Lenox
The sliding door of the van flies open with a loud whoosh, and the damp night air billows in. Four shadowed figures darken the opening. Twisted in the driver's seat, the wheel pressing into my side, I aim my gun at them.
"It's us," Sydney says, the dome light catching the waistband of her indigo jeans and gray T-shirt—a thin spray of blood arching across it. "Put him in." Her voice is a command, rough and low.
An unconscious man is pushed onto the bench seat behind me, helped by a large man with light-colored curls I recognize as Murphy McCain, the youngest brother. I reach back with my free hand to try to help. "Keep your filthy hands off my brother," he growls. My eyes rise to meet his gaze. His eyes, the same blue as a shallow sea over white sand, narrow as they meet mine.
I take my hand back, clenching my jaw to keep from answering. "Shut the fuck up, Murphy," Sydney says, echoing the voice in my head. The smile that pulls at my lips can't be helped. Her East Coast accent is tinged with a British lilt—she used to live in London, and the cadence of their speech is catching, even here in Ireland.
Murphy sneers, climbing into the van and sitting on the bench seat next to his unconscious brother. "You'll all pay for this," he promises.
“I'm pretty sure you said that already." Sydney climbs into the row of seats behind them, the scars on her face, one under her left eye and the other running over that same brow into her hairline, stand out stark under the light until she sits back into the darkness. Her eyes meet mine, and she aims her gun at Murphy before giving me a nod. She’s got them covered. Blue leaps onto the seat next to her, his ears flattened so as not to brush the ceiling.
Petra gets into the passenger seat and I face forward, trusting Sydney and Blue to have my back. "Where to?" I ask.
"I'll direct you," Petra says.
She leads us through the narrow, crowded streets to the edge of the city. The air is misty, and our headlights are white beams in the night. "Here," she says, pointing down a narrow lane. The road leads out of the city and into the countryside. The houses fade away, and farmland rolls out in dark waves on either side of us.
"Next driveway," Petra says.
A moan from the back draws my attention, and checking the rearview mirror, I see the other brother, Michael, is waking up.
Petra wants me to take their place—steal their business. Make it my own. My lips tighten at the thought. I don't want to be like them.
"What the fuck?” Michael gingerly touches his temple. "Murphy, what the hell is going on?” His confusion is tilting into anger quickly.
"They are taking us hostage, brother. Looks like Petra is leading them to our safe house."
The driveway appears on my left, and Petra points. Taking the turn, we pull onto a gravel drive, the stones crunching under the van's tires.
Tall crops tower on either side of us. The drive leads to a darkened house. The headlights illuminate a stone facade and glinting metal roof. I pull around the circular drive until the side door of the van is facing the entrance to the home.
Petra climbs out and heads to the house as I twist in my seat again, bringing my gun up from where I rested it in my lap. "Who the fuck are you?" Michael asks. His dark blue gaze is shadowed by a large bruise on his temple. With the dome light on, I can see the resemblance between the two brothers. They share strong jaws and straight noses—but where Murphy's eyes are the light blue of shallow waters, Michael's are the navy of deep ocean. Where Murphy is large and bulging, Michael is compact and corded.
Petra returns to the van, sliding back the side door. Beyond her, the house door is now open, yellow light spilling out from the hall. "Come on," she says.
Murphy and Michael climb out, standing sullenly in the drive as Sydney and Blue follow. I turn off the engine and come around as they start up the steps to the house.
It has the musty scent of a place rarely visited. Dust has settled on the empty coat hooks by the entrance, and as we head down the hall to a sitting room, it is obvious no one lives here. The large room is furnished with a sagging couch and several wooden dining room chairs but not a hint of personal effects. Petra has placed rope on two of the chairs, and she gestures for the brothers to sit.
They make eye contact. Will they try to fight their way out of this?
