by Jillian Dodd
"And, by love you enough, do you mean, enough to give up my job?"
"Enough to help me save my country and the monarchy."
I take a deep breath and then smile at him. "It seems our goals are in alignment."
He picks me up and twirls me around. "You make me a very happy man," he says, sealing it with a kiss.
The Royal Ascot event is a lot of fun. We mingle in different tents, watch the royal processional, and choose our favorite horses.
Lorenzo completes his social obligations and suggests we go to our private box to dine.
When we get there, someone is waiting for us.
Intrepid.
"William Gallagher," Lorenzo says in greeting while shaking his hand.
He seems pleased by his presence, but he shouldn't be. I can tell by the look on Gallagher's face that this isn't a social call.
"Did you find the money man?" I ask once the pleasantries have been completed.
"Yes, and although I hate to take you away from all the pomp and circumstance, we have a small window of opportunity to get close to him."
"And what exactly is going to happen?" Lorenzo asks.
"It's probably best if you don't know the details," Gallagher replies, which causes Lorenzo to grimace.
He sternly looks at me. "When should I expect to see you back in London?"
I glance at Gallagher in question.
"I hope it will be over in less than twenty-four hours," Gallagher says.
Lorenzo takes a step toward me and pulls me into his arms. "You will come back to me?"
I nod because I'm afraid, if I say anything, I will start crying. Blackwood Academy was right about emotional entanglement.
A waiting helicopter quickly ferries us back to London. Intrepid doesn't speak to me at all during the ride, probably because he can't speak freely in front of the pilots. After we land, he leads me to a sleek silver Aston Martin and presses a key fob, unlocking the doors.
"Tell me what we have to do," I say.
He swallows deeply. "We've just learned that the money man has a fetish. One we will be exploiting."
"What kind of fetish?"
"He buys young girls from human traffickers," he says, shaking his head. "I've been studying the man. He lives in a virtual fortress and has numerous guards."
"You want him to buy me, so I can get to him from the inside?"
"That's the plan, yes."
"But you don't like it?" I ask.
William seems thoroughly upset by this. "Do you know much about human trafficking?"
"I know it needs to be stopped."
He nods in agreement as he starts the car, backs out of the car park, and moves into the flow of traffic. "We arrested a man yesterday who knows the money man. He was so afraid of the money man's ruthlessness that he hung himself before we could glean much information from him."
"Okay, I get it. The money man is not a nice guy. What else do you know?"
"He has specific tastes in girls. While many men who buy sex slaves want them very young or virgins, he's the opposite. He likes rough, street-hardened bad girls. That's all we got out of the man we arrested. Our tech people, however, were able to break into his smartphone and discovered there will be an auction today. Since the arrested man won't be showing up, we're hoping it won't tip him off that something is awry. Obviously, we want him to buy you. That will get you into his house. The rest will be up to you."
"Okay. Why are you so worried?"
"Because human trafficking victims are usually drugged and restrained. They often experience various stages of degradation and physical and psychological torture. You may not be able to stop it."
"My training included those types of situations. I can kill, even when restrained."
"Except we need information from this man. We need to find out who paid The Priest. We know the money man is just a broker. And we're going into this blind." He drives down an alley, hits a button on a key fob, and pulls into a garage.
"Where are we?"
"Safe house. You're about to get an extreme makeover."
When I step into the house, the first person I see is my brother. "Ari! I didn't know you would be here."
He gives me a hug and then says, "I came to talk some sense into you. I've seen the reports. This is too dangerous. We have to find another way."
"I'll be fine," I tell him as he leads me into a living room where the Kates are set up.
Both greet me, and then Kate says, "We have contracted part of your makeover with someone outside of the intelligence world. She will be arriving in fifteen minutes. To prep, we need you to go take a shower, using this special soap." She hands me a bar. "It is important that the soap bar itself touches every inch of your body, so shower with care and then pat to dry your skin; don't rub."
