“Yes?”
My eyes held his. “No cameras. No news. Not yet.”
These women had been through enough. One of the last things they needed was news crews, nosey reporters shoving microphones into their faces. He nodded once and stepped back.
Dean remained on the other side, out of sight, but I could feel him. Knowing he was here gave me the strength to do this without breaking down.
Inhaling a shaky breath, I turned back to the victims, my eyes scanning across the sea of broken ones.
“My name is Gwen. I am an associate of the FBI. You are safe. We are here to help you,” I said softly, my eyes stopping on a young woman in the middle of the crowd. She couldn’t be more than fifteen, her hair in disarray, the skin on her face covered in dried blood and dirt. Her eyes were…lifeless. A zombie.
My throat tightened as that burning rage scorched up my spine.
Romano would fucking burn for this.
“We're hungry,” a soft voice said.
“Thirsty,” another croaked.
My stomach dropped, the heavy weight of dread holding it down with no promise of it ever coming back up. I would never be the same after this. Evil changed you, branded your soul, and no matter how hard you scrubbed, that mark would never come out.
“You will have food and water. Clothes, too. You are safe now,” I promised, crouching down in front of them, getting on their level, so, they would understand I wasn't here to control them.
“None of you will ever be sold or used again.”
I turned to the woman closest to my right, her dead gray eyes peering up to me. “How long have you all been here?” I asked her, keeping my hands where she could see them, so she knew I wasn’t there to hurt her.
She shook her head, her entire body trembling in fear.
“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay,” I cooed as she scrambled away from me, but I didn’t chase her. This was her way of protecting herself, and I wouldn’t get in the way of that. My eyes dropped to her feet, where the bottoms were exposed, bleeding.
Mercy.
“She can’t speak,” the girl beside her said, her voice emotionless. This girl wouldn’t look up at me, keeping her eyes on the dirty, cold floor.
“They cut her tongue out last week because she bit a man’s cock,” another girl said.
Jesus Christ.
I shook my head and turned to the voice. This girl had short, dark hair and a black eye. There was dried blood on her lip and bite marks all over her chest.
Those monsters.
“Do you know how long you have been here?”
She looked at me, and I saw it. Her fight. Her fire. Her rage.
Thank God.
Her soul wasn’t broken. Hope bloomed in my chest.
“In this bin? Three weeks. I think someone is dead back there,” she said, jerking her thumb to the back. “The stench is awful,” she deadpanned, looking outside.
Three weeks?Haley was taken three weeks ago. Before I allowed myself to analyze the timeline, I stood.
“You are safe,” I announced, my voice firm. “We will provide clothes, food, water, and shelter. Whenever you are ready, please come outside. We have people ready and willing to aid you all.”
Silence was my only reply, but I didn’t miss some of the women nodding or shaking their heads. Once I stepped out of the container, I was surprised to find a triage camp halfway set up and a row of ambulances, medical personnel, and lawenforcement around us. I stepped aside to Dean, taking off my vest.
