Chapter 5
Harper examined Polina’s wrist. The ligature marks had faded from angry purple to yellow-green.
“How does it feel?” Harper kept her voice low. The thin barrack walls carried sound. Right now, the younger guard was outside. The nervous smoker who paced when he was alone and cruel only when watched.
Polina flexed her hands, testing the movement. “Better.” Her Russian was soft and careful. “Thank you.”
“You’re going to be fine.” Harper pushed loose hair from her temple. “The swelling should be gone in a few days.”
The barrack smelled of unwashed bodies and woodsmoke. Twelve women crammed into a space meant for six. Condensation froze along the inside of the windows from where too many women breathed the same air, finger-width patches rubbed clear where women checked the yard between shifts.
The wood stove in the center put out barely enough heat to keep them from freezing, and the guards controlled the fuel supply with the same casual cruelty they applied to everything else.
Harper stood, her knees protesting. A week of sleeping on a bunk that was more metal frame than mattress had left her stiff. She moved through the cramped space, checking on the others.
She was the only one with medical training. The only one who knew how to clean wounds or talk women down from panic attacks in the middle of the night. She didn’t mind. If nothing else, it kept her from her own spiraling thoughts.
And she had plenty of those. It had been seven nights since she arrived, and she’d heard mutterings between the men of a few more days before they were moved—before she disappeared into whatever hell came after Siberia.
We’re going to find a way out of here.
She’d been saying it all week. Not because she believed it—but because stopping felt like surrender.
Harper headed toward the stove where a few women sat, hands extended toward the scant heat.
The barred windows obscured the view outside, but she’d memorized what she could see when she breathed on the glass to melt the frost. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire, a guard station near the main gate, and trucks parked near what looked like an admin building.
She’d counted eight different guards total, though there might be more she hadn’t seen. They rotated in pairs, changing shifts like clockwork. The younger ones took the cold badly and smoked too close to the door. The older ones conserved movement. Meaner, but less careless.
She repeated the facts in her head so she wouldn’t forget.
“Harper.” Polina’s voice pulled her back. “Someone’s coming.”
Keys jangled, and the door swung open. Two guards entered, dragging a woman between them.
She was young, around twenty. Her blonde hair was matted with blood. They half-carried, half-dragged her across the threshold and dropped her.
“Fresh one for you, Doctor.” A guard with mean eyes grinned. “Boss says she’s still usable.”
The barrack door slammed shut, and the lock clicked.
Harper crouched beside the woman, two fingers to her neck.
Strong pulse. Thank God. The woman still wore a cheap cafe uniform under her coat.
One silver earring hung from her left ear but the right lobe was torn bare.
The gash on her head was shallow, two inches, the edges relatively clean. No skull fracture.
“I need water,” Harper said over her shoulder. “And cloth. Anything clean.”
The women moved immediately. Irina brought a bottle of water while Polina tore a strip from the bottom of her shirt.
“Can you hear me?” Harper kept her voice gentle as she cleaned around the wound. “You’re safe. We’re going to help you.”
The woman’s eyes opened. She tried to speak but choked on her words.
“Don’t talk yet.” Harper pressed the damp cloth against the gash, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. “Just breathe. You’re okay.”
“They—” The woman’s voice was hoarse. Russian from the eastern regions. “They said…”
“I know.” Harper kept pressure on the wound. “It’s okay.”
The woman’s face crumpled. “I tried to run.”
Harper nodded. “What’s your name?”
“Sasha.”
“Hi Sasha. I’m Harper. I’m a doctor.” She moved the cloth, checked the wound. Still bleeding, but slower. Without proper supplies, infection was a real risk, and without antibiotics, that risk could turn fatal.
“She needs medicine,” Polina said. She’d been watching from nearby, arms wrapped around her waist. “Real medicine.”
Polina was right, but the men outside didn’t give a shit if these women lived or died, as long as they were presentable enough to sell.
Dead women didn’t earn money.
“Polina. Hold this here to stop the bleeding.” Harper stood and crossed to the door. She pounded on it with her fist. “Hey! This woman needs medical attention!”
Nothing, then the scuff of footsteps on frozen ground. The observation slot scraped open, and an eye appeared—the younger guard. “Shut up, Doc-tor.”
“She has a head injury.” Harper met his gaze. “At least give me clean bandages. Antiseptic. Something.”
“Not my problem.”
“She’s no good to you dead.” Harper’s hands curled into fists. “Do you think your boss is going to be happy when you deliver a corpse?”
The eye in the slot blinked. Nervous men still worried about consequences.
Harper pressed her advantage. “I’m not asking for morphine. Just basic first aid. Bandages. Antiseptic. Ibuprofen. Things you can buy at any pharmacy.”
“I’ll ask the boss.”
