17. The Metal Cage
The metal wallsof the container are cold and hard. It’s like being trapped inside a giant, rusty tin can, the air inside a weird blend of sweat, fear, and something metallic, like the smell of an old, abandoned factory.
I crouch beside Michelle, her body sprawled out on the floor, a pale, drained canvas. Her hair is tangled, and her clothes are a crumpled mess. She’s a ghost.
“Hey, you were amazing back there,” I say as I gently take her hand. “Great distraction.”
Michelle groans, her eyelids fluttering open for a moment. “Mmhhmm,” she rasps. Her eyes, a stormy blue, meet mine for a moment.
My head’s a jumble of worry, of fear. We’re trapped. It’s happening, all of it. They’re human traffickers, and we’re cargo. The thought slams into me, a physical blow. I try to push it away, to pretend this isn’t happening, but the weight of the truth is crushing.
I need to breathe, to think, to find a way to fight.
I caress the razor blade, its sharp edge cutting slightly into my skin. It is a pathetic weapon and wasn’t worth Michelle’s pain. I don’t know what I was thinking. But it is all I have.
“Is anyone—does anyone speak English?” I ask.
Silence. We’re a collection of shadows, a mosaic of fear, huddled together in a fucking container.
We’re alone. The realization is a cold fist clenching around my heart. Alone and at the mercy of a monster.
“It’s no use,” a voice says from the back of the container. English, clear and steady, with no hint of an accent.
A girl gets up and steps forward, her movements hesitant, her body fragile. I recognize her instantly.
“Emily?” I whisper, my heart hammering in my chest. She stumbles towards me, her legs shaking, her eyes bloodshot and hollow. Her face is gaunt, her cheekbones stark against her paper-thin skin.
“Yes,” she breathes, her voice is broken. “You know who I am?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. It’s hard to believe she’s still alive. She’s a ghost, a shadow of the vibrant, confident girl I remember from the Spectrum Design pictures placed in the hallway at work.
I reach out, catching her as she sways, her weight alarmingly light. Her skin is clammy, and her scent, a strange blend of sweat and something else, something stale and sour, makes my stomach clench.
“What happened to you?” I ask. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”
She coughs, a dry, hacking sound that seems to shake her entire frame. “Cole—”
That bastard.
“H-he kept me here,” she says, her voice barely audible.
“For all those years?” I ask, my stomach turning. Over four years. The realization hits me with a force that makes me stagger back.
Emily, gone. Trapped here all this time.
She nods slowly, her gaze fixed on the floor, a fragile, broken bird. “I came to break up with him one day,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “Here. We were seeing each other, and I wanted to end it. He was—possessive. Violent. And I—I never left.”
The pieces of the puzzle slam together, a horrifying mosaic of truth. My fears were real. It was her room we were thrown into, the sterile white and gray, the bed, the bedside table, it all makes sense now. She was bolted inside that room, trapped in her own personal hell all those years. The thought makes me sick.
“That asshole,” I spit, my anger a sudden, fierce blaze. I reach out, wanting to comfort and smooth back her hair, but she flinches away from my touch.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I’m so sorry, Emily.”
Her eyes well up, a silent plea etched on her face. “My family,” she gasps. “Do you know anything about them? Do they know I’m alive?”
I shake my head, her question crushing me. “I—I don’t know anything.”
I wish I did, Emily.
My eyes narrow, a realization dawning. “But wait – why are you here? In this container? With us?”
I twist a strand of hair around my finger, listening. The silence in the crate is a thick, viscous liquid, slow and suffocating, seeping into my pores, stealing my breath.
“He got tired of me,” Emily says, her voice strained like she’s pushing a boulder uphill. “He got tired of my performances in the red room— I’m weak. I haven’t seen the sun in years. They— they put something in my food, in my drinks. He said it was time to ship me off. To some other men—- to play with. Something like that.”
“He can’t do this,” I say, my voice tight. “Why hasn’t anyone stopped him?”
“They can’t stop him, Ava. I mean — I think this is his first big shipment of—humans, of women, but that’s not all. He controls things, people —” Emily says. “He’s been working on it for years. He wants to take control of the crime ring of the whole state. And he wants to punish the Bournes. He—he told me all about them— and you. You’re Ava, right?”
I nod, my mind racing. The pieces are falling into place, a terrifying picture of Cole’s grand plan.