"And why do I have to do this?"
"Because an artist will be sticking tattoos all over your body. Remember the adhesive strips you used in your disguise while tracking The Priest?"
"The ones that made it look like I had a lot of eye makeup on?"
"Yes, only these are large tattoos. The artist applies them often on movie sets. These are even better quality, virtually undetectable by the human eye." She hands me a surgical mask. "Take off all your makeup, put your wet hair back into a bun, and put this on before you come out. We don't want the artist to recognize you."
Fifteen minutes later, I'm standing naked in the middle of a room with the artist, having adhesive tattoos placed all over my body. When the artist is finished some two hours later, I'm allowed to look at myself in the mirror.
I have a pouncing tiger wrapping up the side of my left leg and onto my hip. From my right shoulder and down onto my breast, there is a mix of skulls, roses, and ravens--all very dark and ominous. Under my left boob and down into my stomach is an angry fire-breathing dragon. More ravens and roses are on my feet and wrists. Letters across my knuckles spell out the words you would think when flipping a person off. I hold my hand close to my face, trying to see if I can tell the tattoo is fake.
"You'd need a magnifying glass to tell they aren't real," the artist tells me.
"It's amazing," Kate tells her. "Thank you very much for coming." She hands the woman an envelope and escorts her out the front door.
Dr. Kate then gives me a skimpy pair of white cotton boy shorts and a tank top to put on. "That's perfect," she says. "Enough tattoos to be seen but enough still hidden to cause curiosity. Now, for your hair."
We go into the kitchen where a chair is set in the middle of the room, and a table is piled with hair dye and towels.
"You're going to dye my hair?"
"It will wash out with two shampoos. I think we should go dark brown, as opposed to black. I'm afraid the black might stain your blonde hair."
"We should add a few strips of bright color on the bottom, like maybe a red to match the tattoos."
"I have red. Was considering making you a full redhead, but the MI-6 agent poo-pooed that idea."
"He's done research on what this man likes."
"I'd like to do a little research of my own on the MI-6 agent. Is his name really William?"
"Probably not. His code name is Intrepid."
"Oh, that's hot," she says as she puts gloves on and gets to work on my hair.
Once my hair is finished, Dr. Kate smudges black eyeliner around my eyes and dresses me in shredded jean shorts, a flannel shirt over the tank, and chunky black combat boots. When I look in the mirror at myself again, I look fierce.
"Let's go show them our work," she says proudly.
When I walk into the living room where Gallagher and Ari are waiting, their eyes get huge.
"That's quite the transformation," Gallagher states.
"Yeah, but I don't get it," Ari says. "She doesn't look like some scared little sex slave. She looks like she'd kick your ass."
"That is exactly what he likes," Gallagher says.
I notice that he has changed, too. Gone is his sleek Sav
ile Row suit, and in its place are black cargo pants and a stained white tank top. His disguise includes a mustache and thick sideburns, and combined with the untamed look of his hair, smoky tinted glasses, and a gold tooth, it makes him nearly unrecognizable.
"I have something from Terrance," Ari says. He wraps a studded black leather band around my wrist and snaps it into place.
"Are you going with us?" I ask him.
Gallagher vehemently shakes his head.
"I want to. I can do a disguise, too."
"We don't have room for error," Gallagher says directly to me.
"What does the bracelet do, Ari?" I ask, changing the subject. I can tell, as far as Gallagher is concerned, Ari going with us is not up for discussion, and I have to trust his expertise in this situation.
"It's got a tracking device in it," Ari replies. "And the middle stud is quite sharp. It will cut through a rope or a simple zip-tie, but not metal."
"But I'm afraid they will strip it off you, possibly strip everything off you, before they leave," Gallagher says, picking up a syringe off the coffee table. "So I'm going to inject a bit of nanotechnology directly into your bloodstream that will allow us to track you. It only works for twenty-four hours. I promise to have you out of there well before then."
