Page 155 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1
Boots on concrete.
Each step amplified in the hollow space, each click a countdown to when my life as I knew it would end.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
My rational mind screams that I’m safe, that I’m years and miles from that place, that I’ve been rescued—twice now. But my body remembers. My cells remember. The sweat beading at my temples isn’t from passion now but from primal terror.
Sleep drags me under like an undertow, powerful and merciless. I try to cling to consciousness, to the weight of Hank’s arm, to Gabe’s breath against my skin, but they’re phantoms now, insubstantial against the crushing reality of memory.
The nightmare swallows me whole.
Hands bound.
Mouth gagged.
Heart pounding so hard I fear it might burst.
And always, those boots approaching, unhurried and inevitable.
My lungs seize mid-breath as if an invisible vise has clamped around my ribcage. Hank’s bedroom dissolves like watercolor, its colors bleeding away to reveal what lies beneath.
The darkness thickens, no longer the gentle absence of light but something alive and predatory pressing against my exposed skin.
No. No. No.
Cold metal bites into my wrists with familiar cruelty. I twist against the restraints, skin already raw and weeping from hours—days?—of futile struggle.
They’re too strong, designed for men twice my size, not a five-foot-four physicist whose greatest physical exertion is climbing library ladders.
A murmur of voices seeps through the paper-thin concrete walls. Guttural syllables I can’t decipher, spoken with the casual indifference of men discussing livestock. Then laughter—sharp, sudden, like glass breaking—sends ice crystals through my veins.
“… americana … precio premium …”
My Spanish is rudimentary at best, but some words transcend language barriers.
Premium price.
Good condition.
Undamaged merchandise.
The cell compresses around me, air thinning until each shallow breath burns. I try to scream, to rage, to bargain—anything to assert my humanity against their spreadsheet assessment of my value.
My throat constricts, producing only a whimper that bounces off uncaring walls and returns to mock my helplessness.
Metal hinges protest as the door swings open. The sudden intrusion of dirty yellow light blinds me momentarily, transforming the figure in the doorway into a massive silhouette.
No features visible, just the hulking outline of a man who holds absolute power over my existence.
I can’t see his eyes, but I feel them—crawling over every inch of exposed skin, calculating return on investment, measuring how much damage I can withstand before diminishingmy market value.
Sweat beads across my skin despite the bone-deep chill, droplets tracking down my temples, between my breasts, and along my spine. The sharp tang of my fear mingles with the ambient miasma of mildew, stale cigarettes, and the lingering ghost of previous occupants’ terror. My stomach lurches as he steps into the cell, the feeble light catching something metallic in his hand.
Not a gun. A gun would be merciful—quick, decisive.
This is something designed for a slower purpose—a cattle prod modified for human application. The sight of it sends my pulse hammering so violently that I can taste the copper of my own heartbeat.
“American,” he says, my nationality twisted by his thick accent into something unrecognizable, something dirty. His lips curl back from yellowed teeth. “You will break and learn your place.”
