“Prosím… neubližujte nám.”
Slovak. Czech. Something close.
“Please… don’t hurt us.” Grace translated without me needing to ask.
Voodoo exhaled slowly. “Jesus Christ.”
Lunchbox shoved a hand through his hair, fury shaking in his shoulders. “They were going to unload them. Tonight.”
If we hadn’t found them?
Sold.
Vanished.
Forgotten.
One woman—older, maybe late twenties—pulled a girl behind her, shielding her with her body. She stared at me like I was another monster.
I kept my hands visible, palms up. “We’re here to help,” I said softly, knowing they wouldn’t understand the words but maybe the tone.
The older woman’s breath hitched.
Lunchbox whispered, voice a raw scrape, “Bones… we can’t move this many by ourselves.”
“I know.”
“We need Grace,” Voodoo muttered.
“We can’t bring her into this,” I said. “Not until it’s secure.”
We were about to figure out how the hell to extract thirty terrified women when a crackle sounded from one of the downed guards’ radios.
All three of us froze.
Voices spilled out—flat, efficient, emotionless.
“Timoson, report. The vans never arrived.”
“Status on cargo prep?”
Static.
“Timoson, respond. The sweep team is inbound to clean your mess. ETA nine minutes.”
Lunchbox’s grip tightened on his gun. “Cleanup crew. Not the ‘brooms and mop’ kind, either.”
“No.” My voice came out hard, cold.
This was the kind of squad sent when problems needed to disappear. All of them. Bodies. Evidence. Survivors.
Cargo.
“They’re coming to wipe this whole pier,” Voodoo said.
“And everyone in it,” I finished. “Including them.”
I looked back at the women—dozens of eyes staring at us, trembling, waiting for the next horror.