Already having been bested by Sydney, Blue, and Petra, without me even there, the men don't risk another defeat. As they settle into the chairs and Petra begins to bind them, they do not look frightened or nervous. Michael's brow is furrowed in annoyance, and Murphy's jaw is clenched in anger.
Petra, done tying their arms and legs to the chairs, comes around to face them, cocking one leather-clad hip and resting a hand on it. "Well, boys," she says with a smile. "I always did want to tie you up."
Michael glowers at her.
"You've been bad boys," she says, beginning to pace in front of them.
A shiver runs over me. We will never get them to betray their brother, not without torture. But we don't need betrayal. All we need is the location of Mitchel's mother.
Then we can kill them—quickly. With mercy. Ian will come to us once his brothers are gone.
"We have not," Murphy says, sounding almost like a petulant child.
"I wonder," Petra says, stopping her pacing and turning to Murphy. "Do you really not know?" She looks at Michael. "You do."
The older brother does not answer, just stares at Petra, hate burning in his gaze.
"Yes, I thought so. But you Murphy." She shakes her head. "You might actually not know."
That would make killing him a harsh punishment. If he really has no idea what his brothers are up to...
"Let's not worry about that for now, though," Petra says, beginning to pace again. "We need some information from you."
"I'm not telling you shit, you fucking bitch," Murphy says.
"You don't appear to know anything dear," Petra says. She turns to Sydney, raising her brow. "Can you take Murphy into the bedroom? He looks like he could use a nap."
"Sure," Sydney says, looking at me. Grab the meds from the car will you? her gaze asks.
I nod before heading for the door. "You her errand boy?" Murphy calls after me. I can't help the smile that creases my face. He is such a Neanderthal. As if getting something for a friend makes me her servant. Sadly, he may never know the pleasure of worshiping a woman from head to toe.
I don't bother responding, just head to the car and grab our bags. Bringing them in the front door, I go to the kitchen, putting the smallest duffel on the empty counter.
Inside, I find the black case, and entering the code into the lock, I open the dart holder. There are two tranquilizer guns inside and ten rounds. We have more in the duffel. Robert Maxim's own design, the weapons have long barrels and large stocks. With exceptional aim, they deliver a dose of tranquilizer large enough to take down a man of three hundred pounds in 1.7 seconds.
I load both guns with the largest vial—one that will make the victim sleep for approximately six hours—and return to the living room. Nodding to Sydney, she turns to Murphy. "Come on," she says. "Time to go."
Blue follows her as she moves behind him and works on the knots Petra made. Murphy tenses as his hands are released, but I'm standing right in front of him, my weapon trained on his chest. He stands slowly, keeping his gaze on mine. "You're going to die," he says.
"We will all die," I remind him.
"Down that hall to the left," Petra tells us, pointing to a darkened doorway at the far side of the room. Sydney and Blue go first, the restraints dangling from her hand. She flicks on a light, illuminating a bare hallway. Murphy follows her, and I bring up the rear.
Sydney finds the bedroom and steps into it, turning on another light. A single bulb in the ceiling glows to life, bringing into focus a naked mattress and stained pillow.
"Have a seat," Sydney says.
Murphy shakes his head. "Rather die standing," he says.
"I'm not going to kill you now,” Sydney assures him, pushing him toward the mattress. He takes a step forward but does not lower himself. “It’s your call,” Sydney says, firing the tranquilizer into his back. He lets out a sound, not a yelp of pain or surprise, more a grunt of annoyance, before folding up like an accordion, his head landing on the mattress, his legs splayed on the floor.
I pull out my phone and set a timer. We have six hours until he wakes.
Sydney crouches at his ankles and begins to tie them together, her movements sure and graceful. Her ponytail has come loose and sprays of blonde hair—brightened from her time in the sun—dance around her face as she works.
Should I help her? A smile plays on her lips. Then it would be harder to admire her. And I do so enjoy the artistry that is Sydney Rye. A woman who is so soft-hearted it has made her hard, strong, and dangerous.
