Sold Into Salvation

by Colbie Carter

  Dorin sawed his teeth together. He was not in the mood for small talk. “Where's Brooke?”

  “That's none of your concern.” Anton leaned forward slightly, arms still crossed. “You and I have some business to discuss.”

  Dorin snorted. “We have nothing to discuss. You're just pissed I got one over on you.”

  “No, what pisses me off is the deceit. I don't tolerate being lied to or being made a fool of. A businessman in my position has to protect his reputation. You sat in my club, you shook my hand, and you bought one of my girls. You're not the first to pay me with U.S. government money, you'd be surprised who I have sold to; but I don't tolerate spies in my circle.”

  “What, you think I'm the first? Do you have any idea how much Intel has been gathered about you over the last few years? You're so concerned with being able to trust your 'circle' but I can promise you I'm not the only one. I am not the first, and I won't be the last.” Chew on that, asshole. “But if I have my way about it, I will be the last, because I will end your miserable existence myself.”

  Anton's eye twitched with rage a millisecond before Dorin's head snapped to the side under the force of a punch to the cheekbone. Stars exploded behind his eyes, his ears rang, and the entire left side of his face instantly went numb. He blinked rapidly to clear the moisture from his watery eyes. It hurt, yes, but he wouldn't deny the hint of amusement he got from antagonizing Anton. His risibility in shitty situations often surprised him.

  Anton wiggled his fingers, his face still red. “I think I'll let you sit here for a few more hours. Let you wonder what I'm doing to your little bitch. I might take a turn on her myself, since she's broken in and all.” He turned and stormed from the room.

  Dorin exploded into rage, jerking his hands against his bindings, and let out a guttural, agonized growl. He contemplated breaking one of his thumbs to free his hands; as long as he still had one hand to shoot with he was fine.

  ***

  Brooke was nearly sick with the flashbacks when she was sent back to the exact same room she had been in her first time here. It had all come full circle, and the likelihood that she was getting out of this was shrinking by the minute. Where was Dorin? Was he okay? She hadn't heard any more gunshots, but if Anton was as ruthless as she had been told, he could have killed him other ways.

  At least her hands were untied now, and the feeling had returned to her fingers. She sat in the floor on the crappy slab of foam with her back against the wall. She pulled her knees up to her chest, and hugged her legs tight, resting her cheek on her knees. She thought of her father, and wondered where he had fled. Had he been arrested yet? What had possessed him to do this? She was his child—his only one—and he traded her to forgive a debt because he couldn't lay off the cards. Or maybe, it was either her or him. Maybe he had been threatened with death and offered her up as a viable alternative. Still, it was something that in a million years, she never thought would have happened to her. Being randomly taken was almost tolerable compared to the betrayal of her own father. She just wanted to go home, hug her mom, and have a gossip session with Emmy. She even wanted to go back to school; she didn't realize how much she’d missed it until she was faced with the possibility of never returning.

  Brooke didn't even notice that fresh tears had fallen until she saw that her jeans where she had rested her cheek were wet. Her hand went to the cross pendant around her neck, and she grasped it tightly. She prayed harder than she had ever prayed in her life, begging God for salvation. Both for her and for Dorin. It was not lost on her that a pendant meant to symbolize her faith was also the key to her survival.

  The door unlocked with a startling clang, and light from the hallway flooded the dim room. Anton loomed in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside the room and closing the door behind him.

  She dropped the pendant into her shirt to hide it before she looked up at him. She vowed to herself never to cower from him, no matter how much he might frighten or intimidate her. He wasn't worthy of seeing her fear.

  He crouched down in front of her, watching her for just a moment, studying her reaction to him. Brooke struggled to remain as neutral as possible.

  “I can see why Cuza is so protective of you. You are quite beautiful.” He pinched her chin, turning her face from side to side to study her. “I'm sure the foolish bastard would die to protect you.” He released her chin with a rough jerk. “Did he fuck you?”