He sticks the needle into my arm, and I feel a burn as it enters my system.
Dr. Kate sets a tray of sandwiches on the table. Then she and Kate exit the premises.
Ari gives me a tight hug. He says, "You've got this," and follows them out the door.
"Eat," Gallagher says to me, glancing at the clock. "We don't have much time."
He goes on to explain his plan--how I should behave to attract the man's attention--and then he goes over everything that could possibly go wrong.
We exit the house and get into a car parked on the street. It's cramped and dusty. Once we are inside, he binds my hands together in front of me.
"Are you sure you shouldn't do it behind my back?"
"Yes, our informant told me this is how it's done. The slaves really aren't seen as a threat."
"That's one thing we have going for us," I say.
Upon arrival at the auction location, which is a dilapidated building in a seedy part of Brixton, Intrepid says, "Are you ready?"
I take a deep breath. "I am."
He wraps me up in a long black robe, puts a black hood over my head, and leads me into the building. The place has a dank, musty smell. I hear men murmuring in low voices, and then Intrepid is spoken to. The informant told him that entrance to the event was contingent on knowing what to say.
"The early bird," a voice says.
"Ends up dead," Intrepid responds.
"You may enter," the voice says.
Intrepid grabs me by the shoulder and pushes me. I struggle a little, not wanting to budge.
"Got a feisty one there, huh?" the voice comments. "We have a special buyer who loves such girls. What does she look like?"
"You know the rules," Intrepid says. "Only the buyers get to sample the goods."
He pushes me further. I can't see where I'm going at all. The hood's fabric is thick and doesn't allow much light through it. It's almost a little claustrophobic.
I can hear the auction getting started. I can hear the whimpers of the girls. I can smell their fear and almost feel their despair. I can also feel a predatory vibe in the air.
The men are whipped into an almost frenzied state by the auctioneer. If I had a gun under this robe, I would pull it out right now and shoot them all dead. No one should be allowed to be owned by another person. Ever.
I hear the auctioneer yell, "Do I have twenty-five dollars?"
I'm shocked. I don't know what I expected a slave to be sold for, but it wasn't that.
And it makes me very angry.
When it's my turn to be bid on, Intrepid whispers to me, "We're up."
Then he drags me to wherever I'm supposed to be going. He pulls the hood off my head. I snarl and snap at him like I'm going to bite him. My eyes are narrowed and my rage solely directed toward him.
He strips the robe off me and yells at me to stand still. Of course, I struggle some more. He slaps me across the face, which causes me to head-butt him. The men laugh when he falls backward onto the ground. He gets back up, takes out a knife, and brandishes it in my direction. I allow myself to show a flash of fear as he slices my shirt open and then pulls it off me, revealing my tank top along with the tattoos.
The bidding opens at twenty-five dollars and goes as high as two hundred before a short, portly man in a suit, who I recognize as our target from the photo Intrepid showed me earlier, steps forward and says, "Two thousand."
"Sold," the auctioneer says without bothering to give anyone a chance to outbid him.
The man walks up to me, puts his finger under my chin, and says, "You are but a wild horse needing to be broken. I will break you. That is a promise."
I spit at him, fully expecting a slap in response. Instead, he steps back, gives me a wicked smile, and snaps his fingers at two men. They pick the hood and robe off the ground and put them on me. Then one picks me up and throws me over his shoulder.
Before I know it, I'm being tossed in the back of a van and driven away.
At Blackwood, we were put through kidnapping scenarios. The first time it happened to you, an instructor would be lying on the floor of the van with you explaining what to do. I have two main objectives. The first is to determine my odds. In most situations, you have a much better chance at trying to escape from the van than to wait until they take you out in the middle of nowhere or to an enemy camp where you could be tortured.
