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“What happened to you?”
“S-someone took me. I m-managed to escape.” My teeth are chattering both from the cold and in fear that she will leave me on the side of the road. There’s no telling when another car will drive by and as the sun comes up, I’ll be less likely to hide from anyone wanting to hurt me.
“Goodness gracious,” she says, sounding older than she looks, which I calculate to be early forties. “Come on. Get in the car. The heater’s on.”
I stumble that direction, grateful that she steps back rather than reaching out and touching me. The heater she mentioned must be on the fritz because it’s not much warmer in the car than it is outside, but the absence of the breeze helps a lot.
“You must be terrified,” she says as she climbs back behind the wheel. “Here’s a bottle of water.”
I take it from her, spending longer than it should take to get the lid off. I don’t feel thirsty, but I haven’t had anything to drink since before I left the house to walk Peaches. Was that yesterday? The day before? I have no idea how long I was out before waking up under that tarp.
Water dribbles down my chin as I chug it.
“Don’t go wasting it,” she says, the tone of her voice making me pull the bottle from my lips.
She has a soft, concerned smile on her face, and I chalk the irritation I thought I heard in her voice up to something in my own head before lifting the bottle to my mouth to drink.
“Thank you,” I say when the bottle is nearly empty. “Can you take me to the police?”
“I’m going to help you.”
The response registers as incredibly weird, but there are all sorts of different people in the world. I look out the windshield, tracing the tip of my finger around the lip of the water bottle, an attempt to ground myself in the moment, when my fingernail catches on an imperfection on the bottle.
My head swims when I look down to see a push pin sized hole there. When I look up at her again, the smile is gone, replaced with a sinister smile.
“You’re going to be just fine,” she says as she moves the gearshift into drive. “We’re going to take such good care of you.”
My arms are leaden, heavy, and impossible to move, but my brain stays online a little longer than the rest of me.
I’ve simply replaced one captor with another.
Chapter 5
Grinch
I’m on my feet and heading to the conference room the second a third phone chimes with a text. The only reason everyone gets messages at the same time is when information has come in. I don’t even bother looking at my phone or knocking on the conference room door before entering.
Kincaid nods in acknowledgement as I enter. I can tell by the way Max is sitting that they may have news, but it’s not enough to move us into action.
I’m nearly twitching out of my chair by the time everyone is gathered, and we’re closed inside the room. I look around, noting that everyone but Harley is here.
“A small sex trafficking ring was busted in North Carolina yesterday,” Kincaid begins, garnering everyone’s attention. “Grace Neiman’s information showed up on some paperwork at the house.”
I sit straighter in my chair, noticing that several of the other guys shift as well.
“After an anonymous tip was sent to the local police, two men were apprehended. They’re still sifting through all the documentation they found, but we know she was sold.”
My shoulders slump forward, and I can’t even look at Legend when I feel his palm on my back.
“They found her ID attached to this note,” Max says, the television coming to life.
The handwritten note reads—white female, blonde hair, blue eyes. Thirty years old. Five feet four inches. 38-27-34.
“The back of the note had her listed as stock number zero four thirty-one,” Max continues, but I’m still stuck on the crude note detailing her out, including her body measurements like she’s cattle.
“Her buyer is listed as WA504. Local experts haven’t deciphered what it means, but I’m running it through coding systems, and Wren from Blackbridge is doing the same thing.”
We’ve all seen this before. We find tons of information on missions when we raid sex trafficking dens. The best bookkeepers only write down as much information as they need to spark a memory, usually more about the victims than the buyers. Protecting that information protects their cash flow, and they usually keep that shit in their heads.
“Maybe the W stands for Washington,” Tug says.
“Where does the area code 504 land?” Aro asks.
“New Orleans,” Max says, having already thought of that himself.
“Maybe the W is for a last name in New Orleans,” Aro clarifies.
“There are thousands,” Max says. “Wren has a program running to cipher through them to try and produce any leads.”