  Brooke rolled her eyes; it was none of his damn business. Though, maybe she was worth less since she was no longer a virgin. She wanted to laugh at the disturbing thought.

  She was blindsided at the sharp sting of a slap across her cheek. She hated that she knew what that felt like and was barely fazed by it.

  “Still haven't lost the attitude, have you? Well, maybe your manners will improve when you hear your boyfriend's screams at what I plan to do to him. Maybe I'll give you his dick in a silk baggie,” he growled near her ear.

  Brooke shivered, but didn't falter in her stoic demeanor. Bile stung the back of her throat, and her stomach churned at the thought of Dorin enduring such torture.

  ***

  The door unlocked once again, and two men walked in. Dorin was a little surprised they showed up instead of Anton and so soon. Only two? It was almost laughable. He looked down and saw one was holding a pair of wire cutters. He swallowed hard when every possible method of torture he knew of involving that tool flashed through his mind.

  He must have paled a few shades because both men began to laugh. “He looks like he's about to piss his pants.” One of them joked in Romanian.

  “Perhaps he knows he's about to lose some appendages. What do you think? Take off a few fingers first and then cut off his balls, or just head straight for his pants?”

  You sick fucks.

  “I don't know; I kind of like the idea of letting his little bitch hear him scream for a while first. By the time we're done, she'll be begging to spread her legs to all of us for free just to leave him alone.”

  That just meant he couldn't scream. He could do that.

  Yeah, come closer, fuckers. All he needed was to get within his legs' reach. Whoever didn't think to strap his legs down was the dumbest sonofabitch alive, and it was to his benefit.

  With disgustingly gleeful cackling, the two men approached him one stood in front of him to hold him down, while the other went behind him. Guess they were starting with the fingers.

  Dorin exploded into action; his knees snapped up and caught the one in front of him in the groin while his head snapped back and slammed into the face of the other as he bent down. The room echoed with howls of pain, and he had never been more satisfied to inflict it. He stood up and swung the chair in a full circle, crashing the wooden legs into both of them before he reared back into the nearest wall, splintering the wooden chair and freeing himself. Before either guard could right themselves enough to take another crack at him, he dropped to the floor, and pulled his legs through his bound wrists to bring them to his front. Much better, he could work with this.

  The one with the bruised balls got up first; a quick grab and twist of his head snapped his neck. The other had finally managed to pull himself to his feet, blood gushing from his nose, and smearing on the floor. Dorin charged at him, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and slammed his head into the concrete wall. The impact of his skull against the unforgiving wall killed him instantly.

  Not bad for two-against-one with his hands tied. He picked up the wire cutters, and managed to maneuver them enough to snip the thick plastic of the zip tie. He wiggled his fingers around to get the blood flowing again; the agony of pins and needles was a welcome sensation.

  He searched the bodies and found that both of them were armed. He checked the magazines on the guns, both were nearly full. He tucked one in the waistband of his jeans, and held onto the other gun before he left the room in search of Brooke.

  The room he was held in was only one door in a long hallway. This was going to
take a while, and he had no idea how many, if any, other women were being held. He tried to form a tally of all of Anton's guards that he had seen, and sent up a silent prayer that he had enough firepower to hold his own.

  The hallway was eerily quiet, the only sound was the gravelly hum of the industrial air conditioner vibrating the ducts in the ceiling. No conversation, no footsteps, nothing.

  And then he heard a shriek; a startling cry for help came from a room near the far end, followed by a female voice screaming “No!” repeatedly. He would know that voice anywhere—it was Brooke. He tamped the urge to take off running in the direction of her voice, but he had no idea what was behind the other doors, or who could come from the T at the end of the hallway.

  He picked up the pace, and then another sound stopped him cold. Gunshots? What the hell? Automatic gunfire echoed from above him, perhaps in the garage. The sound had obviously drawn a lot of attention because frantic footsteps and chaotic yelling came from the other end of the hallway. He grabbed the knob on the nearest door; he pulled it, praying it would open. Locked, shit! He had no cover, and they would open fire as soon as they saw him.

