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“Get the fuck up.”
I stand and hold out my hand again, and this time, after a beat too long, she puts her hand in mine.
I can feel the scrape on the heel of her palm and hear her hiss as I haul her up off the floor. “You disgust me.”
“You please me.”
I don’t look at her. Instead, I return to the dead guy and drag him in, taking his flashlight and patting him down.
Finding the wallet, I check the contents with the light. Ben Carmichael. Forty-two. Bank card, cash, coffee card with one punch mark. Receipts, other cards.
Then I check all the little hidden pockets. A photo is tucked into one of the sections. I pull it out and shake my head.
Fuck. Me. It’s a naked girl who’s…
I grit my teeth and slide the photo into my pocket along with the wallet.
Who the fuck carries a picture of a borderline illegal naked girl with a pussy drooling cum and blood, a pussy that’s spread open and marked with bruises, a mouth swollen and glistening with cum. Who the fuck does that shit and then takes a picture of it?
I stand and kick the body.
“You’re a sick man.”
I flick her a look, then show her the photo. “He had this.”
She reels back, stumbling, slapping a hand to her mouth.
The other Knights will look into the identity of the girl and into Ben here. A sick fuck who likes to abuse girls, or a sick fuck who found the photo and used it for beating his meat. It wasn’t like it was in the little clear plastic photo pocket. He wasn’t showing that shit off.
The poor abused girl was folded down and hidden in the back pocket.
I don’t give a fuck if he found the photo.
He still had it.
And as far as I’m concerned, he’s just paid for it. That, and for pulling a gun on Scarlett. That, and for threatening to hit her.
I kick him again, hard.
Then I close the door, shutting us in the pitch-black with the dead.
Scarlett makes the tiniest sound but manages to keep it between her lips.
My willfully innocent girl’s made of some pretty strong shit.
There’s a switch on the wall and I flip it. Overheads light up the place, revealing neatly stacked crates.
I know immediately this isn’t where they’d hide trafficked girls. There’s always a smell to a place if they’ve done that. No matter how pretty or fuckable the contraband might be after they’re cleaned up, when they first arrive, it’s unpleasant and it takes a special breed of pervert to get hard over that.
I’m not looking for girls tonight, but I’m aware that the people whom I’m dealing with do traffic live transportations.
These crates are probably full of smuggled drugs. Hidden in whatever the crates contain. But I didn’t come down here because of drugs. I came to investigate what else might be stored here, which unfortunately isn’t in plain sight.
These crates could always be filled with low-end crap, so if anyone like the authorities come sniffing, they won’t find anything suspicious and they’ll lose interest fast.
The big-time shit is always moved quickly. It never just sits around a deserted warehouse, waiting to be found.
I’d thought there might be a chance we’d find girls here, stashed away, waiting for someone to collect them. Too often, smuggled girls are kept in places like this, and a lot of them die waiting for the better life they were promised.