“And—why now?” I ask, my voice sharp. “Why bring out the Raven or whatever the hell he calls himself?”
“He’s been working on this for over a year now,” Emily says, her voice gaining strength, her eyes blazing with a small fire. “Keeping a low profile. Taking back the Veles Network and anyone still loyal to him after the mess with Dexter. Killing people. Men that were loyal to Dexter— to Alexander—”
So Cole is killing them off, not Dexter.
“You know about Alexander?” I ask, my heart pounding. The thought of him, of what Cole might do, is a gut punch.
“He needs him, or needed him —” Emily says, her gaze meeting mine, a dark intensity in her eyes. “For his planned revenge, and for—EverBlue Group. He will kill Alexander eventually and take over EverBlue Group, making it a front for human trafficking.”
“And he— he just told you all of this?” I can’t believe it. It’s too much. This is a twisted nightmare.
Emily nods slowly. “He said he loved me. We— we slept in the same bed every night, Ava. He stroked my hair and told me about his day—”
“Knowing you’d never leave,” I finish.
Cole isn’t just a criminal. He’s a monster. A predator, a manipulator who uses love as a weapon. He wraps his arms around his victims, a silken web that traps them.
My stomach clenches. I want to puke. I slide down the metal wall, landing beside Emily, my shoulders bruising against her shoulder. I can feel the bone.
I look at the other girls. They’re all trapped here. But the sight of them, their fear, their desperation, ignites a fire in me. A spark of something —
“What are your names?” I ask, my voice firm. “Where are you from?”
A young woman with dark, frightened eyes and long, dark braids speaks up. “Tanya. From Russia, I came — work, illegally. I met Gregory, and next thing— I’m inside a container,” she sniffs.
Another girl, her face puffy and red from crying, whispers, “Sofia.” Her blonde hair hangs limply around her shoulders. “From Moscow. I friend—Tanya.”
”Zara,” a stronger voice cuts through the darkness from the back of the container. I can make out a girl with fiery red hair, her face hidden in the shadows. ”Fuckers snatched me from my work. I clean buildings at night. If I just had a gun, I would—”
Her English is near-perfect, a sign she”s been here for a while. The picture is clear now. They kidnap girls no one will miss, no one will look for. They ship them back as sex slaves, or worse, to their own country. To be kept in captivity, at the mercy of Veles Network mafia members. My anger boils over, a white-hot rage that threatens to eat me. Stay calm, Ava.
One by one, they tell me their names, their voices hesitant, their accents thick. There is Anya, her face bruised and swollen. Nadia, her dark eyes burning with an angry fire.
“We all need to remember who we are,” I say, my gaze sweeping over their faces. “No matter what they do to us.”
The words feel empty, like a flimsy curtain trying to block out a hurricane. We”re clinging to these scraps of identity, these whispers of who we are, but it”s like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a teacup. It”s a losing battle, and I know it. Soon, they”ll be gone, stripped away, leaving us naked and vulnerable.
I push myself to my feet, my gaze scanning the metal walls of the container. It’s like trying to find an escape route from a steel coffin. I tug at the metal plates and test the latches, my fingers scraping against the cold, hard surface. I can feel the weight of the metal and the strength of its construction. There’s no way out.
Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, finally pulls me down. I slump beside Emily, her large, Bambi-like eyes watching me with a haunted intensity. I close my eyes, and my limbs feel heavy and useless.
A girl, her face hidden between her hands, suddenly speaks up, her voice hesitant. “Poland,” she whispers, her English broken but understandable. “Tonight. We— go Poland. Then train— to Russia.”
Russia. The word sends a fresh wave of terror through my limp. The Veles mafia is connected to its motherland.I open my eyes, my gaze meeting Emily’s. We’re running out of time, and we both know it.
The darkness closes in around us, and I can’t shake the feeling that our fate is already sealed.
I’m shovedout of the container, the guy digging his fingers into my arm, his grip bruising. His grin is stretched wide as he pushes Michelle and me out. The metal door swings open, revealing three men flanking the entrance. Their gazes are fixed on us reminding us that escape isn’t an option.
My eyes squint, struggling to adjust to the harsh glare of the overhead spotlights, bright white beams that do little to hide our battered faces. The place stretches out before me. There are towering metal containers, each one labeled with faded, scratched lettering. Some are in English, some in a language I’m guessing is Russian.
