Page 85 of Theta

I snort. "Clearly."

"You don't ask names, honey. That's, like, rule number one."

"I thought rule number one was not shouting, 'may I buy some drugs, please?' "

Killian sputters. “Yeah, that's a good rule. Sort of an unspoken one."

"Aren't all the rules about illicit drug deals unspoken? Like, is there a how-to-buy-drugs guidebook for dummies?"

He frowns at me. "You're just full of jokes, huh?"

I grin, shrug. “See also our conversation about dark humor. It's how I cope in high-stress situations."

He frowns again. "This isn't high-stress. We’re just waiting."

"That's the stressful part!" I don't-quite yell. "All the sitting around doing nothing, knowing people are about to try to kill you and you're about to try to kill them. The scary part of a rollercoaster isn't the actual drops and loops, it's slowly click-click-clicking up to the first drop."

Killian ejects the magazine and inspects it, does another visual sweep, and then sets about stripping the MP-5. I don’t know why, though, as we don’t have a cleaning kit. Something to do with his hands, I suppose. "You make a good point."

"You're not scared right now?"

He shakes his head. "Lot of anticipation, sure, but fear?" He frowns even harder, brow furrowing, nose wrinkling. "I suppose the last couple firefights all happened so fast I didn't have a chance to be scared.” He barks a laugh. "Well now I am, thanks."

"It just feels different, Killy," I whisper. "Shooting back at someone who's shot at you first is one thing. Lying in wait, literally, and shooting someone who doesn't know you're there? It just feels a whole lot different."

He inspects the pieces as he reassembles the weapon, and when he's done, he taps the magazine home and levels a look at me. "I guess it is different. This isn't reactionary, this is an offensive maneuver. And I do get where you're coming from. But you can't think of it like that. These guys that are gonna show up? They're career killers, Story. You don't end up doing wetwork for a man like Pugli if you're a nice guy with clear morals."

"I know, but—"

"Just think of it like this—these guys have one mission: kill me and bring you to Pugli. And you haven't sat in on the briefings about Pugli that I have, Story."

I let a breath puff out between my lips. "No, I guess I haven't. So?"

"So, I feel like maybe you're not fully informed as to what kind of a person Roberto Pugli really is. The kind of shit he does to his…merchandise."

"Killy—" I start.

"He's not just a human trafficker, that's number one. He's not just the businessman, the money behind the operation. He hand-selects the people he sells. See, people who buy from him are…they're high-end customers. You go to Pugli for your sex-slave needs because he supplies a particular kind of product. Apparently, he guarantees that his merchandise will be fully house-broken; I think that’s the term I heard. Meaning, just so we're clear, girls who aren't going to fight, argue, complain, or try to escape. They pay a premium for girls procured by Pugli because he breaks them himself."

My skin crawls. "I thought that guy was just trying to scare me."

"He was." Killy pauses for effect. "With the truth."

"Oh," I murmur.

"Pugli does sell in…um…untrained bulk, but those girls are generally the kind of people he feels won't be missed—orphans, prostitutes, and drug addicts, people like that. He also sends snatch squads to rural villages all across Europe and they take girls right out of their homes, but again, those are places that generally see little to no oversight from government." He lifts a chin at me. "You he wants because you'd be missed. You're an American. An extremely attractive English-speaking white girl with blonde hair and blue eyes and a lot of spirit. You're the kind of girl he likes to take his time breaking himself, and then once he's done that, he gives them to his men for further 'breaking,’ and then he finally sells them to the highest bidder."

"Wouldn’t…?” I struggle with how to phrase my question. "You'd think a buyer would want someone…unbroken. Un…um…used."

He shrugs. "I guess not. I suppose if you just want to get down to the business of making money, having to expend time and effort making sure your new girls don't try to run away isn’t worth it. Better to pay more for someone who's already had the fight beaten and raped out of her."

I feel sick. "Jesus."

"Exactly." He stabs a finger in the direction of the car. "That's who the fuckers we're waiting to ambush are, Story: sex-slavers. Men who are eager to get you to Pugli so they can have their turn with you and before Pugli sells you off to the highest bidder. And then they go snatch some other poor innocent girl and do it all over again." He stands up, brushes off the seat of his jeans, and takes my hands in his, the now-reassembled MP-5 hanging from his shoulder by the strap. "This isn't…they're not soldiers just following orders to take some hill or whatever. These dudes are professionals who know exactly what their objective is and are eager to accomplish it."

"Okay," I whisper. "I understand."

"I'm not trying to scare you," he says. "Just make it easier to be objective. You're not killing innocent, unsuspecting people. You're killing evil bastards who I fucking guarantee you have spent most of their adult lives murdering and raping and doing pretty much every other kind of nefarious bullshit you can imagine."