She pulls Murphy’s ankles up so she can bind them to his wrists. Sydney wraps the rough rope around him, her focus complete. When done, she stands, pulling the band from around her ponytail and scrunching her fingers into her scalp for a moment before wrestling it all back under control.
I laugh when she looks at me. “What?” she asks.
I step forward, and she does not flinch away. She trusts me. Her scent wafts over me as I pull the band loose again: the musk of effort, the sweetness of soap, and the spice of a beautiful woman. Inhaling, I run my fingers through her hair, and she stays still, letting me care for her.
The locks detangled, I pull them into a tail, gripping it strongly as I wrap it tight. “There,” I say, stepping back. “That’s better.”
She raises a hand and feels the flat planes of her head. “Thanks,” she shrugs. “I’ve never been good at that kind of stuff.”
“Yes.” My voice is low and warm. “I know. It’s one of the things I enjoy about you.”
The slap of palm against flesh draws our attention to the living room, and we move in unison toward the doorway. Petra stands over Michael, her breathing heavy as she raises her arm again, the next slap louder than the last. “You lying son of a bitch,” she says, her voice tight with anger and edged with despair.
The sound of a phone pinging comes from Michael’s pocket. Petra leans forward and digs around in his jeans, pulling out a slim handset.
She turns to me, her eyes lighting with victory. Holding out the phone, I take it. A text on the screen reads: Shipment to port at midnight.
I pass it to Sydney as Petra looks back to Michael. “Is it slaves?” she asks him. Michael, blood staining his lip, does not respond. “Are you using my channels? My houses?” He still doesn’t answer.
She holds out her hand for the tranquilizer gun. Sydney hesitates. We don’t know where Mitchel’s mother is yet. Petra lifts her chin, a silent request for Sydney’s patience and faith. Sydney turns her gray eyes to me. Can we trust Petra?
I give a nod, sending up a prayer that I’m right.
Sydney hands over the weapon, and Petra shoots Michael in the chest. He slumps forward against his binds. “I know where the shipment is arriving.” She starts toward the door.
“But what about Mitchel’s mother ?” Sydney asks.
“They are all hostages,” Petra reminds her. Sydney grabs Petra’s arm, dragging her to a startled stop. “Trust me,” she says. “They are moving slaves tonight. We stop them, and we will get more answers.”
“You said they could be hiding Mitchel’s mother anywhere in the city,” Sydney reminds Petra of her warning before we left on this mission.
She nods. “But we are getting closer. I promise.”
Sydney narrows her eyes. “You better be right. If this is a trap, I’ll kill you myself.”
“I’m not like them,” Petra says, indicating the brothers. “I am a woman of my word.”
“We’ll see,” Sydney says, letting her go.
I follow them out into the night, believing both of them, but unsure of what dawn will bring.
Sydney
The sea is black as ink, the clouds a gray mist, pale and swirling. The wooden dock extends into the fog, disappearing into its depths.
The rumble of the engine reaches us, traveling across the water as clear as a bell calling the faithful to pray. The black bow of a ship emerges from the wall of white, a fog light mounted on the bow barely penetrating the thick mist.
Sitting in the van, hidden by the dark shadows of the parking lot, we watch men jump down to the dock, rope lines stretching behind them. They move quickly and elegantly—choreographed dancers on a dark stage—tying the boat to the dock. The engine cuts, and the night falls quiet again.
Petra climbs out of the front seat. Lenox, Blue, and I follow. The four of us stand in the cool night air, watching. "These men work for you?" Lenox asks Petra, his voice as low a rumble as the ship’s engine.
She nods once sharply. "Some of the women will work in my places to pay their passage.” By her places she means brothels. "Others are passengers paid for by the McCain brothers."
"What are we waiting for?" I ask. These men work for Petra, shouldn’t we just walk up to them and find out what the hell is going on?
"The McCains’ transport should show up soon. I want them here before I reveal myself." She checks her purse, looking inside the compartment for something then closes it. "I think if they see me, they won't stop."
