Chapter 5
Chapter Five
CARA
Hands around my throat. Can't breathe. Men laughing somewhere above me.
"She's a fighter. The clients like that."
The pressure increases. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. This is it. This time they'll go too far.
Then air rushes back into my lungs as the hands release. Someone grabs my hair, yanking my head back.
"Not yet, sweetheart. You're too valuable to break... completely."
I jolt awake with a gasp, clawing at my throat. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Sweat soaks the sheets twisted around my legs.
Not real. Not now. I'm safe.
The words feel hollow, even as I repeat them. My body doesn't believe them, still locked in fight-or-flight, muscles coiled tight. The darkness of the room presses in, suffocating, until I fumble for the lamp beside the bed.
Light floods the space, chasing shadows to the corners. Slowly, my breathing steadies. I focus on the details of the room—the faded Harley-Davidson poster on the wall, the worn desk by the window, the small clock showing 3:47 AM. Real things. Present things.
I reach for the notebook Doc gave me, recording the nightmare in bullet points. The clinical exercise helps distance me from the terror, transforming lived experience into documented data. The pages are filling up too quickly.
Throat/breathing nightmare again. Third time this week. Worse than before.
Doc says writing them down might reveal patterns we can address. So far, the only pattern I see is that they're getting more frequent, not less. Two weeks since the rescue, and the nights are still battlegrounds.
Sleep won't return now—it never does after that particular memory. I slide out of bed, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders against the pre-dawn chill. My legs are steadier now, the weakness less pronounced. Small victories.
The club is silent at this hour, everyone is either out on business or collapsed in alcohol-induced slumber. I move through the hallways like a ghost, touching walls for both support and grounding. Real. Solid. Here.
In the kitchen, I make tea, the routine calming. One of the few comforts from before that still feels the same. I'm stirring honey into the steaming mug when I hear it—a soft whimper from the common room.
I freeze, tea forgotten, as the sound comes again. Not threatening, but wounded. Cautiously, I move toward the doorway.
A figure sits huddled on the couch, knees drawn up, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Maggie. The woman I've seen around the clubhouse, who Doc mentioned was once like me. A survivor.
I should retreat, give her privacy. Instead, I clear my throat gently.
She looks up, hastily wiping her eyes. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Didn't think anyone was up."
"Nightmares," I offer by way of explanation.
Understanding passes between us, a current of shared experience. She nods, shifting to make room on the couch. "Me too."
I hesitate before joining her, leaving careful space between us. "Does it get better?" The question escapes before I can stop it, raw with need.
Maggie's laugh holds no humor. "Yes and no. The nightmares space out. The triggers get more specific, less random. You learn your limits, your warning signs." She glances at me. "But they don't go away entirely. Not for most of us."
The honesty is both devastating and strangely comforting. At least she isn't feeding me platitudes.
"How long?" I ask.
"Since I got out? Three years, give or take." She tugs her sleeves over her hands, a self-soothing gesture I recognize. "I was with them for eighteen months. Not as long as you."
Five years. The words still feel surreal, a lifetime contained in two syllables.
"How did you... after, I mean—" I struggle to articulate the question.
"How did I become more than what they made me?" Maggie fills in. "It wasn't a straight line, that's for sure." She studies me for a moment. "You're still in the fog. That first part where everything feels unreal, like you're watching your life through dirty glass."
The description is so accurate it steals my breath. "Yes."
"That passes," she says firmly. "I promise you that much. You start to feel present again. Then you start to figure out who you are now."
"I don't know who that is," I admit.
"No one does, at first." She uncurls slightly, her posture relaxing. "Look, I run a place. A shelter for women like us. Would you want to see it? Might help to meet others who've been where you are."
The offer catches me off guard. "You'd take me there?"
"Why not? Doc says you're physically stable enough for short trips." She shrugs. "Unless you're not ready. No pressure."
The thought of leaving the clubhouse sends anxiety skittering along my spine, but something stronger pushes back—the need to see beyond these walls, to glimpse what recovery might actually look like.
