Mason passed a door with OFFICE scrawled on it in marker. Four doors down was another door that sported several duct tape patch jobs and EMPLOYEES ONLY.
He glanced back the way he’d come, but Travis wasn’t anywhere to be seen. The knob to the EMPLOYEES ONLY door wiggled in his hand, but turned without too much noise. He held his breath and paused, but no one came to investigate. The hinges were silent, allowing the door to open up to a steep staircase that descended into near darkness.
What could go wrong?
He tiptoed down the first three stairs before pulling the door shut behind him.
With the TV mostly muted, he could hear music playing softly below. Some sort of living quarters or crash space?
He crept down the flight of stairs, drawing his gun as he went. He hardly dared to breathe.
A long, low squeak reverberated off the concrete walls. The stupid stair.
Below, a chain rattled and fabric rustled.
Fuck. No.
Mason took the last six stairs faster, needing to see.
Whatever happened would happen.
Mason reached the bottom of the stairs and pivoted, gun up.
Light filtered in through long, narrow, dirty windows near the ceiling. It was an open single-room apartment. Chains circled the base of a metal post going up to the ceiling. The rest of the length stretched away into the shadows. He could see shapes, the light reflecting off eyes.
His stomach nearly revolted. He’d seen some horrors in his time and he prayed he never lost his disgust for them. This was wrong.
The owner had to be the clerk.
The place smelled of him.
Mason lowered his gun and took one hand off the firearm, holding it up.
“I’m looking for friends of Abraham. Do you know him?” He spoke slowly, enunciating his Spanish carefully.
One of the women whimpered.
“My name is Mason.” He switched to English. “I’m friends with Abraham. Do you know him?”
He crept a few feet into the room and did a visual sweep. The L-shaped apartment was empty, save for the three women forced to live like dogs chained in a yard.
“Abraham is very worried about his friends.” He switched back to Spanish. “I’d like to help.”
A chain scraped across the floor. One of the women leaned forward into the light.
“Where is he?” Her voice cracked, as if she hadn’t drank anything in days.
“Are you friends of his? He’s been looking for his friends. He asked me to help find them.” Mason crouched so he was on their level, doing his best to be smaller. Less intimidating.
“He won’t let us go.” The woman retreated back into the shadows.
“I don’t care what he says.” Mason thumbed up, where the clerk’s desk would be. “Do you want me to take you to Abraham?”
“Yes,” another voice said.
“No. Hush.” The first woman wrapped a hand around the second’s head, covering her mouth. “We can’t trust you.”
“I know that it’s hard for you to trust right now, but I mean you no harm. I just want to help.”
Mason eyed the chains and the distance from him to the pole. He was outside their reach now. If he got too close, what would they do? The women Abraham hired were not the ones in front of Mason now. They were changed. And there was a very real risk they would attack him in an attempt to defend themselves against a perceived threat. Or perhaps they’d come to believe this was where they belonged, or were safe. He could not leave them here. Not once he’d seen them.
“I’ll let you go.” Mason holstered his gun and pulled out his lock-picking set.
None of them responded.
Mason crept across the open space. Everything in the sphere of their reach was clean. It was outside that where squalor reined.
He knelt next to the post and selected one of the locks securing the chains in place. The picks were tiny in his hands, small things, but he’d done this act a hundred times. All locks had the same pieces and these were nothing fancy. It would only take a moment, but a lot could happen in a short span of time.
“Abraham has been looking for you. The same man who took you? He took someone I care about, too. Abraham is helping me get her back. So my friends and I are helping him.” He spoke softly, mostly about Abraham, hoping some of his words penetrated the women’s fear.
The first lock opened. He unwound the chain and pushed it toward the women.
“There.” He held his hands up again. “Two more to go, okay?”
The door banged open and the stairs groaned under heavy, thudding footsteps.
Shit.
13.
Hannah gripped the fence with both hands.
Sixty-three sets of eyes were locked on her.
Around them, bunk beds, chairs, anything not cemented down had been torn up and fashioned into some kind of weapon.
They’d waited for this moment, when it was the quietest. Dad had always told her the prime time to hit a military target were the early morning hours before dawn. It only made sense it would also be the best time to stage an escape.
“Okay, one more time. Everyone listening? I’ll count to three and everyone push.” Hannah paused while Rachel translated her words into Spanish. “We all know where the fence in our cell is weakest. Focus there. Some will be able to crawl out and they can hold the opening for others. When everyone is out—we don’t leave anyone behind—we send the elevator up to the top floor as a distraction and take the stairs. From there, we go through the side entrance, not the front.”
Her heart pounded. This could work. It was a good plan. Between all the women, they’d been able to map out not only the building, but the area around it. Where the entrances were, how many people Cruz was likely to have on staff. The women outnumbered them if they escaped as a group. But they all had to work together. One hiccup, and the whole thing could fall apart.
Rachel finished the translation and paused, waiting for Hannah to make the next call.
“Once we’re outside, get in your groups and get home.” She patted the fence, jangling the metal to drive home the point.