Time ticks by, and soon a van, bigger than the one we rented, enough seats for probably about fifteen, pulls down to the dock.
Two hulking figures climb out and make their way down the dock, greeting one of the men from the ship. A soft laugh carries to us, then the men from the van head up the gangway onto the boat. To retrieve their goods.
Petra starts forward, her breath blooming white around her. Lenox, Blue, and I follow, the gravel of the parking lot crunching beneath us.
As we approach the dock, a guard there, a young man with a thick neck wearing a pea coat, shouts for us to stop.
"Dimitri, it is me, Petra," she says, stepping onto the dock. It sways under her weight, sending ripples out across the water. The guard’s shoulders relax, and he grins, his teeth white in the lowlight.
"Petra, what a wonderful surprise." She stops in front of him and takes the clipboard he’s holding. "How many do we have tonight?"
"A total of thirty-two. Twenty for our own locations, and then twelve for the McCain brothers."
“Their people are on board getting the girls?” Petra gestures with her chin toward the boat. It's about sixty feet long with a wide beam and rounded at both ends—good for open ocean passages. Dmitri nods in answer to Petra's question.
"And where are the passengers coming from?" Petra asks.
Dimitri’s brow furrows in confusion, as if she should know this. "They are coming from Gibraltar."
"Okay, I will wait for them to come out." Petra looks back at us. Her eyes are hard with unspoken anger. The clinking of boots on the deck precedes a tall man appearing at the top of the gangway. Catching sight of Petra, he startles slightly but quickly regains himself. "Who are you?" he barks down the gangway.
"I am Petra Boken,” she says, her voice traveling clearly over the still water.
"What are you doing here?" His accent is Irish and thick, his shoulders broad, and a bulge under his coat indicates that he's armed.
"A woman can check on her own business, can't she? Who are you ?” Petra places a hand on a cocked hip.
“Seamus O’Donnel,” he answers. “I work for the McCain brothers.” A line of shrouded figures, indistinguishable from each other in the night, file behind the man, driven by a second man in the rear.
Seamus starts down the gangway, and the women follow. He reaches us, bringing the scent of tobacco with him. His teeth are stained yellow and his eyes are deep brown. “It's nice to meet you." He holds out his hand, and Petra takes it, shaking once.
"Where are you taking them?" she asks.
Seamus gives her a half smile. "Not at liberty to say."
"Tell me,” Petra demands, her voice sharp.
He just shakes his head, laughing it off. "Is this some kind of test?"
"Tests don’t usually have such dire consequences if you fail,” Petra says. Seamus shifts on his feet, his hand moving closer to his jacket.
"Don’t,” Petra says, slipping a small silver pistol from the folds of her purse. Lenox and I both stiffen, not expecting it to go this way so fast.
Dimitri, standing beside me, is even more surprised. Seamus’s back-up is leaning over the side of the boat behind the line of women, trying to figure out what the holdup is.
"We are going with you,” Petra tells Seamus.
He narrows his eyes. "Don't threaten me,” he says, keeping his voice low and calm.
"It's not a threat, it's a fact,” Petra says. "This is my ship and my passengers. I demand to know where they are being taken."
“The McCain brothers pay the bills for this group. Get your information from them.”
"My gun says differently." Petra steps forward and reaches into Seamus’s coat pulling out a gun. He puts his arms up, a smile on his lips. Almost like he enjoyed her touch. Petra waves with her weapon, stepping aside so Seamus can lead the way to the larger van. Lenox and I move over, both drawing weapons. Seamus starts forward, Petra stepping close behind him while Lenox and I wait for the man in the back.
The women file past, stinking of body odor and fear. They wear dark, oversized clothing, and their hair is tangled.
Big brown eyes, dark skin, full lips. These women look like friends of mine. They look Yazidi; the preferred religious ethnic group to be enslaved by Isis.