"Yes," I say, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. "I'd like that."
Maggie nods, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Tomorrow, then. Or I guess today, technically."
"Today," I agree, feeling like I've made a decision more significant than it appears.
Morning brings a different kind of clarity, doubt creeping in as I dress in the new clothes Doc gave me. Jeans that hang loose despite being the smallest size. A t-shirt and hoodie that hide the worst of my scars. The leather jacket that feels like borrowed confidence.
I study my reflection, cataloging the changes. The hollows beneath my cheekbones are less pronounced after two weeks of regular meals. My hair is clean, growing out from where they'd hacked it short during my captivity. I've gained perhaps five pounds.
But my eyes remain the same—too large, too knowing, carrying shadows no amount of sleep will erase.
The girl Falcon fell in love with is gone. The woman who stares back at me is a stranger built from survival and scars.
Voices from the main room draw my attention—men discussing the Burns Harbor operation. I recognize Falcon's deep timbre immediately, something in me responding to it despite everything. Since our confrontation in the garage, he's maintained his distance, professional when necessary, absent otherwise.
"Two days of recon confirm the container route," he says as I approach the doorway. "We'll need to coordinate with our Burns Harbor allies if we're going to hit them on Reapers territory."
"We have the numbers?" asks a voice I recognize as Condor's.
"Barely," Falcon replies. "But we have surprise on our side. They don't know we're onto the Burns Harbor route yet."
I lean against the wall, listening. Part of me wants to step in, offer the fragments of information still surfacing from my captivity. But the memory of Falcon's dismissal in the garage holds me back.
"Ready?" Maggie appears beside me, keys dangling from her fingers. She's dressed simply—jeans, boots, a flannel shirt over a tank top. Normal clothes that somehow make her look strong instead of fragile.
I nod, swallowing nervousness. "Let's go."
We slip out a side entrance, avoiding the meeting in progress. Maggie's car is parked nearby—an older model SUV, sturdy and nondescript. I hesitate before climbing in, my hand freezing on the door handle.
The van door sliding open. Rough hands shoving me inside. A hood pulled over my head as I struggle.
"Cara?" Maggie's voice pulls me back. "We can do this another day."
"No." I force myself to climb in, buckle the seatbelt with shaking hands. "I'm okay."
She doesn't call me on the lie, just starts the engine and pulls away from the clubhouse. I focus on breathing as buildings replace trees, streets widen, people appear on sidewalks. The world continues as if the past five years never happened.
"They took me from a parking garage," I say suddenly, the words spilling out. "After work. I was a paralegal then. Had just passed the LSAT, was planning to tell Falcon that night that I'd been accepted to law school." The memory surfaces with unexpected clarity. "I never got the chance."
Maggie keeps her eyes on the road, her response casual as if we're discussing the weather. "They grabbed me from a gas station off I-5. Middle of the night, no witnesses."
The simple acknowledgment of our parallel experiences loosens something in my chest. With Falcon, every word feels like it needs to be perfect, measured against five years of built-up pain. With Maggie, there's no history to navigate, just shared understanding.
"My parents died when I was in college," I continue, watching the town scroll past. "Car accident. Falcon was my only family, really. When they took me, there was no one else looking."
"The perfect target." Maggie nods. "They're good at finding women who won't be missed. Or whose disappearances won't raise immediate alarms."
The conversation carries us through town, past neighborhoods I don't recognize, to an area where small businesses give way to residential streets. Maggie turns onto a quiet cul-de-sac and pulls up in front of a large craftsman house. Nothing distinguishes it from neighboring homes except a small, tasteful sign: "New Beginnings Women's Center."
"This is it," Maggie says, cutting the engine. "Doesn't look like a shelter, right? That's deliberate."
The house is painted a soft blue with white trim, flower boxes in the windows, a porch swing gently moving in the breeze. It looks like someone's home—welcoming, normal, safe.
"The Saints Outlaws own this?" I ask, disbelief coloring my tone.