My eyes scan the scene. The place feels raw, industrial, like a forgotten battlefield. My stomach churns. The smell of oil is almost comforting compared to the memory of the metallic tang that clung to the air in the “red room.”
I take a shuddering breath, the scent of the warehouse catching in my throat. With a sickening lurch in my stomach, I realize that each one of those containers could hold another group of girls. Emily had said we were the first group to be trafficked overseas, but who knows what else Cole would lie about?
More of Cole’s men emerge from the back of the room, their footsteps heavy on the concrete floor. Between them, they drag a broken figure.
I recognize him immediately: Alexander.
My gaze traces the path of his body, the way his head lolls against his chest, his limbs moving with an unnatural stiffness.
His clothes are torn, hanging from his frame in shredded strips, revealing bruises and cuts that paint his skin a horrifying canvas of purple, yellow, and red. Blood crusts on his split lip and his breathing is ragged; he inhales a shallow gasp that rattles in his chest. His eyes are wild and desperate, burning with a trapped, caged fury.
A strangled sound escapes my lips. He’s alive, a surge of relief, sharp and fleeting, cutting through the icy fear gripping me for hours. But the relief is quickly eclipsed by what I see. He is alive, but barely.
How much has Cole done to him?
“Alexander,” I gasp. I can’t hold it in or deny the wellspring of emotion that surges through me at the sight of him.
His head lifts slightly, his gaze meeting mine. A flicker of recognition, a spark of something desperate and raw, flashes in his eyes.
“Ava—” he mumbles, the word a struggle, distorted by the blood in his mouth. He spits a crimson stain, landing on the concrete floor with a soft splat. He groans, his body straining against the men who hold him captive, a futile attempt to break free. “Let her the fuck go, Cole,” he says, his voice ragged. “She’s not part of this.”
Alexander’s eyes fall on Michelle behind me as she stumbles forward, her face pale, her eyes wide.
Alexander’s gaze shifts to her, and his one visible eye widens. “Cole, you fucking piece of shit,” he spits, his voice a guttural growl.
Cole, who has been watching the scene unfold with a detached amusement, steps forward. He is dressed in a white-collar shirt. His sandy hair is perfectly styled, and his ghastly white shoes gleam.
My gaze snags on the gun in his hand, a gleaming gold monster in the harsh warehouse light. I can almost feel its weight, the terror it would inspire, and, strangely, the satisfaction of wielding it.
“It was my brother’s,” Cole says, his voice soft, almost conversational, as if discussing the weather. He runs a finger along the smooth, golden barrel, his touch possessive, almost loving. “I’ll use it to kill Alexander.”
He’s talking to me.
The golden gun seems to pulse with energy. I glance from the weapon to the shipping containers again. How many girls? How many future shattered lives will Cole be responsible for?
I look at Michelle next to me; her fear-filled eyes are filled with a pleading look, but there is no mercy in this place. I think of Emily in the container behind me, of Zara and Anya. The anger within me, a slow, simmering burn, intensifies. It isn’t the hot flash of rage I am used to; it is something colder, sharper, a blade twisting in my gut. I imagine the gun in my hand, the cold metal against my skin, the satisfying weight as I turn it on Cole, on his men, on this entire world.
I start to kick and scream as the man’s hand on me bruises my arm more. “Don’t touch him, Cole! Don’t touch any of them!” I shriek; my voice is raw, almost unfamiliar to me.
Cole chuckles, his gaze fixed on me. He takes a step closer and presses the gun against the back of Alexander’s head. “This guy?” he mocks.
Michelle, her face emotionless, suddenly lunges toward Cole and Alexander. “Alex!” she screams.
One of the men, his movements swift and brutal, slams the butt of his gun against her temple. The sickening thud of the impact reverberates through the warehouse. Michelle crumples to the floor, unconscious.
My anger, a molten river, threatens to break through the dam of my self-control. The sight of Michelle lying on the floor ignites a primal fury within me. I want to tear Cole apart with my bare hands, to feel his blood under my nails.
He pauses, his fingers tightening around the golden gun. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he gestures toward his men.
“Place her in front of Alexander. Undress her, all of her clothes.”
No, no, no. Stay calm, Ava.
My hands tremble, but I hold my ground, my gaze fixed on Cole’s. He’s seemingly amused by my defiance and waves the golden gun, urging his men forward.