Seamus’s back-up pauses halfway down the gangway, pulling a gun.
“What the fuck is going on?" He asks in a broad North English accent.
"I'm not entirely sure," I answer honestly. “Petra is here, and she wants to know where these women came from and where they are going.”
He frowns. "Petra?"
"Yeah, it's her boat,” I say, gesturing with my gun. “Put the gun away, and I promise we won’t hurt you as long as you don’t do anything stupid."
The guy is young, with blue eyes and crooked teeth. He looks at the retreating back of the last girl as she makes her way down the dock. I point my own weapon, gesturing for him to follow. He is still holding his gun, a good ten feet from me. I don't ask him to give it up, just to come along.
“It’s fine,” Dimitri yells to him. They must know each other.
The guy continues down the gangway, pausing in front of me for a moment. I keep my weapon down, holding it casually. He does not put his away as he moves past me. Lenox follows, raising up his pistol and clocking the guy in the back of the head hard enough that he drops.
Dimitri lets out a grunt of displeasure.
"Tie him up. Keep him away from phones and weapons until Petra calls you," Lenox says. Dimitri nods.
We follow the women off the dock to the waiting van. They are climbing into the back as we reach the road. Seamus is in the passenger seat, the door open, Petra keeping her gun on him.
"You'll drive,” she says to him as we approach. Seamus nods, his expression sullen as he goes around and climbs into the driver’s seat. Petra keeps her gun trained on him as she gets into the passenger seat.
Lenox, Blue, and I climb into the back with the women. Their scent fills the enclosed space, their fear ratcheting up now that they've seen the guns. Clearly, something has not gone to plan, but they don’t yet realize it’s a good thing for them.
I turn around to face them and smile, trying to look nice. Trying to look like I'm there to help them.
"Everything is going to be okay,” I say, grinning like an idiot. None of them respond. "Anyone speak English?"
Again, no response. Lenox turns in his seat. “Parlez vous français?”
One girl stirs, seeming to understand, but does not speak up. Her eyes latch onto Lenox, though.
"Tell them we are here to help. Explain we’re not going to hurt them,” I say.
Lenox speaks in French, and the girl sits forward, her hand coming to rest on the seat back in front of her. She only has three fingers. The girl next to her places a hand on Three Fingers’s arm, trying to hush her. Three Fingers tightens her lips for a moment, her gaze determined. She answers Lenox, her voice high—she sounds like a child.
Lenox interprets for me. “She asked who we are."
"Tell her we are from Joyful Justice,” I say, a knot in my stomach. How old is she?
Seamus turns in his seat slightly to look back at me. Petra gets his attention with the gun, gesturing for him to watch the road. “You’re working with Joyful Justice?” Seamus hisses at Petra.
“You’re dealing in war slaves,” she spits back, disgust dripping off each word.
Seamus stiffens but does not respond. Lenox speaks with the girl more, her gestures becoming animated. Blue leans his weight against me, and I close my eyes for a moment and breathe deeply, welling with gratitude that I am me. That I chose this life. That I am here to help these women. That I am not a slave. That I have the power to make the men who did this pay.
The van turns into a narrow alley behind a block of townhouses. We are in a residential neighborhood, where the windows all need painting and the stoops droop from decades of use.
Seamus stops the van and cuts the lights. “This is it,” he says, meaning the two-story home we’ve parked behind.
Squares of light from the windows fall onto trash cans where rats scavenge. When Petra clicks her door open, they rise up on their hind legs to watch but do not flee. This is their home.
“I’ll stay here,” Lenox says. “We shouldn’t leave them alone.” He is turned in his seat, looking back at the women. They won’t be going into this house.
“Thanks,” I say.
Petra nods and climbs out, coming around to open Seamus’s door for him. Lenox gets out to let Blue and I onto the street. He waits by the open door of the van as we join Petra and Seamus on the other side.
