Page 36 of Saint's Preciosa
"Working on it," Cipher responds. "SUV has fake plates, but I'm tracking traffic cams. They're headed toward the industrial district. Potential destination could be a storage facility by the waterfront.”
"Saint?" Abuela's voice cuts through the tension. I turn to find her standing in the doorway, looking small and impossibly old, but with fire burning in her dark eyes. "What has happened to my Luna?" Her words are accented but clear, her voice stronger than I've heard it since we brought her here.
"Someone took her," I answer honestly, unable to soften the blow. "I'm going to get her back."
Abuela approaches me with slow, careful steps until she stands directly before me, her face tilted up to meet my gaze. For a long moment, she simply stares, as if looking into my very soul.
Then, to my utter shock, she reaches out and grasps my forearm, her grip surprisingly firm for someone so frail. "Bring her home," she says, her voice like iron. "Bring my Luna home safe."
"I will," I vow, covering her small hand with my own. "Or I'll die trying."
Something shifts in her expression—recognition, perhaps, of the depth of my commitment, the truth behind my words.
"No dying," she corrects me firmly. "You bring her home, and you come back too. Both of you. Entiendes?"
Despite everything, a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. "Sí, señora. Both of us."
Chapter14
Luna
The pounding in my head is relentless—like someone taking a hammer to my skull with each heartbeat. Cold metal presses against my cheek.
Where am I?
I try to open my eyes, but only one cooperates; the other seems swollen shut. A wave of nausea hits me as I attempt to move.
My surroundings come into focus slowly—corrugated metal walls, a ceiling too low to stand upright, dim light filtering through tiny slits near the top. The metal floor beneath me vibrates slightly, like we're in motion.
Memory floods back—Cherry's panicked warning, the note about explosives at the clubhouse, my desperate rush to Pier 17, the blow to my head. I was tricked. Lured away. Captured.
I try to sit up but find my hands bound in front of me with plastic zip ties, the edges digging painfully into my wrists. My mouth is dry, metallic with the taste of blood.
"Don't move too quickly," a soft voice advises. "You might have a concussion."
I turn toward the sound, wincing as pain shoots through my neck. A girl about my age is kneeling beside me—pale and slender with shoulder-length blonde hair and wide blue eyes.
“Where are we?” I manage, my voice rough.
“A shipping container,” she answers matter of factly, as thought this were an everyday occurrence.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Rose," she says, helping me slowly sit up against the wall.
Now that I'm upright, I can see we're not alone. Four other women occupy the space—all young, all showing various stages of fear, resignation, or blank detachment. One rocks back and forth in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees. Another stares unseeing at the wall, tear tracks dried on her dirty face.
"How long have I been here?" I ask, wincing as Rose dabs at something wet on my temple with a scrap of fabric.
"They brought you in a few hours ago," she answers, her touch gentle despite her bound hands. "You were unconscious. I was worried you wouldn't wake up. Do you know your name?”
“Um…yeah…I’m Luna.”
I look more closely at Rose. Despite the dirt on her face and the haunted look in her eyes, there's something resilient about her—like a flower growing through concrete.
“Why are we here? What are they doing with us?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
Rose glances toward the small ventilation slits. "I'm not entirely sure," she admits. "But I heard them talking about a ship. Something about 'international buyers' paying premium.'" She says this clinically, as if discussing the weather rather than our fates as human merchandise.
