Ruby, Michael and Steve, take care of the bodies. Michael is dragging a struggling Fernando out, tossing me the keys to the girls' chains as he passes by. Ruby already found another set on one of the dead bodies and is currently unchaining the others.
I approach the mother hen of the group and unchain her collar, my hand nearly shaking from the fury of having to unhook a fucking collar from a little girl’s neck. Welts and a large bruise encircle her throat, but I don’t let her see the rage simmering beneath the surface. She stares at me silently, suspicion and tentative hope warring in her pretty light brown eyes.
Her eyes remind me of my little mouse, and something protective flares inside my chest.
“What’s your name, kid?” I ask, keeping my eyes trained to hers. She’s probably waiting for my leery gaze to travel the expanse of her body, but she won’t ever get that shit from me.
“Sicily,” she answers. I quirk a brow.
“Is that where your parents come from?” I question, noting her tanned skin peeking from beneath the grime on her face.
She nods her head tentatively. “Ma and Pa were born there, but they haven’t been able to go back since they were in their teens. They said they named me after the island because even though they’re homesick, I provide them with the only home they need.”
I nod, eyeing her face. Purple blooms from her right eye, and another spark of anger ignites.
“You ready to give them a home again?”
She pauses, and then a small smile forms. “Yes,” she whispers.
Tears flood her eyes, but I don’t let her know that I noticed. I can tell she wouldn’t appreciate it.
“Let’s go then, kid.”
This little girl will go back home, and though she has a long journey ahead of her, she’ll heal.
We keep tabs on all the girls we extract to ensure they don’t go missing again. If it can happen once, it can happen twice.
She huddles in close to me as we walk out of the building. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a girl step in blood. I pause, pointing at her but glaring at Ruby.
“Ruby! What’d I say? Not a drop of blood on the girls.”
Ruby startles, roles reversing as she rushes towards the girl with shame.
“I’m sorry, honey bunny, let me clean you up,” she coos to the little girl with way more than just a fucking drop on her foot. “Watch your step, okay?”
I turn, satisfied that she won’t let it happen again.
I help Sicily navigate through the carnage, keeping one eye firmly on her feet and where she walks. When she’s in the clear, I lead her to the van where they’ll transport her safely to the hospital. There, her family will be notified.
I whistle an unnamed tune as I let my crew take care of the rest and head to my Mustang, hidden in another parking lot across the street. I’m eager to get the fuck out of here.
My hunt isn’t over yet. I have to play with my little mouse now.
Chapter 7
The Manipulator
“Y
ou need to get out of the house," Daya concludes, staring at me with fear and distress swirling in her sage eyes. I just told her about my mom’s visit yesterday.
By the look on her face, I can tell that she’s well and truly scared for me.
"I need to finish this manuscript," I argue, my thoughts straying to the massive plot hole I’ve fallen into. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I press the proverbial Life Alert—I can’t get up. I’m going to have to roll out my whiteboard and sticky notes to map out the plot tonight, so I can figure out how to solve the issue once and for all.
Sometimes I wish I could just simplify my books and call it a day, but then I wouldn't have the readership I have.
"Uh uh," Daya snipes, shaking her head at me. "Get ready. We're having a girls night."
I slump, the whiteboard and sticky notes going poof. But I don't argue. I'm an indie author, so I publish when I'm ready to. I hardly set deadlines for myself because the pressure suppresses my creativity. I can’t write when I’m too ridden with anxiety to get the book done by a specific time. And as great as my readers are, there’s always that pressure to get the next book out.
Of course, Daya knows this and now wields this knowledge as a weapon.
Dick.
Groaning, I let her hurdle me up the stairs and into my bedroom, my eyes immediately finding the mirror and chest—they always seem to do that now after finding out what really happened in here.
Those two pieces feel like beacons in the room now, glaring at me as if to say I know who killed her.
It doesn’t matter that I slapped some black paint on them. The bones are still the same.
The walls and floor are smooth black rock now, with white ceilings and large white rugs to lighten up the room. I also installed a heating system in the floors. Otherwise, getting up in the middle of the night to pee and stepping on ice-cold floors would just be cruel and unusual punishment.