Page 150 of The Sound of Him

I make a future to-do list for if we can go with Plan A, knowing it’d be a waste of time right now to try pulling up lists of medics and safehouses and operatives without even knowing where the boy is located.

Of course, the best options rarely pan out in this world, so I make back-up plans as well.

Any reasoning for us not being able to kill his owners will likely mean that we need to extract him as quietly as possible. The best option for that is to send someone in to buy him. We’d keep it simple. Something clean and quiet that won’t rock the boat.

I start there, pulling up a list of active operatives from other operations as well as any loose contractors we have out there who aren’t assigned to an active op but could believably start poking around the trafficking world. There are two operations that could possibly work, each of the lead operatives having built themselves a profile that could believably purchase the boy without blowing their cover.

I’m creating a more comprehensive work-up for each of the two operatives when Travis sends the message to let me know they’re going to start working Quinton over.

I hadn’t realized how distracted my brain had managed to become while focusing on all of the logistics until I’m forced tolook at the camera that shows the room Quinton is being kept in and suddenly remember what’s happening.

We’re trying to save a little boy.

Everything gets a little fuzzy. My chest is too tight. My hands are shaking again.

I take my last two pills out and place them carefully beside my mousepad. I feel a little better at the reassurance that they exist. Just being able to glance over and see that I have a way out of this is enough to take the edge off.

Then Travis starts talking to Quinton and Quinton starts talking back and the words, “Pretty babies,” spill from his lips and everything tilts, spins, whirls.

I’m in a closet.

I’m in the dark, in a closet, and my skin is itchy and achy, and my head hurts, and my belly is empty, and there’s a man in the opening, a man that’s reaching for me, and he’s saying, “Oh, what a pretty baby you are. Let me look at you.”

I miss the interrogation.

I only come back to myself when my phone rings with a call from Travis, letting me know Carter is going to come stay at the safehouse and will need to be allowed through security. I think I manage to respond. I must, because he hangs up without anything else to say.

I stare for a long time at that pill.

I think for a long time about that closet.

I grab my coat, paste on a smile for anyone I might run into, and head out the door to meet Carter.

Elliot is no longer with his original buyer, but Quinton knows who got him next - a piece of shit named Borris Pasternak. It doesn’t take long at all for me to track him down, pulling up his information and hacking directly into his computer and phone.

There are pictures.

There are so many pictures.

And videos.

Short ones.

Long ones.

Ones meant just for Pasternak, just for fun, for the memories.

Ones clearly meant to sell.

I throw up over and over, until every muscle aches and my throat is raw and I can’t stop shaking, I’m shaking so hard, my hands can’t type, I can’t see straight, I’m shaking and shaking, I’m so tired and I’m so itchy and I can’t breathe, I can’t fucking breathe, and there’s a closet and I’m in it and I don’t know, I don’t fucking know, I don’t know what to do.

The guys are on their way back. I’m supposed to be coming up with a plan while they’re in the air. I’m supposed to be able to present them with our best options and all logistics relatedto those options. We’re supposed to be able to put a plan into motion within minutes of them arriving.

I just stare at my main screen, where a video of Elliot is paused.

There’s nothing behind his eyes.

Not a goddamn thing.