I glance back at Lenox; he gives me a nod and a breath of a smile. His dark skin almost sparkles in the low light, and his eyes are bright. That is one powerful man.
The rats finally flee, bald tails held high, nails scratching on the broken concrete, as Blue starts toward the back door. Unpainted wooden steps wheeze under Seamus’s weight as he climbs them. His knock is loud, and the bark of response that comes from the other side is angry.
Clomping footsteps and low grumbled curses filter through the door. The curtain shifts, and a woman peers out at us: sagging cheeks, gnarled knuckles, dull russet brown eyes that narrow as she takes us in.
The lock thunks, and she eases the door open slowly. “You brought friends, Seamus?” Her voice is sharp and rough—like whiskey before it’s had time to mellow in a barrel for a decade or two.
“Let us in, Mary, I haven’t got time for this tonight. Petra here”—he jerks a thumb at the petite woman holding a gun on him—“wants to see where her cargo lives.”
Mary raises a brow and quirks a smile, exposing the dark hole of a missing tooth. “Petra, eh?” Mary’s eyes travel down to the pistol in Petra’s grip. “You here to take over?” Mary leans against the door, her stained shirt pulling tight against her lumpy body. “Finally getting rid of the McCain brothers.” Seamus stiffens and clenches his fist. “You kill them yet?” Mary asks. “Or did you want to see their whole operation before deciding what to do next?”
Petra doesn’t answer. She looks almost bored. “Let us in,” she says, her voice flat.
“By all means,” Mary says, opening the door wide. “We’ve got nothing to hide, do we, Seamus?” She grins at him, exposing the rest of her yellow teeth—there is another dark hole on the bottom row. The McCain brothers are not paying this woman enough, clearly.
We enter into a kitchen; the linoleum floor is yellow with age, the counters stained with generations of cooking. The cabinet doors hang loose on their hinges, giving the whole place a feeling of movement, as if we are on ship that’s had a couple rough days at sea.
Blue lifts his nose, scenting the air. It smells of cleaning product. Despite the place’s worn appearance, it’s kept tidy—no crumbs on the counter, no dishes in the sink. A worn table with three chairs is pressed against one wall. At one place setting, a gossip magazine sits open next to a cordial glass of amber liquid. Mary must have been having a nightcap while she waited for Seamus.
“Is there anyone else here?” I ask Mary.
She nods, folding her arms over sagging breasts. “Two girls who came in last night. From the Ukraine, I think. And that old one we’ve been keeping for a while now. She’s in the cell.”
“The cell?” Petra asks, her voice a low thrum of anger.
Mary’s gaze falls on the younger woman and a smile creases her face. “Yeah, the cell. You sure you got the stomach for this business?” Petra doesn’t answer, and Mary lets out a laugh that reeks of liquor. “She tried to escape. Nearly killed herself climbing out the second story window. I didn’t have a choice.” Mary grins enough so that we see both missing teeth. “Can’t have the neighbors asking questions.”
“Shut up, Mary,” Seamus hisses.
This “old one” doesn’t sound like the rest of the girls. We may have just found Mitchel’s mother.
Thumps above yank my attention to the ceiling: cracked and water-stained, it’s vibrating under heavy footfalls.
"Mary!" A man's voice calls down. "What's the hold up?”
"Keep your mouths shut," Petra warns, then glances at me. I give a nod, and Blue and I head out of the kitchen through the only doorway.
We enter a living room. Directly across from us is the front door. It has two deadbolts and a chain. To my left is a sagging couch, covered in part by an afghan. It is indented at one end as if someone had been watching the TV, which is still on but muted. A twenty-four-hour news station plays. Images of refugees in a tent city flash across the screen, then a female reporter wearing a wind jacket with her network’s logo on the breast, and enough make up to hide any humanity, talks into a microphone. To my right are stairs leading to the second floor.
