Chapter 17
Brooks
The next day finds me back in the same warehouse, courtesy of my father’s continued need to ‘educate me’ about his business, only this time I’m here on my own.
At least in theory.
“You’re sure you don’t want company?” the man in charge of driving me asks when he drops me off.
His voice tells me he’s talking about a lot more than just an administrative assistant, and I turn my glare on him, staring him down in the rear view mirror until he blushes and looks away.
“Perhaps my father hasn’t told you that I’m now his second-in-command,” I tell him, my voice as low and dangerous as I can make it. “Or that you owe me the same respect you’d show him.”
There’s no answer from the driver, so I keep going.
“Perhaps he also hasn’t told you that I’ll soon be in charge of who works for this organization, who is fired, and who’s released with a warning never to show their face in this town again.
” I glance down at my nails, pretending I don’t have a care in the world.
“Hell, I may even be in charge of deciding who lives and dies. We’re still in negotiations about that. ”
When my eyes rise again, I find him staring at me with a combination of horror and disgust, and I smile sweetly.
“So I’d watch your mouth, if I was you.”
I get out of the car and head for the door into the warehouse, leaving the boy sputtering and hopefully terrified behind me.
None of that is true, of course. I’m not in negotiations with my father over anything and I’ll be well and truly damned before I take over his organization or the operations going on under his name.
But I’ve never let a little thing like truth get in the way of me getting what I want.
The moment I enter the warehouse, I put him out of my head.
I’m here late in the day and I’m hoping that will mean there are fewer people around.
A quick glance tells me that I guessed right on that account; I’m familiar enough with the warehouse at this point to know that the place is usually crawling with men, all of them either entering information into some computer or walking through the hallways harassing the girls.
Testing them for something.
Ordering them around.
Getting them ready for transport.
I still don’t know where this warehouse is in the order of things–if these girls are on their way into the ring and on their first night, or if they’re actively headed for the port, or the mansion itself, or some dance hall auction.
But I know roughly how many men to expect in here and where they’ll be.
And right now, as I’m looking down on the rooms and their attached hallways, I see only a few men.
A fraction of the number I’ve seen in the mornings.
There are two in the hallways, walking from room to room and shouting at the girls, and a couple across from me, entering and exiting offices.
Samantha is, I know, back at my father’s house with my father, in some sort of private meeting, and the highest of his soldiers are there as well.
I pause and consider that, wondering if I could actually be so lucky. Because if there aren’t many men here right now, the thing I’ve been considering might actually work.
Might.
Of course, it also might not. It might get me caught and killed–or worse–and I’m sane enough to know that I’m already walking a fine line with my father.
No one has said anything to me about the girls in the basement, possibly because I wasn’t supposed to know about them yet, or possibly because no one wants to admit that they lost one hundred girls in the middle of the night.
But once they start asking questions, it’s going to take them about two seconds to get to my name and realize that I’m the one and only unknown in their whole operation.
If a bunch of girls disappear from another warehouse, and I happened to be in that warehouse at the time...
Let’s just say that if I do this, I better start planning a way to get out of my father’s reach within the next day.
I still don’t know why he’s trying to pull me into a leadership role in the family but his blindness is only going to last for so long.
Once he realizes I’m stabbing him in the back as quickly as I can, I’m going to be in trouble.
In the meantime, though, I’m going to get as many girls out as I can.
And hope that when I get out, Lucien has a way for us to shut the whole thing down.
I watch the men moving through the warehouse for a moment longer, counting carefully, and come to the conclusion that there are only five in the rooms with the girls. Three more in the offices.
Eight men who don’t know I’m here.
Eight men who think I’m a friend rather than an enemy.
Yeah, they’re never going to see me coming.
I take my phone out of my pocket, hit the first number, and speak before Camille can say anything.
“I’m in. There are only eight men. Give me fifteen minutes.”
Seconds later I’m moving, striding across the catwalk toward the offices. The three men in here are the most likely to have brains in their heads, which means they’re also the most likely to catch me and all for help.
And I can’t have that.
Once I start shooting, all best are off. I can’t have anyone making any phone calls until after I’ve got the girls out of here.
I slide the silencer out of one pocket and my gun out of its holster as I walk, my movements quick and rehearsed, and by the time I get to the first office my gun is ready and my heart is beating hard enough I wonder if anyone else can hear it.
It’s been a long fucking time since I shot anyone in cold blood.
I slip into the office through the already open door, clock the man at the computer, identify him in my head as one of the collectors, and take aim at him.
“Funny, I didn’t think men in your position knew how to use the computers. Figured you were more like... hunters. All brawn. No brain.”
When he turns, his expression is a mixture of anger and confusion, and I give him a quick grin.
“This is for all the girls you’ve grabbed,” I say quietly.
I pull the trigger and hit him right between the eyes, and then get out of the office, already lecturing myself about having taken so long with that one.
Camille and Kate are already in the back alley with a number of vans, waiting for the girls, and I’m here playing with the men like a cat with a bunch of fucking mice.
I don’t have time for that.
The next two men are quick; I get into the offices and shoot them before they even know I’m there, then head for the hallways around the rooms. This requires getting downstairs without anyone becoming suspicious, though, so I tuck my gun inside my jacket and walk like I’m going for a casual stroll through a warehouse full of girls being trafficked for sex and slavery.
Good thing I’m just walking, too, because when I hit the ground floor I nearly run into a man I don’t recognize.
“What are you doing here?” he snarls.
Boy obviously doesn’t know who I am.
I lift a single eyebrow, offended at that, but then remember that I’m in a hurry. I don’t have time to play with this one, or educate him about my right to be here. I also don’t have time to break his windpipe the way I want to.
Pity.
