I pause. That thought cuts deeper than any bullet.
“She’ll know,” I say quietly. “Even if she doesn’t see me, she’ll feel it. I’ll get her out.”
Talia nods, but her eyes are still heavy with doubt. “We’ll need a signal. Something subtle. If things go sideways, I need to know when to pull you.”
I think for a moment. “If I say, ‘The price is too high,’ that’s your cue. Get me out. No questions.”
Talia logs the signal phrase into the protocol system, her fingers pausing just long enough to make sure I’m listening.
“You can’t kill the buyer. Not yet.” Her voice is firm, but there’s a flicker of unease beneath it. “Please—whatever you do, don’t blow the op. Get her out. That’s the mission. Nothing more.”
When I don’t answer she shifts in her chair.
“I mean it, Cam,” she presses. “We’ve spent years building this case. If you go rogue, we lose everything. But if you stay close—if you play the part—we can use it. We can take them all down. Together.”
I meet her eyes. “Then we burn the place down. Just not yet.”
She exhales slowly, the weight of what we’re about to do settling between us as thick as soup.
Then she reaches beneath the desk and pulls out a secure case. She flips it open with a soft click.
Inside; a burner phone containing my crypto wallet, a flash drive loaded with surveillance protocols, and a discreet earpiece. Everything I need to become someone else.
“Suit up, Cam,” she says, her voice low and steady. “There’s an auction in twelve hours. And your name’s already on the list.”
39
Nell
The man’s shoulder digs hard into my hip, jarring my ribs with every step he climbs. Each jolt sends a fresh wave of heat through the bruises blooming beneath my skin—like fire licking under the surface, raw and unforgiving.
It’s their own damn fault.
If they hadn’t drugged me, maybe I could’ve walked myself up these stairs. Maybe I wouldn’t be slung over his shoulder like a sack of meat.
The air shifts as we ascend—louder, warmer, more chaotic. A cacophony of sound crashes over me; laughter, clinking glasses, the low thrum of music, voices—male and female—mingling in a haze of luxury. The scent of perfume and sweat and expensive alcohol clings to the air, thick enough to choke on.
There are people here. So many people. And yet, no one stops him. No one says a fucking word.
Surely someone’s seen me? Surely someone’s noticed the girl being carried half-naked, limp, hooded, like contraband.
But no one intervenes.
Because they’re not here to stop it.
They’re here to watch.
To bid.
To buy.
And suddenly, the laughter isn’t just overwhelming—it’s suffocating.
The noise fades behind thick walls and distance, swallowed by silence as he carries me deeper into whatever place this is. The laughter, the music, the clinking glasses—all of it disappears like a dream I was never meant to wake from.
Then, without warning, he drops me.
I tense, bracing for the crack of bone against concrete, but instead I hit something soft. Not comforting—justsofter. A thin, mattress that groans beneath my weight. The springs jab into my back like rusted fingers, and the fabric reeks of mould, sweat, and something metallic—blood, maybe. Old and dried.