Thumps warn of a descending figure. I draw my weapon and step close to the wall so that anyone coming down the stairs won't see me. Blue presses to my side. A big man in a wife beater and sagging sweatpants appears, rubbing at his balding head. There is more hair on his shoulder than his scalp.
He reaches the bottom of the steps and turns toward the kitchen.
His eyes go wide at the sight of me, his gaze dropping to my weapon. His hands come up automatically. "Hi," I smile. "What's your name?”
"Tom," he answers. "Who are you?"
I grin but don't answer. "Come and join us in the kitchen." He nods and passes me close enough that I can smell the stale sweat and old beer that make up his personal cologne. Blue taps my hip as we follow him to the kitchen. "Have a seat," I suggest. He takes Mary's empty chair in front of the gossip magazine.
"I'll go upstairs," I say to Petra, "And check it out."
"You'll need keys," she says, her gaze landing on Mary.
The older woman nods and goes to a drawer in the kitchen. I stiffen as she reaches in, but all she pulls out is a ring of keys. She really appears to have no loyalty to the McCain brothers. Is she smart or so beaten down she doesn’t care who her master is?
Mary crosses to me and hands over the keys. "Mind if I sit?" she asks Petra. "I'm thirsty."
Petra nods, and Mary pulls out another chair, reaching for the cordial glass as Blue and I head back to the stairs.
We ease up to the second floor, moving slowly, cautiously, Blue in the lead, his ears perked forward, hackles raised slightly—ready for whatever we find up here.
It's warmer on the second floor, the air stale and stuffy. The disinfectant scent of the kitchen is gone, replaced with the fetid musk of unwashed sheets and old pillows. There are four closed doors. The keys in my hand jingle as I stop at the first. It takes two tries to find the right key but then the lock gives with ease. It gets used a lot.
I open the door slowly, the sound of frightened shuffling warning that there are people inside. Two women are huddled together in the far corner. There is a light in the ceiling, and two single beds made up with patchwork quilts. "Hi," I say as Blue passes me, making his way slowly toward them. They grip each other and close their eyes. Tears leak from one—she looks younger. "Blue," I say quietly, stopping him. "We are not here to hurt you," I say to the girls.
There is no recognition in their eyes—they don't speak English. They have mousy brown hair, pale skin, and enough family resemblance to make them sisters or at least cousins. The Ukrainian girls, perhaps. Slaves not of war but of circumstance. I back away, leaving the door open. Letting them know they are free to go.
The one not crying watches me, her brow furrowing slightly, an expression of curiosity fighting the fear. Standing in the hall, I gesture back and forth, some pathetic attempt at miming freedom.
Maybe Lenox will be able to speak to them.
Continuing down the hall, I stop at the next door. Finding the right key, I get it open. The lights are off and the air is still. I find the switch and discover an empty bedroom bigger than the last, this one lined with mattresses on the floor. They are made up with a random selection of sheets. It could almost be the setting of a slumber party except for the bars on the windows, which look new. A lesson learned from Mitchel's mother, perhaps.
Leaving that door ajar, I move on to the third door, and find a very similar scene inside. The fourth produces another empty room filled with mattresses. But no more captives. Mary said “the cell.” Maybe there is a room in the basement.
There are three more keys on the ring.
Blue and I head back down the hall, and I peek into the first room, finding the sisters still together in the corner, whispering to each other. They gasp when I poke my head in, but when I smile, the older one returns it tentatively. "I'm going downstairs now," I say. "You're safe. And I'm going to help you."
They don't respond, but I get the sense that they've gotten I'm on their side. I'm not going to hurt them. What they have not yet grasped is I won't let anyone else hurt them, either. They've fallen under my protection.
Back downstairs, I find the door to the basement under the stairs. A switch at the top of the steps illuminates a low-ceilinged, unfinished, damp space. Blue goes first, and I hear the scurrying of rodents as they flee him. My steps echo in the narrow space, and when I get down to the concrete floor I have to duck to avoid hitting my head on an exposed beam. Pink insulation puffs between the raw boards. I'm in a dark room with a tiny, filthy window that faces the street out front. To my left is a step down into the utility area, a boiler and pipes snaking to the rest of the house. On my right is a rough wall with a door set into it.
