He glanced at Wren and seemed to see her thoughts. “Good show, huh? Miguel, he’s crazy for blow job. No regular sex, only dat. All da time, blow job, blow job. I don’t get it.” He pinched Wren’s cheek, shaking her face. “Maybe I let him teach you how to give a good one, huh? You gonna have to learn, yeah?”
Wren could only shake her head, couldn’t get the word
She stumbled, and scrambled away, tripping backward into the TV, blocking the view of the soccer game. Angry shouts erupted, and Wren moved away from the TV, watching Miguel, who’d stood up, and her nameless captor, who just watched, scratching a chicken-pox scar on his cheek.
Miguel dug his hand into his pants, adjusting himself, and then grinned again. “You come.” He twitched two fingers at Wren, an imperious gesture. “You come now.”
Wren shook her head, sliding along one wall, into the corner farthest from Miguel. She was cornered now, as Miguel stalked toward her, slipping a long folding knife from his pocket and opening it. Terror flooded Wren’s veins as he stopped a foot away from her, running his tongue over his bottom lip. He held the tip of the knife in her general direction, reaching down to his pants with his other hand. He opened the button, the zipper, and then pulled his privates out and held his member in his fist. Wren whimpered, shrinking away, closing her eyes, covering her mouth. Laughter filled the room, amused male guffaws. A fist grabbed her hair, and something sharp and cold pricked her cheek.
A command in Filipino. Then, in English. “Suck,” the last syllable emphasized with a click.
Wren shook her head, the movement cutting her cheek open on the knife point. Eyes clenched tight, she let the sharp pain sear her, expecting death. Still she waited, refusing. She felt the knife dig in, sharper, and then her captor spoke, emphasizing his order with the distinctive sliding-click of a pistol being racked. The knife point withdrew, the hand left her hair, and Wren opened her eyes. The man was gone, sitting back in his place on the couch, touching himself almost idly, despite the room full of other men. He called out, and a girl appeared, a different one, and she seemed to know what was expected of her, because she knelt between his knees immediately.
Her captor grabbed her and pushed her through the doorway beside Miguel. Wren focused on breathing, ignoring the wrenching agony of her rib, wiping the trickle of blood from her face. The room she found herself in was filled with girls, all of them her age or younger. Most were horrifyingly young, twelve to sixteen. Most were naked, some in underwear, others in short sort-of-dresses. They were crowded into bunk beds stacked three high against all four walls, a small gap left for the doorways in opposite corners of the room. Some were on the beds, others sat on the floor or beside other girls. One was reading a book. All looked skinny to the point of starvation, and all of them had tell-tale scars on their arms.
His cell phone rang, then, and he stopped Wren, answering his phone with a harsh syllable. He listened, spoke briefly, and then hung up. He grinned at Wren. “Good ting I didn’t let Miguel hurt you, huh? He woulda kill you, you know. He don’t like ‘no’. Dat was my buyer. He comin’ right now. He don’t like his girls wit’ marks on dem.”
“Buyer? You’re…you’re selling me?” Wren couldn’t stop the question.
“Yeah, yeah.” He scratched his cheek with his thumb. “Lotsa money. Lots and lots.”
“What…who are you selling me to? What are they going to make me—make me do?”
He just laughed. “What you tink? Lotsa men pay good money to fuck pretty American girl. Dat’s you. Pretty American girl. Best part is, you don’t even look American. He can charge more extra.”
“No…no. Please. Don’t.”
He leaned close and his breath stank as he spoke. “You tink I’m nice? Tink I like you? Tink again. I won’t kill you. I lose money, dat way. Know what I do? I’ll fuck you just to teach you a lesson. Right here, in dis room, on dis floor. So you best shut up. Huh? Shut up and you won’t see me again. Keep talking, and I’ll fuck you hard. Teach you a lesson you never gonna forget.”
Wren shrank back, sucking in a terrified breath that had her wincing in pain. “Please, I’m sorry. No. Don’t….I’m sorry.”
“Better. Now shut up.” He shoved Wren through another doorway, and this one led to a room with a small round table and four chairs, an old refrigerator that didn’t seem to be plugged in to anything, and a big red cooler with a white top, the same kind she used to help her parents pack full of Coke and salami and Gatorade and cheese and bread for a day on the lake. He shoved her toward the table and she sat down, pressing her palm to her screaming ribs, focusing on each breath in, each breath out, refusing to consider her fate, what was coming, what would happen.
She breathed, and she prayed.
He pulled on a length of metal bar fastened vertically to one of the walls, and it slid aside, the entire wall serving as a door. He only opened it a few inches, peering out into the street beyond. Wren peered hard at that gap, the sliver of freedom. What if she made a break for it? Knocked him aside and ran? He would kill her. But wouldn’t she rather be dead than forced into prostitution? Wren thought she probably would rather be dead. She tensed her legs, gathering them beneath her, focusing on the few inches of space between the door and the wall, planning her motions. If she tried to knee him in the groin, it might buy her some time.
She lifted up out of her seat, sucking in a deep, preparatory breath…
But something inside stopped her. It wasn’t an audible voice, not really. But she heard it within herself, nonetheless:
She settled back down, confused. Now was her chance. It might be the only one she’d get. And she’d missed it. He shut the door, pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the screen, cursing in Filipino.
“Where da fuck he is?”
Wren shifted in her seat, glancing at the refrigerator and cooler, wishing she had something to drink, or eat. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d fed her, or given her water. She was so hungry it was painful, so thirsty her mouth felt withered and drawn.
She had nothing to lose, she realized. “Could…could I have something to drink? Please?”
He glanced at her, amused. “You got balls, huh? Sure, look in dere, see what you see.”
Wren struggled to her feet and pulled open the fridge. It wasn’t plugged in, but there were bottles of booze, beer, and something else, some local brand of soda. It was better than nothing. She grabbed one and opened it, sipped from it, tasted citrus, something like Sprite. He was watching as if interested in the way she drank, so she grabbed one of the bottles of beer and extended it to him. He lifted an eyebrow, but took it, twisted the top off, and drank.
A few minutes passed in silence, Wren sipping her soda and feeling stronger with each swallow of liquid.
And then she heard gunfire, loud bursts from somewhere behind them. Her captor swore in Filipino, grabbed Wren’s arm and dragged her from the kitchen and out into the street. She was running, trotting behind him, dragged by his iron-hard fist around her bicep. The soda can slipped from her fingers and splashed onto the dirt road. An engine roared, and then a van swung around the corner, skidded to a stop in front of them. More gunfire blasted from the maze of shanties, and Wren knew in her heart that it was Stone, coming for her. The sliding door was wrenched open from within, and her captor shoved her into the van and leaped in after her.
She grabbed the chain of her cross and yanked it so the clasp broke. As she was being thrown into the van, Wren tossed the cross into the dirt, hoping and praying that Stone would find it and recognize it, and know she’d been there.
8
~
Stone’s instincts and training kicked in automatically. It wasn’t reaction that had him lunging to one side. He wasn’t even through the door yet, his eyes hadn’t adjusted and he couldn’t see a damn thing. It was a voice whispering in his brain, compelling him to move. Gunfire hacked, muzzle-burst flashing, blinding, illuminating. Stone squeezed the trigger of his pistol, felt it jerk in his hands, the double bounce of the recoil in his fist as familiar as his own heartbeat.