We also had torture simulations. In one such event, I accidentally broke my trainer's wrist and nose. I had been sleep-deprived for thirty-six hours and given only a few sips of water. They'd roughed me up a little and then tied me to a chair. I'd flipped upside down, bringing the legs of the chair straight into his face. While lauded for my escape by the dean, the trainer wasn't very happy with me. He was quickly fired, but I suppose that's not true. He was probably killed.
The other thing we were taught is to conserve energy. Stay relaxed. Wait for the right moment. And, also, try to figure out where you are going.
I've been counting in my head and memorizing the turns the van has taken. And, based on what I know, I'm not being taken all that far. Most of our time is spent stopped, not moving. If I had to guess, based on the noises, traffic, and the fact that one of the men mentioned how muddy the Thames looked, I'd say we are in central London. From the river to stopping, it's only been a short distance, which strengthens my chances of escape when the time is right.
The van stops. A window is rolled down. A four-digit code is tapped out. A door opens, and I can tell by the echo that we are in a parking garage.
A few moments later, I'm being pulled out of the van. I struggle a little, being careful not to hurt anyone, but am punched in the ribs in response. Fortunately, my arms are still tied in front of my body, giving my ribs some protection.
I'm jostled around and then pushed down a set of stairs--literally. I tuck and try to roll down them in a way that doesn't do too much damage, but it still hurts a lot.
I lie still, assessing my injuries. I'm feeling stunned, my head hurts--probably indicating a slight concussion. I'm very lucky that I wasn't knocked out. My elbow is throbbing after taking the brunt of the fall, and my cheek feels like it's starting to swell.
One of the men rushes down the stairs, yelling at the other, "What the hell did you do? Boss is going to kill you. He never pays that much."
"Whatev--" the guy starts to say, but he stops mid sentence at the sound of a gun's retort.
I can hear a man tumble down the stairs. He lands on me with a thud, knocking the wind out of me and making it hard to breathe.
"Dispose of the body," I hear the money man say. "If you touch that girl, you'll be digging your own grave. Are we clear?"
"Yes, boss," he says.
"She'll be joining me for dinner."
"Yes, sir."
Very quickly, I hear him running down the stairs then feel him lift the probably dead man's body off of me. Once the body is moved aside, I'm stood up, and the hood is ripped off my head.
He roughly pushes my chin up. "Hold still," he says, surveying my face, presumably looking for signs of damage.
I don't have to look in a mirror to know that both my right cheekbone and a spot along my jawline were injured in the fall. And I'm sure my body will be quite bruised in the places hit by each stair on the way down.
But I can't worry about that now. I pull my face out of his hand. "You're lucky that I can't touch you tonight. But, once the boss grows weary of you, all bets are off."
He pulls my robe off and then leads me down a hallway. I take note of the decor, surprised to see hand-carved egg-and-dart crown molding in a basement. I can't imagine how lavish the rest of the place must be. The man takes a key from his pocket and opens a door in front of us.
It's dark inside the room, but I can tell we are not alone. For the first time since this charade has started, I start to feel nervous. And when he flicks on the light, my nervousness grows to fear. I'm shocked at what I see. Rows of what appear to be oversized dog kennels are lined up in the room, one after another. Inside each is a young girl. Most have hollow stares and don't even glance in my direction, but the ones who do, look at me with pity. They know what's going to happen to me because it's been happening to them.
I want to lash out at the man, but I push it down. I can't do anything yet. But I know this; these girls will be set free if it's the last thing I do. This is horrible.
The man unties my hands, which normally would be a big mistake, but I just willingly step toward the cage.
"Guess that roll down the stairs took some of the fight out of you, huh, baby?" he sneers and then smacks my butt.
I respond by punching him in the throat. If I had done it harder, I'd have smashed his Adam's apple, crushing his trachea and making it very difficult, if not impossible, for him to breathe.
"Ow! You little bitch," he yells, backhanding me across the face.
I take the hit and then allow him to push me into the cage.
He quickly shuts the door, puts a padlock on it, and leaves the room.