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And then it all became inaudible to me, but still, she continued spitting out screams.
With a snap, I pulled off tight black gloves, waved them over the sensor that would open the trash can, and tossed them into it. I pulled up my black hood, which hung to my eyes.
Monsters hid in the dark.
So did cowards, my mind sneered.
I left the room, turning off the lights and casting blackness throughout. I took a notepad with numbers scribbled on every line, accompanied by the description of the girl or boy they belonged to. They were tagged now, able to be tracked like a roaming dog anywhere they’d go.
I still hadn’t put them in the system, but I couldn’t do that down here with all that fucking noise. I’d work from my truck.
I needed the silence.
I tucked the pad and my favorite pen into the pocket on the front of my hoodie and locked the door.
The hallway was loud, and it was harder to ignore out here. Whimpering came from behind each door, the sound of fear and dread.
But what came from the bottom of this long, lightless corridor was so much worse.
I turned to the sound. One foot moved in front of the other, and I followed the noise that echoed so much louder in my right ear, thanks to the aid. The last door on the right was closed and locked, like all the other occupied rooms, but part of my job meant I had access to all the keys.
I pulled them from my pocket, and they didn’t even jingle. There were too many keys and no room to move.
Prying a small silver key, with the number 57 scribbled on it, from its close-knit companions, I opened the door.
The wailing stopped, and the room fell silent as I stepped inside.
Four men, if you could call them that, stepped away from the woman crouched on the concrete floor, surrounded by a red stain.
“Is there a reason for your interruption?” asked the youngest of the four. The tone he spoke with told me he thought he was superior to me. Idiot. Youth didn’t bring manners or sense.
“Monsieur Rubbichon will be here soon. He has important tasks and needs someone to do them,” I lied. Pencil Dick wasn’t coming here, too busy in his whore house in Ibiza with his unfortunate rentals. But these creeps didn’t know that. They didn’t need to know that.
“Not too many of us guys on site. So, if I were you, I’d get my ass up to ground level if you don’t want to fuck off the boss.”
They eyed each other—different shades of brown and blue bouncing off their ugly faces.
“Trust me when I say you’ll have more fun with what he has planned than you will with your broken doll,” I scoffed.
The woman on the floor was still crying, spitting out drool and blood. She’d be pathetic to most here. Weak and worthless in looks and strength.
Straw-like blonde hair hid what was no doubt a busted-up face. Bruises and gashes competing against one another for which looked worse. She was a return, and unless they could be trained and resold, they were treated fucking terribly. Left to rot down here in the tombs, where the creeps who dwelled in the shadows could do what they pleased.
“Come on,” the oldest said. Oldest, but still years younger than my thirty-two years.
Fucking kids. I hated them. I hated that there were twice as many here since Pencil Dick took over. He had no fucking clue how to run this shit show. And that was music to my fucking ears.
Because now it would be so much easier to bring it down.
The woman in front of me stayed huddled in a ball, each ridge of her spine threatening to break through her pale skin.
That ball got kicked by the youngest, as he, again, grated against my last nerve. She rolled away from the growing patch of her own blood, leaving a trail behind.
He squared up to me as he followed the others out. My nails pierced my palm as I fought the urge to show him why I’d never, ever, ever be a-fucking-fraid of him.
I tilted my head, and the anger in my eyes made promises my fists had yet to deliver.
“Holy fucking steaming shit. You’re—”