They didn’t know who they could trust in law enforcement. The best plan was for the local girls to take as many home with them and lie low, until Hannah could get Mason and the others here. From there the plan was sketchy, but girls would be able to call home, get help. Someone in the American government would hear about it. They’d help, wouldn’t they? This many women, kidnapped, had to stir up some support. They couldn’t be ignored.
She couldn’t focus on what came after. Only now.
The first step was getting free. They couldn’t be rescued if no one knew they were missing, and in the case of many of these women, no one knew to look.
“Are we ready?” Hannah asked.
Rachel translated, but already most were nodding.
“Okay, get your weapon, be careful not to hurt anyone. Positions, everyone.” Hannah braced her hands against the fence, already prepared.
Women scuttled around, getting their makeshift weapons. Others wound strips of fabric around their arms to protect them from the fence. Some weapons were just the leftover pieces of chairs, but it was something to hit with. It took a few moments, but soon women were jostling, bumping, and pushing to get closer to the focus point in each cell.
“On three,” Hannah said.
Rachel repeated.
“Uno.” These words at least Hannah could say. “Dos.”
The women on the farthest side of the room began pushing.
“Tres!”
Hannah and a dozen other women shoved forward, focusing all their efforts on the one spot. The metal links cut into her hands, the press of bodies made it hard to breathe. The fence shifted a little.
“Come on, come on,” Hannah chanted.
Pop!
The fence across the room gave way. Rachel’s group sprawled forward as the fence recoiled.
“Keep pushing.” Hannah doubled
down. The girls in her cell might be the prettiest, but they weren’t the strongest bunch. It was going to take help from the others to get them lose. Hannah couldn’t do it all herself.
A woman wiggled out from under the second cell’s fence.
“They’re leaving without us!” A woman next to Hannah stopped pushing and pointed.
“Wait, remember—we won’t make it by ourselves,” Hannah said as lout as she dared.
Rachel clung to the arms of two women straining to get through the open doorway.
No. No. No.
They escaped together or not at all.
“Push harder!” Hannah couldn’t control the others, she could only focus on her group.
Rachel turned, her expression horrified.
They were doomed.
The plan was gone. The free women sprinted, making a break for it, while the others struggled to liberate themselves, no consideration for the others still captured.
Rachel’s pained expression said it all. She could either stay—and get caught—or she could make a break for it. Hannah understood. She nodded. So long as someone got free, they could warn others. Rachel held up her hands, a helpless gesture.
The last woman grabbed Rachel by the arm and hauled her to the elevator.
Women trickled out of the second cell, one or two at a time sprinting for the entrance.
None of them paused to help Hannah’s group. The same ones who’d mocked her for even thinking about escape, now didn’t bother to lift a finger to help.
One by one, the women at Hannah’s side stopped pushing. The fence was misshapen, the rings securing the fence were bent, but it’d held. They were still prisoners.
“No. No. No!” Hannah kicked the fence, though it did her no good. “God damn it.”
She paced the enclosure, listening, straining to hear over the remaining women’s tears and wails.
A scream silenced the complaints.
More screams.
Yelling.
She didn’t dare breathe.
“Damn it.” Hannah stalked across the cell to the beds piled up haphazardly.
The men would come next, with the girls. And then what?
She shoved the shiv under a mattress and continued to pace, waiting for what would happen next. The minutes dragged on, the silence broken by yells, a crash, the sound of sobbing.
The women were gone—what? Five, ten minutes? It was hard to gauge the passage of time.
The first ones were brought in at gunpoint. A cluster of six. Then two. Another grouping of five. The men sported scratches, a few gashes, but by and large the escape had gained the women nothing. And lost them their only coordinated escape effort. Because a few people couldn’t wait.
Rachel came in the last group, her lip busted and cradling her hand.
The men yelled. The women cried. Hannah closed her eyes. It was her fault. She’d talked them into escaping. It’d taken most of the night, but she’d done it. And it had failed.
“Hannah...” Christine backed away from her.
Hannah glanced up. Two women were pointing at her. Half the men glared her way.
Oh God...
She held her head up, refusing to hide, though her insides were shaking.
Mason held his finger up to his lips and rushed to the wall, drawing his gun.
Thud. Creak.
Thud. Crack.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Would the women give Mason up? Was this a Stockholm Syndrome situation? Or would they want to get away? He couldn’t tell. And he’d just let one loose.
This was going from bad to worse. Where was Travis?
Mason tracked the heavy footsteps, eyes trained on the opening, poised on the balls of his feet to move.
The clerk lumbered around the turn, his fat head so fused to his body he had to turn his torso to see Mason.
“Don’t move.” Mason aimed the gun at the man’s head.
The clerk stared at him, his gaze dead, lifeless.
For a moment, no one breathed. No one moved.
The clerk swung his arm surprisingly fast, bending forward in a stiff duck, and knocked Mason’s gun to the side. Mason kept a tight grip on the firearm, but the move left him open. The clerk yelled and swung, landing a punch to Mason’s kidney. He felt the pain of it but locked down on that sensation. He dropped his shoulder and threw his weight into tackling the man. But the clerk was too solid, his center of gravity too low.
