Chapter 3
Owen Taylor
Somewhere Safe
Four Days Later—Connecticut, USA
The seemingly abandoned castle stood tall, the exterior imposing and mysterious. The eerie sound of creaking swings filled the air as I took in my surroundings.
The yard was overgrown, and the play equipment was run-down. Standing solemnly off to the side was a covered carousel with four distinct animals. One for each of the girls.
The weeds had grown tall and wild, almost obscuring any entrance. Nestled in the overgrown ivy at the base of the stone wall was a hatch door, or so the plans said. Locating it was crucial. This mission was not sanctioned by any government agency, nor was it on any radar. Save the guys with me, no one knew of this operation.
“Alpha Two to Alpha One,”
Remington’s voice crackled through the radio.
“Go ahead, Alpha Two,”
I responded, checking my rear one last time.
“Hatch has been located.”
We were a six-man team, all ex-military or ex–law enforcement. The men present tonight were not only friends but trained mercenary professionals in rescue missions. I signaled the remaining team members, and we pushed forward.
The stakes were high tonight. Little Mischa was here in America, far away from home. Every bit of intel that I’d spent the last two years collecting had led up to this moment. I wouldn’t fail.
I spent the first year and a half after she was taken hunting down leads. With each passing month, any hope of finding her alive dwindled. But six months ago, I caught a break when a dark-web video was leaked of a tiny dancing girl.
Tracing the origins of the video hadn’t taken me long. I infiltrated the system by becoming a high-paying customer. Never, in all my years of work, did I think I’d be put into this position. I’d killed people, even tortured them, and I knew every one of them deserved the end they got. But this—this was different.
I’d never be able to scrub my mind of the horrible images I’d seen from diving down the rabbit hole of human trafficking, but if I could save her…God, I had to save her. So, for the past three months, I had been planning this op. I needed it to go off without a hitch.
Silently, we made our way over to Remington. After opening the hatch, we crept down the narrow stairs leading into the darkness below. A chill ran down my spine as I descended into the hell this house was.
The air was damp and musty, and the faintest sound of music spilled into the hall. It was coming from somewhere deep inside the castle. Following the sound, we arrived at where a small chamber, walls made of rough-hewn stone, opened into a circular room.
We fanned out to cover all angles, and my eyes were drawn to the stage. It was the only source of light in the room. The red-haired girl was playing the cello with a haunting beauty.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, yet her movements were graceful and hypnotic. She never missed a note, even with the tears. My eyes adjusted to the lighting, and then I saw her.
In the center of the stage, trying desperately to look graceful, was the little ballerina I’d been sent to save. Something was wrong with her; she moved as though she was riddled with pain. But despite it all, her little face was full of concentration.
I did a quick scan to ensure the other two girls were present and accounted for. As usual, they were sitting quietly, watching the performance. In total, there were four little girls, each taken for some sick person’s twisted world and renamed for a season based off their birth month. My sweet little Mischa was dubbed Spring.
Each girl had a specific skill set that made them desirable. They were performers, and their audience was as equally sick as the men who took them. Taken and trained to be companions, they would be put up for auction as soon as their season ended after their fourteenth birthday.
Drawing closer, I took in how thin she had become. So skinny I could see her ribs. She twirled as the melody played, and my stomach lurched as I fought back the bile that rose within. Her back was raw and oozed blood from several lacerations. Anger poured out of me as I realized someone had whipped her.
She was naked except for a pink tutu. Her long brown hair was pulled back into a dancer’s bun. Desperately, she tried to make her way through the routine. The music stopped, and I went to signal my men when a loud sob escaped the child.
Her tiny hand found its way down her body and underneath her tutu. This was something entirely new. None of the girls had ever been forced to publicly masturbate, to my knowledge. Who knew what private hell they’d endured?
“What the hell?”
Remington’s voice roared over my earpiece first, followed by Alvarez’s booming voice releasing a string of curse words in Spanish. The other men followed suit as the rage over what was happening hit them.
From my vantage point, I could see that Thompson and Callahan were near the two girls dubbed Autumn and Summer. Remington flanked me, as his target was Winter, the cello player.
Raising my hand, I issued another signal, and the other men moved into position. Alvarez cut the camera, and Stevenson moved to secure the man running this shit show. I made my move, which was to cover Mischa and then get her the hell out of here.
Lost to what she was being forced to do, she didn’t register what was happening around her. From the leaked videos I’d seen, none of the girls had ever shown their naked bodies, so we had never seen the physical abuse.
Each week, either an edited video or a live broadcast would surface on the dark web. Edited ones would include various parts of the girls going about normal, everyday activities. There were even live feeds members could bid on to watch them in their rooms at night.
Pure and simple, it was exploitation, and it seemed the men in charge were taking things in a new direction. There were always subtle sexual connotations included. It could be a pose or move, in Mischa’s case, but nothing like this.
Tonight’s broadcast was live, and the sick world who watched would not get any more of this performance. Knowing my men had things under control, I kneeled in front of Mischa and moved to conceal her with my coat.
She ignored me as I tried to cover her. Disgust coated my throat at her palpable fear, and I acted on impulse, lowering my hood so she could see my face. But her little eyes were shut tight.
“Stop. You don’t have to do that,”
I murmured in a soft voice, trying to get her attention. Lost in a trance, she didn’t stop. I put my hand on her shoulder and gently shook her to get her to snap out of it.
The minute I touched her, she flinched so hard she fell, landing on her backside. The look on her face was of complete terror. She struggled to get to her feet once more but stood before me, bowing her head. Shaking uncontrollably, she presented herself to me. Rage coursed through my body as it tensed up, and the desire to make them pay became almost unbearable.
“Mischa—”
She opened her mouth to speak as her eyes sought the camera. A shot rang out, and Stevenson stood over what looked like a man from my position.
“Damn it, Stevenson. He was supposed to be taken alive,”
I barked. Mischa gasped at my words. As I turned my attention back to her, she frantically looked around the room.
She had removed my jacket and was using it to cover the front of her body. It must have hurt too much to have anything touching her back. My anger flared once more. Sensing the shift, she cowered as her eyes filled with fear.
Needing to keep her calm, I held my hands up. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you,”
I spoke in our native Russian tongue.
Her beautiful grayish-blue eyes filled with disbelief and the slightest flash of hope.
“Mischa, I’m here to take you somewhere safe.”
I attempted to reassure her. I’d do anything to make the fear in her eyes go away.
She shook her little head, looking sad. “Mischa Natalya is dead, but Spring would very much like to leave this place forever. Can we take my friends too? Please, you can’t leave them here.”
Sadness turned to stark fear as she looked around for what I could only assume were the other girls. Unbeknownst to her, I knew exactly who each girl was. I also knew where they were to be returned to.
After infiltrating the sex trafficking ring, I had set out to uncover their identities. The task was arduous, but I’d done it. Each girl had come from a different part of the world. Mischa’s parents were the only ones killed during the abduction.
Summer was taken from a private school, and Autumn while walking to her bus stop one morning. Winter, the cello player, the girl with red hair, was the only one I couldn’t determine how they had gotten her.
In my investigation, I uncovered that this sex training and trafficking ring went deep. The players who were watching and would eventually be bidding were powerful people. My sole goal was to rescue the girls and return them. The secondary part of exposing them with proof would have to come later.
And now the man I planned to torture for answers was dead, and I knew it would make it that much harder to unravel. I thought again about the oozing, bloody marks on Mischa’s back, and my resolve to seek vengeance on every person involved grew like a sickness.