The slot slammed shut.
Harper closed her eyes, breathing hard, adrenaline making her pulse race.
Behind her, the women had gathered Sasha up, moving her to an empty bunk, tucking thin blankets around her.
A week ago, they’d watched Harper with wary, exhausted eyes.
Now they helped without being asked and listened when she spoke.
Harper crossed to Sasha’s bunk. “How do you feel?”
“My head hurts.”
“I’m sure it does.” Harper checked her pupils again. Still equal. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“Just pain.”
“That’s actually good.” Harper managed something close to a smile. “Pain means you’re aware. We’ll watch you, make sure it doesn’t get worse.”
Sasha’s hand shot out, grabbed Harper’s wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “Where are they taking us?”
Harper’s stomach twisted. “I don’t know.”
But she could guess. Across the border first. Then split apart. Sold into brothels, private houses, back rooms in cities big enough to swallow women whole. And once the men moved them, they’d be almost impossible to find.
The door banged open, and the same guard stood in the doorway holding a small plastic box. He grunted, laid it on the floor, and backed away, slamming the door behind him.
Harper opened the box. Relief flared and died just as quickly. It wasn’t enough. But it was something. Gauze bandages, adhesive tape, a small bottle of antiseptic, and a blister pack of ibuprofen.
She returned to Sasha and properly cleaned the wound. Sasha flinched when it foamed, but didn’t pull away.
“You’re doing great,” Harper murmured, working carefully. The gash cleaned, she applied a gauze pad and secured it with tape. She handed Sasha two ibuprofen with water. “These will help with the pain.”
Sasha swallowed them. “Thank you.”
Harper packed the remaining supplies carefully.
“Will I be okay?” Sasha asked.
Harper met her terrified eyes and lied as if it was medicine. “Yes. You’ll be okay.”
We have to be.
The afternoon dragged into evening.
Harper sat on the edge of her bunk. The barrack had gone as quiet as it ever got—hushed conversation, breathing, someone murmuring in sleep.
She pressed her fingers to her eyes.
A week gone. No one was coming. The email had gone—she’d hit send, she was almost sure of it—but almost sure wasn’t the same as certain, and in the dark it was hard to hold onto. Her family would look for her. If the director had passed it on.
If.
She dropped her hands before anyone saw. Twelve women were watching her like she knew what to do. Some mornings she almost believed it herself.
Keys clinked and the guards wheeled in dinner—a watery stew that smelled like old vegetables and questionable meat. Harper stood up and squared her shoulders. The women held their cups with both hands, careful not to spill a drop. Harper grabbed two cups, one for herself and one for Sasha.
The guard with the dead eyes and the wet smile was serving tonight. Harper reached the front of the line and held out both cups.
The guard paused, ladle in hand. His gaze moved from the cups to her face. “One cup per person, Doctor.”
“She’s injured.” Harper nodded toward Sasha’s bunk. “She can’t stand in line.”
“Not my problem.”
“She needs to eat.”
His smile was stiff. “Then she gets up.”
The women stilled behind her. The weight of their attention pressed against her back. This was a test. Everything here was designed to train obedience.
Harper lowered one cup. “Fine. I’ll share.”
He filled it. Then he smiled and spat into the stew. The gobbet of saliva floated on the gray surface.
Walk away. Don’t engage. Don’t give him a reason.
Her vision narrowed to the cup, the spit, the smile waiting for her to swallow it.
Harper lowered the cup slowly. “Give me another.”
“No.” His smile widened. “Bitch. Eat it or don’t.”
The barrack had gone silent enough for Harper to hear her own pulse.
She should stop.
Apologize. Survive. But if she bowed her head now, they all would.
“You’re pathetic.” She stared right at him, her throat dry. “You’re so fucking pathetic you have to brutalize terrified women to feel powerful.”
The guard’s face went dark. “What did you say?”
She couldn’t stop now. “I said you’re pathetic. Big man with a gun, beating up women who can’t fight back. Is this what you tell your mother you do for work?”
His hand came up fast. Knuckles cracked against her cheekbone. The cup flew from her hand, stew spraying across the floor. She hit the ground, tasted copper, her pulse searing her veins.
She pushed herself up on her hands, ears ringing, cheek throbbing. Her tongue found the split inside her mouth where her teeth had cut the soft tissue.
The guard grabbed her by the arm, yanked her to her feet. He reeked of meat and sweat. His fingers dug into her bicep with enough force to bruise, then dragged her toward the door. Polina made a small sound and cut it off immediately.
Harper stumbled, trying to find her footing, blinking back scalding tears.
I will not cry.
Behind her, the women were silent.
Harper didn’t look back.
She lifted her chin even though it cost her.
Let them see.
Let them see and remember she fought.