  More footsteps came up behind him from the stairwell toward the garage. There was no way he could defend himself with no cover and surrounded from both sides. He heard Brooke's frantic cries again, and he made the snap decision to make a beeline for the sound. The room he guessed she was in was maybe thirty feet away; if he ran fast enough, he could at least get close before anyone else reached him. He sprinted for the door, coming within ten feet of it before the first of the footsteps reached the end of the hall and came into view. Four of Anton's men careened around the corner and spotted him before he could reach the door. Dorin lifted his gun and popped off several rounds. Two dropped to the floor just before two more men followed from around the corner to take their place.

  He remembered seeing eight men total, but had no idea how many more were already in the building. The thundering footsteps from the stairs finally came into view, and the last thing he expected to see filled the hallway.

  A tactical rescue team.

  The good guys.

  The cavalry had arrived. He fucking loved his best friend in that moment.

  Before he could close the remaining distance to Brooke, Anton's men opened fire on the team, and he was caught in the crossfire. A sudden, breath stealing, searing agony tore through his left knee, instantly rendering his leg completely useless. He ground his teeth together as a cry of pain ripped from his throat. He leaned against the wall, bearing all of his weight on his right leg, and risked a look down. His left knee had been shot, and was a mangled mess of blood, tissue, and muscle. He fought past the sudden wave of nausea and lightheadedness, and hobbled as fast as he could for the door to find Brooke.

  The pain in his leg was replaced by pure fury when he flung the door open, and found Anton pinning Brooke to the ground with her arms clamped down above her head, and forcing his way between her legs.

  “Get... off her,” he panted, his voice strained as he lifted his gun.

  Fuck it. He wasn't giving the bastard time to move. As soon as Anton looked up, Dorin fired a single shot that caught Anton squarely between his eyes. Brooke let out a startled shriek as she tried to roll out from under him. Anton's limp body collapsed on top of her, and she shoved him to the side enough to wiggle out.

  With a heaving sigh, Dorin leaned against the wall near the door.

  “Dorin!” Brooke scrambled to her feet and ran to him. “Oh, my God! What happened?” Her eyes were glued to his knee as she helped him sit down against the wall. Fear and anxiety were shoved aside in her clinical mind, and she immediately started examining his leg.

  “I got shot.” He groaned in pain as he tried to move his leg. “Fuck, I think the bullet blew out my kneecap.” He didn't want to look too closely.

  The gunfire still echoed in the hallway, and then came to a complete and sudden stop. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” Dorin asked.

  Brooke shook her head. “No, he didn't. I'm okay. What's happening?” she asked as she continued to assess the damage to his knee.

  Dorin leaned his head against the wall, and couldn't help but smile. “The good guys are here.”

  “Your kneecap is definitely shattered; I can see bone fragments in the wound.” He was taken aback at how calm her diagnosis was, and how quickly she jumped from concern for their safety to examining him. She really should consider combat medicine. “And you're losing a lot of blood.”

  That explained why he was so dizzy. Brooke reached for his belt buckle, undid it, and yanked it from the belt loops to fashion a tourniquet.

  Fuck! That hurt worse than trying to move his leg; the pressure of the tourniquet was excruciating. He couldn't stop a ragged roar of pain as Brooke tightened the belt to help stymie the bleeding.

  Suddenly, a large shadow loomed in the doorway of the room, and Dorin looked up to see a body armor-clad figure brandishing an automatic rifle.

  “I found them!” he called to the rest of his team over his earpiece. “Get a medic!” He crouched down next to them. “You guys are safe now; we're getting you out of here.”

  Dorin let out a deep sigh as he leaned his head back against the wall. He was suddenly very sleepy, his body felt weak and heavy, and his head swam with his lowered blood volume. Another team member appeared in the doorway, and both men grabbed an arm, lifting Dorin to his one functioning leg. Together they helped him hobble out of the room and into the hallway with Brooke close by.