“We don’t have all day,” he says. “The ship leaves soon. How ironic, right, Alex? Your ship will leave with both your women on it, and you’ll never see them again. They’ll be placed in the good hands of the Veles Network Russian branch, where their – talents – will surely be appreciated.” He stares at my breasts through my thin shirt, his smirk widening. “Not that it’ll matter. You’ll be dead soon, knowing they’ll be suffering at the hands of other men.”
“Go to hell!” Alexander spits, blood splattering on Cole’s white shoe.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Cole says, his mouth twisting into a cruel grimace. “These are new shoes.”
Without warning, Cole’s fist explodes against Alexander’s jaw, a bone-jarring crack echoing through the warehouse. I cringe, the impact making my teeth clench. A fresh stream of blood blossoms on Alexander’s face, trailing down his jaw and staining his shirt more crimson. I want to scream, to claw at Cole, to do something, but I can’t. They’re too many.
Alexander groans, his body straining against the men who hold him captive. His breathing is ragged, his muscles bulging, his sweat-slicked skin glistening in the harsh overhead lights. Even in his weakened state, his rage and desperation resonate with my own. We are connected, our fury a shared current.
Our eyes meet, and I mouth the words, “I love you.” And I do. With a fierce, all-consuming love that transcends the pain, the fear, the hopeless reality of our situation.
He shakes his head, his lips forming a silent plea. “Don’t,” he mouths back. He knows. He knows I am about to do something reckless.
“Cole,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady, cutting through the silence. He looks up, his brow furrowed.
“I have a proposition for you,” I say, my gaze holding his.
Cole raises an eyebrow. “A proposition?” he repeats, his voice dripping with skepticism. “From a girl about to be shipped off to the highest bidder? I’m all ears, Ava. Entertain me.”
I take a deep breath, my gaze steady on his. The fear is still there, a cold knot in my stomach, but it is overshadowed by a surge of adrenaline that fuels my next move.
“Let them go,” I say. “Michelle, Alexander, and the girls. Let them walk out of here, and I’ll go willingly. No fight, no fuss. You can have me. You can ship me off to your precious Russian contacts.
A ripple of murmurs goes through the space. I can feel the men shifting, their gazes flickering between Cole and me. Even Alexander’s bruised features contorted in pain seem to straighten slightly, his gaze sharpening.
Cole throws back his head and laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “You think you’re in a position to bargain, Ava?” he says, his amusement fading, replaced by a cold anger. “You’re a commodity, a piece of meat. You don’t get to make demands.”
“Maybe not,” I say, my voice calm. “But you need me alive, don’t you? Damaged goods don’t fetch a high price.” I let my gaze sweep over his men, my defiance simmering.
I pull out the blade I picked up with the help of Michelle, its edge catching the spot light from the ceiling above. I press it against my wrist, the cold metal a shock against the heat in my veins. I”m not about to do it, but he doesn”t know that. He doesn”t know what I”m capable of.
Cole”s smile vanishes. His eyes narrow. ”Are you threatening to kill yourself?” He glances at Alexander, then back at me. I can feel the heat of his gaze, a violation that makes my skin crawl, but I hold his eyes, refusing to back down. He adjusts his tie. It’s his tick, and I can almost feel his need to regain control, even for a moment.
”Everything needs to be in order,” Cole says, his voice low and deliberate. ”Everything has to be—perfect. You can”t just walk around threatening to die. It disrupts the plan. You’re playing a dangerous game, Ava,” he says, his voice low.
“We’re all playing a dangerous game, Cole,” I counter.
He steps closer, the golden gun glinting. “You really think you can outsmart me?” He leans in, his breath warm against my cheek. The lemony scent of his cologne makes me gag. “You think you can beat me at my own game?”
“Maybe not,” I whisper, my gaze never leaving his. “But I’m willing to die trying.”
He straightens, his gaze shifting to his men. “Put her back in the shipping container. Tear the blade from by force if you have to,” he orders, his voice clipped with an icy edge. “Get this shipment moving. Make sure there is no way she can harm herself.”
”And if she does?” one of his men asks; a tall, bald brute.
”She won”t,” Cole says, his voice laced with a confidence that makes my stomach churn.
Shit. He has called my bluff.
”You think I”m just playing games, Ava?” Cole says, his voice dropping to a low growl, his eyes gleaming with a cold intensity. ”I”m not interested in toys. I want control. I want to build an empire. And the Bournes—they”re in my way. They took everything from me. They need to pay.”
