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Ignoring the twist ofthings-are-so-fucked-upnausea, I pick up my night vision goggles and stagger over to the teen. I shake my head and whisper-rasp, “Didn’t have to.”
Tiger-fierce, red-brown eyes scan over to the body. She shrugs and, with a soft Spanish accent, spits out, “Pero, I wanted to.”
Damn. It’s weird, seeing that kind of anger in someone else. Like looking in the mirror. I understand it, but still…
A pounding upstairs reminds me where I’m supposed to be and who I’m supposed to be helping: Tony.
I pull the girl into the hall and push her into another room. “Wait here. Right here.”
Leaving her, I swoop down the corridor and up the narrow stairs. Sighting around the corner, I check the upstairs hall. There’s a partially dressed man hog-tied in the hallway.
Tony steps from one of the corridor’s multiple doorways. “Did I hear a problem?”
The gunshot. Yikes. “Not anymore.”
“Seriously, J?” He shakes his head. “Stop killing people.”
I glare at him. I want to tell him this one isn’t on me, but isn’t it? I gave the kid the Glock. Definitely not the time to explain. “You weren’t there. Guy had a hundred fifty pounds on me.”
Literally.
Tony points at the knocked-out guy, hands bound behind his back and tied to his feet. “Dude’s no featherweight either. It’s called training.”
Yeah, well, I didn’t have time to train the kid. I don’t say that. Iwon’tsay that. This one goes with me to the grave. “Where are they?”
He reaches past me and pushes a door open, nodding toward the occupants. “Salvadoran.”
Inside the room, the young teens and girls who’ve been stolen, tricked, or coerced from their lives and countries huddle together in a dark corner. The windows are painted black. There’s one dresser and a full-size bed. Probably the same setup as every room up here. My stomach twists at the thought. No individuality. No humanity. An assembly line.
Repressing my anger, I give instructions in Spanish. “Mantén la calma. Nadie te hará daño. Te estamos rescatando. Serás atendido. No serás lastimado. Mantén la calma. Síganos.”
I repeat it in English. “Stay calm. No one will harm you. We are rescuing you. You will be cared for. You will not be harmed. Stay calm. Follow us.”
The group begins to panic. Cry out. Someone throws a shoe at me.
Ouch. Great.Not my day. I step back to Tony. “You got this?”
A smirk on his face, he lowers his gun. “You’re just not a people pleaser, J.”
No kidding. I care—care more than I can say. But when it comes to getting that across to people… well, it’s not my strong suit.
* * *
At the pickuplocation designated as Site 6, we load the freed slaves into the white panel van. The teen I gave the gun to, the one who reminds me of me, refuses to get inside. This time, I got it. I pull her aside and put a hand on the shoulder still wearing my coat. “What’s your name?”
Cringing, she looks down and away. “Los hombres called me Cookie.”
Cookie? That’s not a name. It’s a dessert.
“But what’s your name? What doyoucall yourself?”
She shakes her head. Her lips tighten into a thin line.
Okay. Well, ifSesame Streettaught me anything it’s thatCis for Cookie. “Can I call you Cee?”
“No me importa.”
She doesn’t care. I find that hard to believe. “Get in the van, Cee. People there will take care of you. You’re free.”