  As they trudged down the hall, they saw the rest of the team clear the other rooms. One by one, women nervously walked out under the polite coaxing of the rescue team. There were so many of them, at least twelve. Most were younger than Brooke, and a variety of sizes and races. They all had the same vacant stares on their faces, looking around them like they hadn't seen the outside of their cells in ages. They looked confused, feral, lost. He wondered if they would ever see the world normally again; how many of those women would end up in the same vicious and destructive cycle as his mother? And God, what if even one of them was pregnant? For the first time in his life, he wanted to cry for the life and light stolen from these women. He wished he hadn't shot Anton dead with a single bullet, he wanted to bring the bastard back and tear him apart limb from limb. Starting with his dick.

  He and Brooke were put in a vehicle, and driven to a helipad where a chopper awaited them. He was never so happy to see the big red cross on the side of an aircraft as he was now. The black hawk was an angel from heaven, his personal carriage to medical care. He was placed on an awaiting stretcher, and loaded into the helicopter. Brooke climbed in beside him, strapped into her seat, and put on a set of earphones. He was never more grateful for anything in his life at that moment than the fact that they seated her right next to him. He reached his hand out, and took hers. With a reassuring smile, she squeezed his hand.

  The medics worked quickly to bandage his knee, checked that the tourniquet wasn't too tight, complimenting Brooke's placement of the belt. Then, they put in not one, but two IV lines, one in the bend of each arm. He had fluids running in one IV, and they had given him Morphine and Phenergan in the other. Within minutes the pain eased even if only slightly, but a welcome reduction nonetheless. God, he was so sleepy. He desperately fought to stay awake. He never wanted to take his eyes off of Brooke again. They were finally safe, Anton was dead, and those women had been rescued. They could relax.

  He focused on Brooke's calm smile as she leaned over the stretcher. She was still holding his hand, and gently stroking his forehead with the other. No one had touched him like that, not even his own mother, and it was the most soothing thing he had ever felt.

  Within minutes, he slipped into a deep and heavy sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  When the helicopter had landed at Ramstein Air Base, Dorin was rushed to Landstuhl for treatment. She had carefully watched his vital signs the entire flight, letting him sleep and never le
tting go of his hand. His blood pressure and pulse remained stable and strong, and the bleeding in his knee was controlled. Gunshot wounds to an extremity generally weren't fatal, but a long list of complications could arise. Her mind had run through every possible bad scenario from the need for amputation of his leg, all the way up to death from a blood clot. She could tell that the damage was catastrophic, that it was unlikely it could be fully repaired. He would almost certainly need a total knee replacement. She knew the success rate of the surgery was high, that most people were walking normally within a couple of months. But with the significant muscle and tissue damage aside from the shattered bone, he had a longer recovery ahead of him and would probably never walk normally again.

  As soon as they were out of the helicopter, she and Dorin were separated. She was told that she had to be escorted immediately back to the U.S. for debriefing. No matter how much she argued, they wouldn't let her stay with Dorin. He should have long since been out of surgery, but no one would give her an update.

  Brooke watched the passing Washington, D.C. scenery as the suburban drove from Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling, where she had just landed from Germany. As soon as she had stepped off the plane, a team from the CIA immediately ushered her into a vehicle with only a quick explanation that they were headed for CIA headquarters.

  The suburban pulled up in front of the George Bush Center for Intelligence. The impressive glass and metal archway over the entrance was a surprisingly pleasant sight. She was ushered inside and past the famous CIA emblem inlaid in the tile floor. It looked just like it did in the movies. Her escorts took her to a small interview room and gave her a sandwich and a soda. The small meal was welcome after not eating in nearly a day.

  Brooke had never talked so much, or answered so many questions in her life. She spent hours upon hours in that little room with only a few bathroom breaks. Several people filtered through and asked her the same questions over and over. They were much more involved in this debriefing than her simple interview and statement at the Embassy. The process was set to take two days, and the CIA was kind enough to put her up in a hotel for the night, and they would resume the debriefing the next day.