As the men move to obey, I catch Alexander’s eye. He is watching me, his gaze intense, a question burning in his depths.
It’s now or never, my hand tightening around the razor blade in my hand. I never meant to cut myself, and the blade is for something else entirely.
The men grab me, their hands rough, their grip bruising. I stumble, letting out a cry of pain, a carefully orchestrated act that draws their attention. As they pull me toward the shipping container, I see Alexander tense, his muscles coiling like a spring ready to be released.
I’m almost inside the shipping container. I can see the girls huddle together, their eyes wide, their bodies trembling. Emily, her gaze sharp and alert, stands near the front, her hand resting on the container wall, her knuckles white.
She’s ready.
I quickly slip her the razor blade. The men shove me inside, and I fall against the rough floor, the impact jarring my bones. Before they can shut the door, I shout, “Now!”
A chorus of screams erupted from the shipping container. The girls, fueled by a surge of adrenaline and a desperate hope for freedom, lunged at the men. They kicked, scratched, and bit, their fury a wild, primal force unleashed.
Cole needs the cargo intact. He doesn’t want to hurt the girls.
He won’t order the men to shoot them. I repeat this mantra to myself as I claw at the nearest guard; I can feel his skin rip beneath my nails and the army of his blood on my hands.
Emily’s movements are surprisingly swift and precise. She uses the razor blade I just gave her to slash at the ropes binding the container door so it won’t shut close again. The thick fibers part with a satisfying snap.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Alexander throwing his weight against the two men holding him. He headbutts one, sending him staggering back with a grunt, then slams his knee into the other’s groin.
The man doubles over, gasping for air. With a roar of fury, Alexander breaks free, diving towards the gun that has flown from the hand of one of the men.
I scramble to my feet, my pulse rising, my gaze locked on Cole. He stands frozen for a moment, his face a mask as he watches his carefully constructed plan crumbles around him.
The girls spill out of the container, a wave of fury and fire. Tanya, her dark braids whip around her face, landing a vicious kick to a man’s shin. Anya is clawing at another man’s face, leaving bloody streaks across his cheek.
Emily’s eyes, blazing with a cold fire, target the man with the tattooed skull. She lunges at him, her fingers digging into his face, her nails finding his eye. He howls in pain, stumbling back, his hand flying to his face, blood seeping between his fingers.
I pushed through the chaos. My eyes laser-fixed on Cole. He raises the golden gun, his finger tightening on the trigger. I lunge at him, my shoulder connecting with his chest, but he is stronger than I anticipated. He doesn’t fall; he staggers back, his eyes widening.
“You little bitch!” he snarls, shoving me away. I crash against one of the shipping containers, the impact knocking the air from my lungs.
Cole aims the gun at Alexander, who’s now wielding a crowbar, fighting off two of Cole’s goons. It’s like a scene from a bad action movie, but this is real.
I’m on my feet before Cole can pull the trigger. I launch myself at him, a desperate, uncalculated move. My arms lock around his waist, and we crash to the floor, the gun skittering across the concrete like a lost toy.
“Get her off me!” Cole roars, struggling against my grip.
One of his men approaches me, his fist cocked, but Alexander intercepts him. He slams the crowbar into the guy’s side, a sickening thud echoing through the warehouse. The guy crumples to the floor, a whimper escaping his lips.
Cole, still tangled with me, reaches for the gun. His fingers stretch, grasping. I scramble, my hand closing around the cold metal a split second before his. I got the golden gun.
I”ve never used a gun. The weight of it feels strange, unfamiliar in my hand. But it also feels powerful, somehow. I”ve seen Alexander with his gun countless times, watched him clean it, and heard him talk about its intricacies. I know it”s dangerous, but I also know its potential. A sudden surge of fear and confidence washes over me. I”m not sure where this newfound strength is coming from, but I”m not going to let him take it away from me.
”It”s over Cole,” I say, my voice shaking, my hands trembling as I slowly back away from him, his own golden gun pointed straight at him.
Cole stares at me, his eyes burning with a fury that”s far more terrifying than his earlier amusement. ”You bitch,” he snarls. ”You”ll pay for this.”
Distracted by the chaos, his men turn towards us, their guns raised. I look back at them, then to Cole again. But it”s too late. A new sound cuts through the air, sharp and final: the crack of a gunshot.