Instead, I yank my gun from its hiding place and hold it up, taking a split second to revel in the widening of his eyes before I plant a bullet in the space between them.I’m moving before he falls, heading for the hallways where I saw the other men and striding down them, shooting as I go.The men are predictable, at least, and follow specific routes as they make their way through the rooms, and I have no trouble finding the first three.
The last one is a bit more complicated because he’s in the room with a girl and has her backed up against a wall.
I jerk in surprise at that–I haven’t seen any of the men actually attempting to rape the girls–but maybe they do worse at night when their supervisors aren’t here.
The thought brings rage running up my spine, and once it gets into my brain I explode.I walk up behind the guy, who’s now fumbling with his belt, and grab his shoulders, whirling around at the same time to throw him across the room.He hits the floor and slides, and by the time he’s on his feet again I’m in front of him.I break his windpipe first, then his nose, and finally his jaw, the swings so quick and instinctive that I don’t have to think about them.By the time I’m done his jaw is hanging at an angle, his nose is gushing blood, and he’s gasping for breath.
“That’s called karma, asshole,” I mutter.
I yank my gun from the waistband of my pants and shoot him in the dick, just for good measure.
The next bullet is for his head, though.Because I’ve already taken too long.
When I turn around, I see the green-eyed girl from my first day here.The one who was being punished for having tried to escape.
Perfect.
“You survived,” I say, grinning.
Her eyes swing from the dead man up to me, glassy with shock.But then they sharpen on my face.“Of course I did.Chelle Dawson.My daddy’s a fighter.He’d never forgive me if I gave up.”
Chelle Dawson.
Daughter of Jack Dawson, I’m guessing.The boxing legend who’s been all over the news begging for any news about his daughter.
My God in Heaven.
I don’t ask her for any details because they’re not important.Instead, I reach for her, grab her hand, and put her to work.
“I’m busting you out of here,” I say.“We need to get the girls as quickly as we can and get them to the back door.Can you help me?”
She snorts a very unladylike snort.“What the fuck do you think I’ve been trying to do since the first day I got here?”
I laugh out loud and make a mental note to keep an eye on this one.Because when it comes time to question the girls and find out what’s going on here, she’s the one I want to talk to.
Preferably over a whiskey and rye.
“Perfect,” I mutter.“You go that way.I’ll meet you in the back of the warehouse once we’ve cleared the rooms.”
She runs off without asking questions, and moments later I can hear her in the first room, telling the girls what’s going on and that they have to move quickly, and I’m thanking a god I don’t truly believe in that hers was the room where I found the last man.
Because we have to get out of here quickly.
The basement in my father’s house didn’t have any cameras, but I’m not so sure about this warehouse.And I want all the girls in vans and on their ways to Lucien’s before anyone arrives to stop us.
***
I stand back and usher the last group of girls into the van, counting them as they go.Chelle and I counted 125 girls, all told, and though I was surprised there were so few–I’d estimated at least 175–she’d told me that a bunch of girls were moved this morning, which made sense.I knew those in charge didn’t like to leave the girls in one place for too long, and that had to include this warehouse.
I’m glad, though, that Camille and Kate brought more vans this time, because we don’t have space for any fuck ups with this many girls.
I watch the last three girls pile into the van, my eyes running from their heads to their toes, and wonder again at the state of the girls.Chelle says most of these girls are recent collections, which means they should still be in relatively good shape, fresh from the houses of their parents.But the girls in this group are rough.They look like they’ve been sleeping on the street, even before they were pulled into the ring, and that doesn’t make sense.
All the names I’ve seen have had some connection to someone famous.Mafia.Politicians.Businessmen.But these girls...
These girls look like they’ve never seen anything more then a one-bedroom apartment, and one with faulty plumbing.
These aren’t expensive girls.And yet they’re in a warehouse with people like Jack Dawson’s daughter and, presumably at some point, Aislyn Brennan.