"Technically, it's owned by a foundation they set up." Maggie smiles at my surprise. "The MC isn't just leather and violence, Cara. They've been funding this place for years."
I follow her up the walkway, anxiety tightening my chest as we move farther from the car. Open space makes me feel exposed, vulnerable. By the time we reach the porch, my breathing is shallow, palms sweating.
Maggie unlocks the door without commenting on my obvious distress. "Welcome to New Beginnings."
Inside, the house is warm and bright, nothing like the institutional spaces I expected. The entryway opens to a living room where comfortable couches and chairs are arranged around a coffee table scattered with magazines and books. A fireplace with a child's drawings displayed on the mantel occupies one wall. It feels lived-in, genuine.
"We can house up to twelve women at a time," Maggie explains, leading me through the space. "Currently have eight residents, plus three part-time staff."
"Women like us?" I ask.
"Survivors, yes. Not all from trafficking—some from domestic violence, some from other situations. The common thread is trauma and the need for a safe transition back to independence."
As we move deeper into the house, I catch glimpses of life in progress—a young woman reading in a window seat, two others in the kitchen preparing lunch, someone's laundry neatly folded on a table. Normal activities that seem monumental from where I stand.
"Morning, Maggie," calls a woman from the kitchen. She's perhaps thirty, with short-cropped hair and a sleeve of colorful tattoos. "New friend?"
"This is Cara," Maggie introduces me. "Cara, this is Dani. She runs our kitchen program."
"Nice to meet you," Dani says, wiping her hands on a towel before offering one to shake. I take it briefly, the casual contact still unfamiliar. "Staying for lunch? Making stir-fry."
"If that's okay." Maggie looks to me for confirmation.
I nod, oddly touched by being given the choice.
Maggie continues the tour, showing me therapy rooms, a small computer lab for job searches and education, bedrooms shared by two women each. The space is designed for healing—peaceful colors, natural light, security features subtly integrated into the architecture.
"And this is my favorite spot," Maggie says, leading me to a sunroom at the back of the house. Large windows overlook a garden where vegetables grow in neat rows. A woman kneels among them, hands in the soil. "The garden's therapy for a lot of our residents. Growing something after so much destruction, you know?"
I do know. The urge to create, to nurture, after years of having everything taken.
"How do you fund all this?" I ask. "Beyond the Saints Outlaws, I mean."
"Grants, donations, some state funding." Maggie leans against the doorframe. "The women who can work contribute a small portion of their income. We're always scraping by, but we make it work."
"It's amazing," I say sincerely.
"It's necessary," she corrects. "I was lucky—I had a sister to go home to after I was rescued. But most women have nowhere to go. Or their homes aren't safe anymore." She studies me. "What about you? Any plans for after the clubhouse?"
The question catches me off guard. I haven't thought beyond the next day, the next hour sometimes. "I don't know. I can't go back to my old life."
"No," she agrees. "But you can build a new one."
Before I can respond, a timer beeps somewhere in the house. Maggie checks her watch. "Group session's about to start. Want to sit in? No pressure to participate."
Curiosity wins over anxiety. "Okay."
She leads me to a comfortable room where chairs are arranged in a circle. Women begin to filter in, ranging in age from early twenties to fifties. Some bear visible marks of their traumas—scars, burn marks, the too-thin frame that comes from prolonged captivity. Others appear unscathed on the surface, their wounds hidden deeper.
I take a seat slightly outside the circle, relieved when Maggie doesn't push me to join fully. The session begins with introductions, then moves into a discussion about coping strategies for triggers. I listen, absorbing the shared wisdom of women who've walked similar paths.
A young woman, perhaps twenty-two, speaks softly about her progress. "I went to the grocery store yesterday. By myself." Murmurs of encouragement ripple through the group. "I had a moment in the parking lot—you know, the feeling like someone's watching, going to grab you." She twists her hands together. "But I used the grounding techniques. Counted backward from one hundred. And I did it. I got my groceries and drove home."
The pride in her voice strikes a chord in me. Such a simple act—grocery shopping—transformed into a battlefield and a victory.
