Chapter 30
Beckett knew all too well what he was looking at, although he’d have wholeheartedly preferred to have been wrong for once.
The room was small, the ceilings low, and even from the doorway, he could feel just how packed the space was from the musty quality of the air and the heat that rolled off the sequestered bodies.
There was a widespread hum of fright as he took his first step forward.
Like a crowd hushing itself—or frightened prey sitting in silence, afraid the beast might hear them.
A little to his right he heard a terrified squeal and for his own sanity, he pretended it was a mouse. At least for a little while longer—
“I’m not here to hurt you—” Beckett promised, his voice as low and quiet as he could make it.
He’d been the wrong choice for this, he realised belatedly.
In their initial rush to get things moving, he’d somehow convinced Agent Gentry to send him in first. Her agents were spread out all over the building, making arrests and controlling the freaked-out workers.
Beckett had bypassed all the protocols and headed straight for the entrance of the condemned basement.
She’d not fought him on this. He sort of wished she had now.
It had been a selfish request. They should have sent in a woman, hell even Hayes would have been a better choice.
Beckett looked like one of the bad guys, especially with his banged-up face and heavily muscled physique.
There was more whimpering, but no one moved. The room became deathly still, like they were trying to disappear into the walls. Beckett sighed.
“I’m going to turn on a light, alright?” he said, mostly to reassure himself. He doubted any of these victims spoke fluent English. Not if their intel about their home countries was correct.
He switched on his baton flashlight, aiming its powerful beam towards the floor.
It lit up a small area that was damp, with roughly finished walls and a dirt floor.
Exactly like the room he’d been held in by Meathead and friends.
He swept his light around the room, slowly moving the beam higher, finding evidence of blood and other fluids covering the ground. He nearly gagged.
It took all of his self-control not to scream when he first caught sight of all those frightened souls.
They were gathered in small groups, pressing themselves together at tightly as possible, staying as far away from the door as they could get.
They varied in age, size, and ethnicity—it was impossible to profile why they’d been chosen, but here they were, looking like wounded animals caught in a trap.
“I’ve got at least 15 people here,” Beckett said, speaking into the comms. “We’re going to need backup,” he sighed, tasting blood in his mouth as he bit down on his tongue to keep from screaming with rage.
“And lots of ambulances.” He didn’t have to be a doctor to recognize that some of them were in terrible shape.
“People will be coming in,” Beckett told the crowd, speaking slowly while holding up his free hand in a placating gesture.
“It’ll be easier if you come willingly—they can help you.
Get you back home and safe,” he said, and whether they spoke fluent English or not, several of them smiled when he used the word home.
That one word seemed to break the ice. A young girl—neither the youngest nor oldest—suddenly detached herself from her group and took three wavering steps towards Beckett.
She was wearing a torn-up tunic of some sort, and it was obvious that she’d been abused.
To what extent, Beckett wasn’t sure he’d ever know.
“Home?” the young woman asked in accented English. Another girl reached for her, spitting out something in a language that sounded like Russian. She was probably warning her not to trust Beckett. But the young woman ignored her, shaking off her hand.
“Home?” she repeated, hesitantly stepping closer to Beckett.
He gave her a friendly smile.
“Yes, home,” he said, with a decisive nod.
She threw himself at him, wrapping her arms around him, just hanging there hugging him tightly.
Beckett lifted her, discovering she weighed next to nothing.
He could have fucking carried her across the goddamned ocean she was so light.
She hid her face in his neck and began to sob, the sound like a broken engine—metal scratching against metal—sparking something that threatened to blow Beckett’s mind. He tightened his hold on her.
“It’s alright, sweet—” he said, and—God, he suddenly remembered, vividly, the intense relief that he’d felt when he’d escaped his own personal hell so many years ago.
Time slipped away from him then. It could have been minutes, or hours, but slowly, the other women crept towards him.
Their steps uncertain—their bodies ready to retreat, while their spirits fought to hold onto hope.
Within minutes, paramedics and agents arrived to greet the frightened faces.
Special Agent Gentry had arranged for interpreters to be present.
A myriad of languages flowed over and around Beckett, and all the while, he held onto the young woman, refusing to set her down.
He could feel his ribs screaming for relief, the butterfly bandages covering his pectoral muscles popping one after the other as he held her.
It felt as if she was fused to his arms. At first, no one noticed.
There were too many others who required attention.
But eventually the paramedics came to him to take her from him.
He refused to let her go. He barked at them like a guard dog, while she continued to press her frightened face into his chest. He followed the medical team back up to the entrance, but even there—where the air was clean and safe, he clutched her to him.
“I’ll take her.”
And clean air had nothing on the relief he felt hearing Hayes' voice. Beckett blinked—feeling as if he’d been lost somehow. Hayes stood in front of him, his calm, capable hands stretched out in front of him mimicking Beckett’s hold.
“She needs medical attention—I’ll take her—you can watch,” Hayes said calmly, having correctly surmised that Beckett would be unable to tolerate someone else touching him while holding the girl.
Had it been anyone else, Beckett would have fought them. It would have taken hours—maybe days before he’d let anyone take her from him, but this was Hayes—his Hayes. He had more trust and faith in Hayes than he did in himself.
“He’ll take care of you,” he told the girl, as he gently placed her in Hayes’ arms.
Hayes tucked her in close, and though she whimpered at the loss of Beckett, she relaxed against Hayes’ chest.
“You can go sit and take a minute if you need to,” he told Beckett, giving him an intensely empathetic look.
Beckett shook his head. He was distantly aware that he felt oddly disconnected from the world around him.
He’d most likely reflect later on how he’d been unaware of the flashing sirens, of the general mayhem of the operation.
For now—he kept himself firmly grounded in the present, focusing intently on her—and on Hayes.
Hayes held her while the paramedics looked her over.
The whole time, Beckett’s lungs felt restricted—his chest tight like his lungs were filled with water again.
Hayes quickly picked up on it, of course, because he nudged Beckett with his foot about midway through her medical exam, and when their gazes met, reminded him, “We got them out. They’re safe. ”
And Beckett felt like he could breathe a little easier.
The relief was short-lived though. The enormity of the crimes that had been committed dawned on them as each ambulance was loaded and then departed for the hospital, one after another.
“Twenty-five victims identified so far,” Special Agent Gentry said when she stopped by to thank them for their help.
The operation was wrapping up. Multiple arrests had been made, including some of the employees from the factories, truck drivers, as well as some of the dock workers, and of course Mario Rosario himself.
“From what we’ve gathered, there were more—”
She broke off before saying the words: missing and likely dead.
“Tell me he’s as good as convicted,” Beckett said, when he managed to speak again.
“His lawyer is already working on a deal—he’ll be in prison for a long while. The only remaining doubt is whether he’ll be tried here or in the US,” she assured them.
If Beckett had it his way, the sick bastard wouldn’t live long enough to stand trial. He’d make sure that Mario ended up in a dark, damp place, suffering a slow, agonizing death.
But that wasn’t the real Beckett talking—it was the retched parts of him that had emerged for a brief moment—brought to life by the terrible crimes that had been committed.
“Thank you,” Beckett said as she prepared to leave. She looked confused by that. She’d already thanked them for nailing Mario. They’d done her job for her. They had no business thanking her. But then the reason for his gratitude finally occurred to her and she gave a small nod.
“It was the least I could do,” she said and turned to leave.