The cell?
Blue sniffs at the gap under the door and then sits, his tail swishing along the filthy floor. I fiddle with the keys until I find the right one. The door wheezes open. It's pitch black on the other side. I reach into my back pocket for my phone to use the flashlight when Blue lets out a low growl of warning. I freeze, holding my breath and listening.
There is tense breathing in the darkness. "I'm here to—" but I don't get to finish my sentence. A figure launches from the blackness, barreling into me. I stumble back, barely keeping my balance before tripping down the one step and slamming into the boiler with a clang that jolts my head.
A fist strikes out, and I block it, instincts kicking in. Another fist flies as a feral scream fills the basement. I grab the wrist and twist, turning my attacker so she lands on her knees, hand behind her back, arm bone at my mercy.
She's panting and struggling, her fear and survival instincts making her a powerful opponent. "I'm here to help you!” I yell. But she doesn't seem to hear me, still struggling to twist away. Blue is sitting next to the door of the cell, his head cocked in question. He does not consider her a threat and appears curious as to why she is acting so crazy.
"Are you Mitchel Swan's mother?" I ask.
That gets her to slow down. She stops struggling and looks over her shoulder at me. Pain and bruising twist her features, but I can see the family resemblance. Mitchel and I worked together in China, and they have the same intelligent, aqua eyes. I recognize them despite the swelling around her gaze—the woman's nose was recently broken, and a storm cloud of colors has ballooned across her face.
"I'm Mitchel's friend." Or at least I was before he betrayed me. "And I'm here to free you."
Her entire body sags, and I let go of her arm, letting her fall forward onto her hands and knees. She starts to sob. She's wearing jeans a size too big and what looks like a man's flannel shirt, the hem ripped in places. "It's okay," I tell her, "you're going to be okay."
She doesn't answer, just continues to cry.
“We found her,” I tell Dan, keeping my voice down as I stand in the alley next to the van. Blue sits by my side, leaning against me, warming me against the damp night. “She’s safe and not seriously harmed.”
“Mitchel will be relieved.”
I glance back at the house, unable to see anything through the drawn curtains. But I know Mitchel Swan’s mother is in the bathroom getting cleaned up. And Lenox is upstairs, trying to speak with the sisters.
“I’ll send you our GPS coordinates for the pick-up.” Expecting to find prisoners, we arranged with a shelter to take the women in. Joyful Justice has contacts with rehabilitation centers all over the world. We fund several, including one in London, but nothing in Ireland. So, we are working with a local Catholic group tonight.
A pale gray is leaking over the sky. Day is approaching.
My stomach twists and lurches, and I have to swallow against the nausea. I’m exhausted, and this alley smells like ass.
“Let me give you the number instead,” Dan says. “We can’t have any action being initiated from this area. Our systems are supposed to be destroyed.”
My stomach gives another lurch, and I start to pace. “They are expecting us though, right?”
“Yes. Don’t worry, it’s all arranged.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Thanks, Dan.”
“Of course.” He sounds almost insulted; no gratitude is necessary for doing the right thing. He gives me the number, and I put it into my phone.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Fine.” He pauses. “Weirdly excited.”
I let out a breath of a laugh. “It’s always fun when they think they have us on the ropes.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess that’s it. How are you doing?”
“Kind of feel like shit right now, actually,” I answer honestly. The image of Mitchel’s mother’s bruised face, the echoes of her wretched sobbing in that dark, damp space, coming back to me on a wave of nausea. We’ll never do enough.
“Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
We hang up, and I turn back toward the house as Lenox opens the door and nods to me. He’s communicated with the frightened girls.
I dial the number for the shelter and hold my breath as it rings.
The day will be bright before we are done.