Instead, I yank my gun from its hiding place and hold it up, taking a split second to revel in the widening of his eyes before I plant a bullet in the space between them.
I’m moving before he falls, heading for the hallways where I saw the other men and striding down them, shooting as I go.
The men are predictable, at least, and follow specific routes as they make their way through the rooms, and I have no trouble finding the first three.
The last one is a bit more complicated because he’s in the room with a girl and has her backed up against a wall.
I jerk in surprise at that–I haven’t seen any of the men actually attempting to rape the girls–but maybe they do worse at night when their supervisors aren’t here.
The thought brings rage running up my spine, and once it gets into my brain I explode.
I walk up behind the guy, who’s now fumbling with his belt, and grab his shoulders, whirling around at the same time to throw him across the room.
He hits the floor and slides, and by the time he’s on his feet again I’m in front of him.
I break his windpipe first, then his nose, and finally his jaw, the swings so quick and instinctive that I don’t have to think about them.
By the time I’m done his jaw is hanging at an angle, his nose is gushing blood, and he’s gasping for breath.
“That’s called karma, asshole,” I mutter.
I yank my gun from the waistband of my pants and shoot him in the dick, just for good measure.
The next bullet is for his head, though. Because I’ve already taken too long.
When I turn around, I see the green-eyed girl from my first day here. The one who was being punished for having tried to escape.
Perfect.
“You survived,” I say, grinning.
Her eyes swing from the dead man up to me, glassy with shock. But then they sharpen on my face. “Of course I did. Chelle Dawson. My daddy’s a fighter. He’d never forgive me if I gave up.”
Chelle Dawson.
Daughter of Jack Dawson, I’m guessing. The boxing legend who’s been all over the news begging for any news about his daughter.
My God in Heaven.
I don’t ask her for any details because they’re not important. Instead, I reach for her, grab her hand, and put her to work.
“I’m busting you out of here,” I say. “We need to get the girls as quickly as we can and get them to the back door. Can you help me?”
She snorts a very unladylike snort. “What the fuck do you think I’ve been trying to do since the first day I got here?”
I laugh out loud and make a mental note to keep an eye on this one. Because when it comes time to question the girls and find out what’s going on here, she’s the one I want to talk to.
Preferably over a whiskey and rye.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “You go that way. I’ll meet you in the back of the warehouse once we’ve cleared the rooms.”
She runs off without asking questions, and moments later I can hear her in the first room, telling the girls what’s going on and that they have to move quickly, and I’m thanking a god I don’t truly believe in that hers was the room where I found the last man.
Because we have to get out of here quickly.
The basement in my father’s house didn’t have any cameras, but I’m not so sure about this warehouse. And I want all the girls in vans and on their ways to Lucien’s before anyone arrives to stop us.
***
I stand back and usher the last group of girls into the van, counting them as they go.
Chelle and I counted 125 girls, all told, and though I was surprised there were so few–I’d estimated at least 175–she’d told me that a bunch of girls were moved this morning, which made sense.
I knew those in charge didn’t like to leave the girls in one place for too long, and that had to include this warehouse.
I’m glad, though, that Camille and Kate brought more vans this time, because we don’t have space for any fuck ups with this many girls.
I watch the last three girls pile into the van, my eyes running from their heads to their toes, and wonder again at the state of the girls.
Chelle says most of these girls are recent collections, which means they should still be in relatively good shape, fresh from the houses of their parents.
But the girls in this group are rough. They look like they’ve been sleeping on the street, even before they were pulled into the ring, and that doesn’t make sense.
All the names I’ve seen have had some connection to someone famous. Mafia. Politicians. Businessmen. But these girls...
These girls look like they’ve never seen anything more then a one-bedroom apartment, and one with faulty plumbing.
These aren’t expensive girls. And yet they’re in a warehouse with people like Jack Dawson’s daughter and, presumably at some point, Aislyn Brennan.
Curiouser and curiouser.
“Are you coming?” Camille asks breathelessly, appearing suddenly beside me.
I open my mouth, tempted to say that I am, because after this, my father is going to be incredibly suspicious.
Eight of his men are dead and 125 of the girls are missing, and I’m the only one who’s going to walk out of it intact.
If I’m lucky I’ll be able to convince him that we were ambushed by a competitor or something–maybe someone looking to steal the girls for their own trafficking ring?
–but I have no idea how realistic that is.
In theory, New Orleans would be an ideal hub for human trafficking, but I don’t know how often it actually happens down here.
Lucien has been shocked enough by it that I assume it’s not common.
Still, that’s the best I can think of when it comes to explanations for what happened, and if my father is desperate enough to keep me as an ally, maybe he’ll believe it.
Or maybe he’ll kill me.
That last part has me itching to run with my friends and the girls, right to Lucien’s house and safety.
Except if I do that, I’ll lead my father right to Lucien’s doorstep.
And I’ll risk Camille, Kate, and the girls I just saved.
I’m realistic enough to know that my father will never let me go easily, especially if he thinks I had something to do with his merchandise disappearing, and the last thing I want is for him to attack Lucien or my girls over it.
I would rather sacrifice myself than risk my friends.
So I tell her no, because I still have work to do in my father’s house, and when she looks at me like I’m insane I force her into one of the vans and shut the door on her shouts.
I hit the window, signalling for the driver to take off, and then stand and watch the vans as they skid out of the alley and onto the street, turning left and heading for safety.
At least those girls are safe. At least my friends are gone. And I’ll deal with whatever’s coming. I’ll–
Before I can complete the thought, hands grab me from behind and yank me off my feet, and something is slammed down over my head, sending the entire world into darkness. I have a moment to panic, but only a moment.
Then someone hits me and everything goes even blacker.