The distinction mattered.
The distinction was everything.
14
Rescue
The van smelled like fear and unwashed bodies. I kept my head down, shoulders hunched, making myself small among the other women. Six of us packed in like cattle, though only I knew where we were heading. The others—Romanian, Ukrainian, one who might have been Syrian—had already learned the first rule of being cargo: invisibility was survival.
Nathan's voice crackled through the subdermal comm in my ear, barely audible: "Two minutes out. Status?"
I couldn't respond, not with the guard watching us through the mesh partition. Instead, I shifted my weight, triggering the tracker's pressure sensor twice. All clear.
The girl beside me was crying silently, tears cutting tracks through cheap makeup. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. I wanted to tell her it would be okay, that in a few hours this would be over. But cargo didn't comfort cargo. We sat in our separate hells and pretended we were already gone.
"Coming up on the warehouse," Nathan murmured. "Backup's in position. Remember, wait for my signal before—"
The van lurched to a stop, cutting him off. Showtime.
The rear doors flew open to reveal two men with clipboards and calculating eyes. I'd seen their type before—middle management in the flesh trade, keeping distance between themselves and the product.
"Out," one barked in accented English. "Single file. No talking."
I was third in line, stumbling as my foot caught the van's edge. The guard laughed, muttering something in Russian about clumsy bitches. I kept my eyes down, memorizing his face for later.
The warehouse loomed around us, all concrete and shadows and the kind of acoustics that swallowed screams. They herded us through a maze of shipping containers toward a processing area. Folding tables laden with zip ties, collars, and what looked like veterinary equipment.
"Strip," the clipboard man ordered. "Everything off. Jewelry, hair ties, all of it."
The Syrian girl balked, clutching her hijab. The guard's backhand sent her sprawling, and she peeled it off with shaking fingers. I undressed mechanically, folding my clothes with the precise movements Gabriel had drilled into me. Submission as muscle memory.
"This one's trained." The second clipboard man noticed my posture, the way I'd automatically positioned myself for inspection. "Premium product."
They discussed me in Russian, debating prices and potential buyers. I caught Nathan cursing softly through the comm but kept my expression blank. Just meat being evaluated. Nothing more.
The inspection was clinical and humiliating. They checked teeth, muscle tone, looked for track marks and signs of disease. When they found the faint scars Gabriel's games had left, clipboard two whistled appreciatively.
"Broken in but not broken down," he said in English, probably for the guard's amusement. "Someone will pay well for this one."
They separated us based on perceived value. The young Romanian and I went to one holding area—a shipping container retrofitted with chain-link cells. The others, deemed less profitable, went elsewhere. I tried not to think about what that meant.
My cell was four feet by six, a dog crate for human cargo. The Romanian girl was put in the one beside mine, close enough I could hear her hyperventilating. There were others already here, shadows behind chain link who'd learned not to acknowledge new arrivals.
"Panic room confirmed," I subvocalized, lips barely moving. "Northwest corner, red container. Approximately twelve women inside."
"Copy that. Teams are moving to secondary positions." Nathan's voice was steady, but I could hear the strain underneath. "You okay?"
Two taps on the tracker. Yes.
A lie, but a necessary one.
The next two hours crawled by in a haze of calculated submission. Guards came and went, occasionally pulling women out for "private viewings" with potential buyers. I made myself small, valuable but not threatening, the perfect victim waiting to be claimed.
When they finally came for me, I was ready.
"You. Out." The guard from the van unlocked my cage, leering. "Boss wants to sample the premium goods."
I shuffled out, letting him grip my arm too tight, steer me roughly toward a partitioned area in the back. This wasn't part of the plan, but adaptability was survival.