"That's fantastic, Jessie," Maggie says warmly. "What else helped you through it?"
"I remembered what you said. That each time I push through, I'm reclaiming something they took." Jessie straightens slightly. "I decide where I go now. Not them."
As the session continues, I find myself leaning forward, drawn in by these women's journeys. Their stories are different from mine in the details, but the core experience—the theft of autonomy, the struggle to reclaim it—resonates deeply.
When the group breaks for lunch, a woman with auburn hair and a careful way of moving approaches me. "First time here?" she asks, keeping a respectful distance.
I nod. "Just visiting."
"I'm Rachel," she offers. "Six months out."
"Cara," I reply. "Two weeks."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Oh. You're really fresh." She hesitates. "It gets... not easier, exactly. But more manageable."
"So I keep hearing," I say with a faint smile.
"The first month, I couldn't even look out a window without panicking," she confides. "Now I have a part-time job. My own bank account." These achievements are stated with the gravity they deserve. "Small steps."
"How did you do it?" I ask, the question loaded with unspoken desperation.
"One day at a time. Sometimes one hour." Rachel's gaze is steady, understanding. "And I stopped trying to be who I was before. That person's gone. I had to get to know who I am now."
The wisdom in her words settles over me as we move to the dining room for lunch. The meal is communal, women passing dishes family-style, conversations flowing naturally around the table. I'm introduced simply as a visitor, no explanations of my background needed in this company.
After lunch, Maggie pulls me aside. "There's an art therapy session starting, or we can head back if you're getting tired."
I'm exhausted, my social reserves depleted, but reluctant to leave this place where I'm not an anomaly. "The art thing, I think."
The art room is bright and airy, tables covered with supplies—paper, paints, clay, fabric. A gentle-voiced woman introduces herself as the therapist and explains the day's exercise: creating something that represents safety.
I sit at a corner table, selecting colored pencils and paper almost at random. Around me, women begin working—some methodically, others with bursts of frenetic energy. The therapist moves among them, offering encouragement without direction.
I stare at the blank page, uncertain. What is safety to me now? The clubhouse? This shelter? Neither feels permanent.
A movement catches my eye—a woman at the next table having difficulty opening a package of modeling clay, her hands trembling visibly. Without thinking, I reach over.
"Can I help?" I ask softly.
She nods, pushing the package toward me. As I open it, I notice track marks on her arms, some fresh, some faded scars. The physical evidence of coping mechanisms and exploitation.
"Thank you," she whispers, taking the clay back. "Bad day for fine motor skills."
"I understand," I say, and I do. Some days my own hands refuse to cooperate, phantom pains from healed breaks flaring up.
She begins working the clay with determined focus. "I'm making a door," she explains without looking up. "With a lock on the inside."
The simple image strikes me with its powerful symbolism. "That's perfect," I say.
"What about you?" she asks.
I turn back to my blank page, pencil hovering. Then, slowly, I begin to draw—not a place or object, but people. Stylized figures forming a circle, facing outward, protecting what's inside. The Saints Outlaws, with their leather and weapons. The women at this shelter, with their shared understanding. A makeshift family of survivors and protectors.
"A shield," I explain when the therapist pauses by my table. "People who stand between you and harm."
She nods thoughtfully. "Safety in community. Very powerful."
By the time the session ends, I'm drained but calmer than I've felt in days. Maggie finds me examining a bulletin board covered with job listings, educational opportunities, and success stories from former residents.
"Ready to head back?" she asks.
"Yes," I say, reluctant but realistic about my limits. "This place is incredible, Maggie. What you've built here."
"I had help," she says, leading me toward the exit. "The Saints Outlaws provided the means, but the vision came from the women who needed it." She hesitates. "We're always looking for volunteers, you know. When you're ready."
The casual offer of future purpose catches me off guard. "I don't know what I could offer."
"Are you kidding?" Maggie raises an eyebrow. "You have legal training, first hand experience, and from what I've seen today, natural empathy for other survivors. You'd be an asset."
