"Bunny, what's happening?" Nathan's voice, urgent now.
I couldn't answer, could only follow where I was led. The partition concealed an office setup—desk, couch, laptop showing security feeds. And behind the desk, a man in an expensive suit counting money.
"Ah, the trained one." His English was smooth, educated. "Vlad says you know how to behave. Show me."
I dropped to my knees without hesitation, hands behind my back, eyes downcast. Perfect submission, performed with the same detachment as breathing.
"Excellent." He came around the desk, circling me like a buyer examining livestock. "Where were you trained? Not here—you're too refined for American breaking."
"May I speak, sir?" The words tasted like ash.
"You may."
"Eastern Europe, sir. Private trainer. I was sold to cover his debts."
"Hmm." His hand tangled in my hair, testing. "And yet there's something... off about you. Too calm. Too accepting." He yanked my head back, studying my face. "You're not scared enough."
The blade was ceramic, thin as paper, hidden in the hem of my underwear. Gabriel had taught me to hide weapons in places men were too arrogant to check. As the boss leaned closer, suspicious, I let my body go limp, falling forward in a perfect faint.
"Shit." He stepped back, annoyed. "Vlad! The bitch—"
I rolled, blade flashing out to catch his femoral artery just above the knee. Blood sprayed in arterial spurts, painting thewall behind him. He screamed, hands trying to stem the flow, but I was already moving.
"Now!" I shouted into the comm. "Panic room, northwest corner!"
The warehouse erupted in chaos. Flash-bangs, shouting, the crack of gunfire. I heard Vlad running toward the office and pressed myself against the wall beside the door, waiting.
He burst through, gun drawn, looking for his boss. I let him see the blood first, watched his eyes widen, then jabbed the confiscated taser into the base of his skull. He went down convulsing, the gun skittering across the floor.
"Bunny, report!" Nathan's voice cut through the noise.
"Office clear. Two down. Moving to panic room."
I grabbed the keycard and gun, not bothering to dress. Blood slicked my feet as I ran, following the mental map I'd built during surveillance. Around me, the warehouse had become a battlefield. FBI agents swarmed through, but the traffickers had been ready. Automatic weapons chattered from elevated positions.
The panic room was locked, of course. Women pounded on the walls inside, screaming. I swiped the keycard but the pad flashed red. Fuck.
"It's biometric," I told Nathan. "I need—"
Gunfire erupted behind me. I spun, firing twice, watching a guard crumple. His partner ducked behind a crate, returning fire, pushing me back from the door.
Then Nathan was there, moving like violent poetry. Two shots, center mass, and the second guard dropped. He looked at me—naked, blood-splattered, holding a smoking gun—and his expression was unreadable.
"Biometric lock," I repeated. "Need a hand. Literally."
We dragged the dead guard to the scanner. His hand was still warm enough to work. The lock disengaged with a cheerful beep that felt obscene in the carnage.
Inside, women huddled together, some in cages, others chained to the walls. The smell hit me like a physical blow—fear and waste and that particular brand of despair I remembered too well.
"FBI," Nathan announced. "We're getting you out."
They shrank back, not believing. I understood. Sometimes rescue looked too much like another trick.
"Listen to me," I said in Russian, then Ukrainian, then broken Arabic. "This is real. But we need to move fast."
One woman, braver or more desperate than the others, stood. A collar circled her neck, the kind with an electronic lock. I'd worn similar once. I remember the panic when the collar was gone, the fear.
"Please," she whispered.