Mason tumbled to the floor, gun aimed at the clerk.
Chain rattled, and one of the women—the free one—launched herself at the clerk, nails scratching, feet kicking.
Mason’s heart stopped for a split second. He couldn’t fire. Not without the risk of hitting her. The clerk obviously wasn’t expecting the blow. He staggered to the side and directly in the sphere of reach.
The other two women rushed forward. They looped their chains around the clerk’s limbs, using their body weight to hold him down. But the clerk was strong. He bellowed and rose to his feet, two of the women dangling off him like marionettes.
Mason scrambled to his feet and waded in, grasping the man by the front of his shirt and punching him with everything Mason had. The clerk flailed, one fist hitting a woman and sending her to the floor. Mason grabbed a handful of the man’s oily black hair.
“Don’t move.” Travis’ voice was like ice, his meaning clear despite the language barrier.
The clerk glared at Mason, his eyes spinning this way and that, glaring at the women.
“The keys. Where are the keys?” Mason asked.
“Kneel.” Travis pressed the muzzle of his gun to the back of the man’s head.
“The keys,” Mason repeated.
The clerk lowered to his knees, his movements stiff, as if he never had to stoop to do anything.
“Keys.” Mason pointed his gun at the man’s face.
“Above the bed,” the clerk answered. “I’m going to gut you whores!”
Smack!
The clerk’s head shot forward. Travis shook out his hand.
“Speak when spoken to,” he said.
The three women circled the clerk. Their anger was palpable and deserved.
Mason retrieved the keys from the wall, but instead of freeing the women himself, he offered the keys to the woman he’d freed, the one who’d launched herself at the clerk first. She snatched them up and made the rounds, releasing one and then the other of her companions before allowing herself to be set loose.
“What do we do with him?” Travis asked in English.
“I don’t know.” Mason glanced at the women. There was a good chance the women understood them, but he had to take that risk. “I doubt the cops will care. Cruz owns them.”
“Give me the gun.” The same woman spoke in Spanish. She held out her hand. “Let us have justice.”
Mason’s gut twisted. He knew that look. He knew where it got people and what lay down that road.
“Ma’am, you don’t want to have blood on your hands,” Mason spoke low, soft.
“He’s right,” Travis chimed in. “I know what it’s like to kill someone for revenge. It doesn’t make it better.”
“You don’t know what it was like.” She drew herself up, standing tall, her gaze daring them to say no, to deny her the justice she wouldn’t get if they refused her.
Hannah cried out, unable to keep the sound of her pain inside. The man’s fingers dug into her hair, twisting until it hurt. She gripped his wrist in a vain attempt to lessen the pain. She had to practically bend over and jog to keep pace with him.
A hard shove sent her to the floor at the base of the very same inspection post she’d been shackled to yesterday. Her knees ached, and her cheek burned from the slap she’d received on their way up the elevator.
To say the men were pissed was an understatement.
She scrambled to sit up, her back to the post.
Four men circled her, the look in their eyes less than kind.
This was i
t. She’d pushed her luck too far and it’d run out. She’d run, she’d fought, and it still wasn’t enough. She drew her knees up, elbows in. If they kicked her she needed to protect her soft places, the unprotected organs.
Where was Mason?
The men were yelling now. She couldn’t understand them, but she didn’t really need to either. She flinched as one swatted the air around her face.
Would he hit her?
She balled her hands into fists. She didn’t stand a chance against four men, not on her own, but she’d put up a fight.
“Detente ahora mismo!”
The men scampered back, turning to face the speaker.
Hannah wanted to sink into the ground.
Cruz strode through the open front doors. He looked angry enough to kill. Probably her.
He didn’t even glance her way. The men started speaking at once, no doubt bringing him up to date and throwing her under the bus. Why hadn’t she taken Spanish instead of French?
Cruz yelled and waved his hands, pacing back and forth. The four men, now seven because three had followed Cruz in, were quiet, their gazes bouncing from her to Cruz and back.
The one who’d yanked her around by her hair pointed at her and said something that sounded an awful lot like whining.
Cruz’s gaze snapped to her face. She swallowed.
Not good. Not good at all.
Cruz spoke something short and sharp, then turned away, toward the stairs.
Two men scooped her up under her arms and hauled her after Cruz, into the elevator.
“What’s going on? What are you doing?” she asked, unable to keep her questions in.
Cruz turned and glared at her.
“You caused a lot of trouble.” Cruz’s words were short, clipped.
Good.
Even if one girl got free, it would be worth it.
“What are you going to do? Kill me?” At this point she could only hope.
“No.” Cruz wrapped his hand around her neck, squeezing just enough to constrict her airflow. “As much as I’d like to wring your pretty neck, I need you to fetch a profit.”
“What are you going to do to the others?” Despite the women not sticking to the plan, Hannah was still responsible for the botched escape.
Dangerous in Training (Aegis Group, #2) Page 18