The compliment warms something long cold inside me. "I'll think about it."
As we prepare to leave, I shake hands with the staff, exchange quiet goodbyes with women I've just met but who understand parts of me no one else can. The connections feel significant, healing in their normalcy.
Outside, the afternoon sun is bright, the street quiet except for birds and distant traffic. I pause on the porch, breathing deeply, concentrating on staying present.
"I'm going to walk to the car," I announce, more to myself than Maggie.
She nods, understanding the significance. "I'll be right here."
I take the first step off the porch, then another. The open space of the yard stretches before me, seeming to expand with each step. I focus on the car, just thirty feet away. A manageable distance.
Twenty feet. My heart rate increases, but I keep moving.
Fifteen feet. Sweat breaks out along my hairline.
Ten feet. A car passes on the street, engine noise making me flinch.
Five feet. Almost there.
Then a door slams somewhere down the block. The sound cracks through the air like a gunshot, and suddenly I'm not on a peaceful street in broad daylight.
The container door slamming shut. Darkness. Screaming women. No air. No escape.
I freeze, unable to move forward or back. My lungs constrict, vision tunneling to a pinpoint. Somewhere distant, I hear Maggie's voice, but can't make out the words over the roaring in my ears.
Hands on my shoulders. Gentle pressure guiding me down to a sitting position on the grass.
"Breathe with me, Cara." Maggie's voice breaks through, steady and firm. "In for four, hold for four, out for four. That's it."
I follow her instructions mechanically, forcing air in and out until the world stops spinning. Slowly, reality reasserts itself—grass beneath my palms, sun on my face, Maggie crouched beside me. Safety.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, shame burning hot up my neck.
"Never apologize for a trauma response," Maggie says firmly. "Your brain is trying to protect you the only way it knows how."
"But I can't even walk to a car without falling apart," I say, frustration edging my voice.
"Today," she emphasizes. "You can't do it today. Tomorrow might be different."
She helps me to my feet and we make it to the car together, her hand supportive under my elbow. The drive back to the clubhouse passes in silence, my episode leaving me drained and withdrawn.
As we pull into the compound, I notice several bikes missing from their usual spots. The Burns Harbor operation must be underway. I wonder if Falcon is among them, then push the thought aside. His absence or presence shouldn't matter to me now.
"Thanks for today," I say as Maggie parks. "Despite the meltdown at the end."
"Progress isn't linear," she replies with a shrug. "Two steps forward, one step back is still moving forward."
We enter through the side door, voices from the main room indicating some club members remain. I'm about to retreat to my room when Maggie stops me.
"Think about what I said," she says. "About volunteering. Not now, but when you're ready. Having purpose helps."
"I will," I promise.
In my room, I sink onto the bed, physical and emotional exhaustion catching up to me. The day replays in my mind—the shelter, the women, the brief moment of normalcy before panic reclaimed me. Two steps forward, one step back.
The girl I was five years ago would be horrified by what I've become—broken, scarred, unable to walk across a yard without collapsing. Law school and a future with Falcon replaced by nightmares and trauma responses.
But that girl is gone, just as Rachel said. In her place is someone new—someone who survived hell and emerged, damaged but not destroyed.
I pull out the drawing I made during art therapy, studying the circle of protective figures. For years, I had no one. Now, unexpectedly, I find myself surrounded by people who understand, who want to help.
A knock interrupts my thoughts. I open the door to find Maggie, expression serious.
"Burns Harbor operation hit a complication," she says without preamble. "Several injured, including Falcon."
My heart stutters. "How bad?"
"Not critical. They're bringing them back now."
Relief washes through me, followed immediately by resolve. "I want to help."
Maggie nods as if she expected this. "Doc can use an extra pair of hands."
As I follow her to help prepare the medical area, I realize something important. The girl Falcon lost is gone forever. But perhaps the woman I've become still has something to offer—to the club, to other survivors, to myself.
I'll never be the same girl. But maybe, just maybe, that's not the end of my story.