He stumbles off with one of the women supporting him, guiding him toward the stairs. The blonde who's been draped over my chair all night looks at me with those empty eyes. "Doyou want me to come with you?" she asks quietly. There's no enthusiasm in her voice, just resignation.
I let out a breath. "No. You can both go."
Relief flashes across her face, quickly hidden, and I see the same on the brunette’s face. I imagine this is probably a reprieve for them, a night when they don’t have to fear being touched. "Goodnight, then."
They both leave quickly, and I'm left alone in the smoking room. The compound is quiet now, just the distant sound of someone laughing, then a door closing somewhere. Most of the men are passed out or occupied. The guards outside are on their regular patrol routes—I've been watching them through the windows all night, timing their movements.
This is when I should be searching for evidence—going through Iosef's office, checking his computers, looking for proof of the double-dealing Ilya suspects. That's why I'm here. That's the job.
Instead, I find myself getting up and stepping quietly out into the hall, then moving through the house and down the stairs, looking for a way to the basement.
I tell myself I'm just gathering information, looking to understand the full scope of their operation—what other secrets they're keeping, what other horrors they're hiding in the dark.
But deep down, I know I’m looking for this woman that they were talking about. I can’t shake the thought of her, wondering what she looks like, who she is, this woman who has tried to resist them for so long, who keeps fighting them.
The basement entrance is locked, but locks have never been much of an obstacle for me. The door opens with a faint creak, and I slip into the darkness below.
It's colder down here. The walls are concrete, the floor the same, and unfinished. This isn't the polished luxury of the upperfloors. This is where they keep the things they don't want seen, the brutality that upstairs is all gilded.
There are several doors that appear to be mostly storage rooms at first. Then, as I walk deeper into the darkness, I see the cells they were referencing down a long hallway. They look like jail cells, barred with very little light coming into the hallway normally—none right now, while it’s dark. When I look further down the hall I’m in, I see a heavy, studded metal door with a lock and chain on it.
That must be the ‘hole’ they were referring to.
My jaw clenches, that rage, burning through me again. And, in this moment, I feel something inside of me snap.
I can’t save them all right now. I can’t do very much about this until I bring the information back to Ilya—and I don’t even have the information he sent me here for yet. I should turn around. I should go back upstairs, do my actual job, forget about this woman I've never met. She's not my problem. She's not my responsibility. I'm here for Ilya, not for her.
But I think about what Evan said earlier. That he beat her. That her face is damaged. That he left his cum on her and threw her into the hole.
Whatever is happening to all of these women, it seems that this one’s defiance is earning her their wrath more so than the others. I could save her.
I could get her out of here, extract us back to New York, and let Ilya know what’s happening here. Let him give me new orders. We can raze this place and get whatever information we need as we’re doing it.
A plan starts to click into place as I turn and quietly make my way back upstairs. I can’t bring all of my things with me—someone might notice. But we won’t make it far in what I’m wearing right now with the bitter cold outside, and I doubt this woman is wearing anything warm.
I go up to the room that was set aside for me, passing guards as I do. Their patrols are spaced out the same as before, which is good. That tells me what windows will allow me to get back downstairs undetected.
I change into warmer clothes, throw on a parka coat over it, and tuck a coat under my arm, putting my gun and extra ammo into the pockets. My hunting knife is strapped to my thigh. I shove a pack of cigarettes into the front pocket of my jeans in case I’m seen and questioned about my clothing—I can say I was just going outside to smoke.
Carefully, I make my way back down to the basement. I manage to avoid the guards, slipping into the darkness. There are no guards down here—clearly, they don’t think that any are needed. No one except Iosef and his men and the women comes down here. He’d never expect anyone to try to break them out.
I pad down the hallway and stop in front of the metal door, my jaw clenched and my thoughts working quickly, going over a semblance of a plan. There’s a door to the outside at the far end of the hall with the cells. If there’s a guard when we head out, I’ll take him out quickly. I can do this.
Ineedto do this.
The lock on this door is more difficult to pick, but I manage it. The door swings open with a creak that sounds too loud in the silence, and I wince, looking into the darkness as I try to let my eyes adjust.
The smell hits me first—blood and sweat, human waste, and fear. The room beyond is tiny, barely big enough to lie down in. There are no windows. No light except what spills in from the corridor behind me, faintly, from the security lighting along the ceiling.
In the far corner is a shape. A woman.
She's curled into herself, her back against the wall. Her clothes are torn and filthy. Her hair is matted with blood anddirt. She doesn't move when the door opens, doesn't even seem to notice the light.
I step inside, and she flinches. Just slightly, but I see it.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I say quietly.
She doesn't respond or look up. I can see her breathing, shallow and rapid. She's terrified. Trying to make herself small as if she can hide that way.
