"—waste of time when we should be focusing on the women," says a voice I'd recognize anywhere. Deeper than I remember, harder at the edges, but unmistakably Falcon.
"This ledger could lead us to the top," argues another man. "The women are safe. We need to look forward."
"Vulture's right," adds a third voice. "If we can decrypt this thing, we could take down their whole operation."
"It's gibberish," Falcon snaps. "And we're not cyber experts. Let the women heal. Let them go home. That's our priority."
"And the one who recognized you?" asks the second voice, quieter now. "What's her story?"
Silence stretches. My heart pounds in my ears.
"Later," Falcon says finally. "Get that thing to Ice Pick. Let him play codebreaker if he wants. I've got other concerns."
Footsteps move away. I release the breath I've been holding, looking up to find Maggie watching me curiously.
"You could hear them?" she asks.
I nod. "They found something. A ledger?"
"At the warehouse," Maggie confirms. "Some kind of record book with names, dates. All in code."
A chill runs through me. I remember whispered conversations between guards, talk of "the book" and how carefully it was protected. How certain entries meant certain girls would disappear, never to return.
I'd overheard one guard telling another, "The system's genius. Even if someone gets the book, it's useless without the key."
I should say something. Tell Maggie what I know. But five years of survival has taught me to hold my cards close. Information is currency. Safety is never guaranteed.
"I'm tired," I say instead, and it's not a lie. This small conversation has drained what little energy I had.
Maggie stands. "Get some rest. I'll check on you in the morning."
When she's gone, I drag myself back to the bed, curling on my side. The moon has shifted, no longer casting light through the blinds. In the darkness, I feel the familiar weight of dread settling over me. Sleep means nightmares. Nightmares mean screaming. Screaming means punishment.
No. Not anymore. I'm safe now.
I repeat the words until exhaustion pulls me under.
Hands holding me down. A needle in my arm. The van rocking beneath me as men laugh. "She'll fetch a good price." Someone cutting away my clothes. My engagement ring slipped from my finger. "No personal effects." That was the first time they hurt me. I didn’t keep count of how many times they hurt me. It was too many. Learning to go away inside my mind is my only survival. Falcon's face, growing dimmer in my memory with each passing year.
I wake screaming, tangled in sheets soaked with sweat. For a moment, I don't know where I am, thrashing against invisible restraints until a calm voice cuts through my panic.
"You're at the Saints clubhouse. You're safe. No one is going to hurt you."
An older man stands in the doorway, keeping his distance. Gray hair, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. A medical bag in one hand.
"I'm Doc," he says. "The club's physician. You were having a nightmare."
I force my breathing to slow, uncurling my fists from the sheets. "Did I—is everyone?—?"
"You didn't disturb anyone," he assures me, though I'm certain my screams must have carried. "May I check your vitals? I'll tell you everything I'm going to do before I do it."
I nod, grateful for his careful approach. He talks me through each step—checking my pulse, my temperature, the IV site. His touch is clinical, impersonal in a way that doesn't trigger panic.
"The other women," I manage to ask. "How many?—?"
"Twenty-seven women, nine children," Doc says, noting something on a chart. "All receiving care. You were in the worst physical condition of the adults." He glances up. "Falcon has been asking about you."
My heart stutters. "Has he?"
