Throwing up wasn’t an option. If I did, he would be even more furious with me than he already was. The door swung open, banging against the wall, and the distinct sound of his nasal breathing broke through his mask.
I froze, breathing as shallowly as I could while darting my eyes to the floor as I’d been trained to do. I repeated the rules inside my head: don’t look up or speak without approval. Despite how hard I tried to be a good girl, he was angry with me all the time.
Finally, he screamed, “Such a stupid girl.” He slapped my face, cutting my lip and sending me to the floor.
Concrete scraped at my palms as I scrambled back up and presented myself again, head down. Over and over, he hit me, knocking me to the ground. He pulled my hair, ripping some away from my scalp. I pleaded with him through my eyes, hoping that somehow, he would see how much he was hurting me. But he didn’t care.
The Mask's sneer deepened as spit landed on my face. His hand clamped around my arm, dragging me upright with a brutal yank. Before I could catch my balance, he wretched me around, twisting my body to face the other way. I saw what was in his hands out of the corner of my eye, and a whole new level of terror consumed me.
My throat was dry and tight as every one of my instincts screamed to run and hide. But escaping wasn’t an option. Only death would free me. Yanking my hair once more, he forced my mouth open and shoved in the ball gag. With quick movements, he fastened it against the back of my head.
I needed to be calm, but the churning in my stomach only increased. If I threw up, he wouldn’t help. With our history and the way he felt, he’d stand there and watch me choke and die. I’d seen it before, and the aftermath was horrific. It was my greatest fear.
Then the reality of the position I was in, gagged and on this side of the mirror, hit me. Sweat beaded on my hairline. If he did to me what he’d done to X that one day, I wasn’t going to survive. The nausea rose once more. Maybe choking and dying wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Chapter 3
Owen Taylor
Somewhere Safe
Four Days Later—Connecticut, USA
The seemingly abandoned castle stood tall, the exterior imposing and mysterious. The eerie sound of creaking swings filled the air as I took in my surroundings.
The yard was overgrown, and the play equipment was run-down. Standing solemnly off to the side was a covered carousel with four distinct animals. One for each of the girls.
The weeds had grown tall and wild, almost obscuring any entrance. Nestled in the overgrown ivy at the base of the stone wall was a hatch door, or so the plans said. Locating it was crucial. This mission was not sanctioned by any government agency, nor was it on any radar. Save the guys with me, no one knew of this operation.
“Alpha Two to Alpha One,” Remington’s voice crackled through the radio.
“Go ahead, Alpha Two,” I responded, checking my rear one last time.
“Hatch has been located.”
We were a six-man team, all ex-military or ex–law enforcement. The men present tonight were not only friends but trained mercenary professionals in rescue missions. I signaled the remaining team members, and we pushed forward.
The stakes were high tonight. Little Mischa was here in America, far away from home. Every bit of intel that I’d spent the last two years collecting had led up to this moment. I wouldn’t fail.
I spent the first year and a half after she was taken hunting down leads. With each passing month, any hope of finding her alive dwindled. But six months ago, I caught a break when a dark-web video was leaked of a tiny dancing girl.
Tracing the origins of the video hadn’t taken me long. I infiltrated the system by becoming a high-paying customer. Never, in all my years of work, did I think I’d be put into this position. I’d killed people, even tortured them, and I knew every one of them deserved the end they got. But this—this was different.
I’d never be able to scrub my mind of the horrible images I’d seen from diving down the rabbit hole of human trafficking, but if I could save her…God, I had to save her. So, for the past three months, I had been planning this op. Ineededit to go off without a hitch.
Silently, we made our way over to Remington. After opening the hatch, we crept down the narrow stairs leading into the darkness below. A chill ran down my spine as I descended into the hell this house was.
The air was damp and musty, and the faintest sound of music spilled into the hall. It was coming from somewhere deep inside the castle. Following the sound, we arrived at where a small chamber, walls made of rough-hewn stone, opened into a circular room.
We fanned out to cover all angles, and my eyes were drawn to the stage. It was the only source of light in the room. The red-haired girl was playing the cello with a haunting beauty.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, yet her movements were graceful and hypnotic. She never missed a note, even with the tears. My eyes adjusted to the lighting, and then I saw her.
In the center of the stage, trying desperately to look graceful, was the little ballerina I’d been sent to save. Something was wrong with her; she moved as though she was riddled with pain. But despite it all, her little face was full of concentration.
I did a quick scan to ensure the other two girls were present and accounted for. As usual, they were sitting quietly, watching the performance. In total, there were four little girls, each taken for some sick person’s twisted world and renamed for a season based off their birth month. My sweet little Mischa was dubbed Spring.
Each girl had a specific skill set that made them desirable. They were performers, and their audience was as equally sick as the men who took them. Taken and trained to be companions, they would be put up for auction as soon as their season ended after their fourteenth birthday.
