We’ve been hitting the pavement for fourteen days, asking questions no one wants to answer. During our search, we’ve uncovered not only Mercedes missing but several women and children. Mercedes has been gone for four months now. I’m not sure if I’m praying we find her or praying we don’t. Because if we do find her, what kind of shell will we bring back?
“OK, let’s go.” I stand, giving in. We bypass our bikes and head for the alley. The stench of trash, mildew, and urine hits us like a brick wall. Homeless tents line the walls, hidden in the shadows between dumpsters. This is the ugly side of LA. No onelikes to look at it. It’s not all sunshine and palm trees. But it’s real. We have a homeless problem and no solution to solve it.
“What’s up?” Divine checks inside a tent, but there’s no one inside.
“If we find Mercedes...” I pause, struggling to find the right words. “She might be broken, Divine. So much so that she won’t want to leave. Or worse, she’ll wish she were dead.”
I see the flicker of fear in Divine’s eyes before she shutters it away. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
I grip her shoulders, forcing her to face me. “I’m being serious. Brace yourself for what you might find.”
She runs a hand through her messy blonde hair, biting her lip ring as she meets my gaze. “I get it, Calypso. But I’m more worried about Mercedes than what’s left of me.” Her voice softens, almost a whisper. “This is her corner. Let’s find her pimp.”
I don’t argue. Divine is tougher than anyone gives her credit for, but I can still see the weight of it all pressing down on her. Divine narrows her eyes on a rundown warehouse. “Let’s check it out.”
I send a quick text to Allura, dropping our location in case things go sideways.
Divine and I slip through a heavy side door on the east side of the warehouse. I ease it shut, but the hollow clang echoes through the empty space. The building is abandoned except for a few rusted machines clustered near the west wall at the bottom of the stairs. Beyond them, a shadowy room lurks out of sight.
We freeze, listening.
Silence stretches, thick and unnatural. Even a whisper would carry. Hell, even a fart would echo.
When nothing stirs, we press forward. My heart pounds against my ribs, my nerves wound tight.
“I don’t like this,” I whisper, my voice too damn loud in the stillness.
Divine leans in. “Let’s check the upstairs and those rooms. If we don’t find anything, we’re out.”
I nod, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans. I refuse to let fear take root. I promised myself that, after everything my ex did to me, I’d never let anything or anyone make me afraid again.
Gun in hand, I take the stairs, ready to drop any bastard who tries to ambush us.
Divine pushes open the first door. The room is empty except for the ghostly outlines of a desk and chair etched into the dust-covered floor. We move to the next. Same. Room after room turns up nothing.
Frustration coils in my gut.
The last door looms at the end of the walkway. Divine turns the handle, and the second she steps inside, her sharp inhale spikes my pulse.
“What the actual fuck?” Her voice trembles, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.
I step in, and a sickening wave of nausea rolls through me.
Dried blood splatters the walls and floor. Handcuffs hang from rusted nails, the stains beneath them dark and damning. But the worst part?
Photos.
Dozens of them are tacked to a corkboard, staring back at us in frozen agony. Women, some in posed headshots, most in images of rape and torture. Their eyes scream silent terror. The bastard who took these enjoyed it.
And it gets worse.
Another board displays children. Boys and girls no older than twelve to eighteen. Beneath their photos, stats: weight, age, strengths, weaknesses. Some have swollen eyes, others have broken noses.
My adrenaline spikes. I rip the photos down, stacking them on a nearby desk. “Look around. If they left this behind, they were either rushed or planning to come back.”
Divine snaps out of her trance and moves to another room. A loud bang rattles the warehouse.
I freeze. Then shove the remaining photos into my cut’s inner pocket, zipping it tight before aiming my gun at the door. Footsteps echo on the stairs. No windows. No escape. If someone’s coming, I’m shooting first and asking questions later.
