Ahmed opens the door, reaches in, and roughly drags me out, barely allowing me time to cooperate, to find my feet. It’s not much of an act to struggle against his hold, shooting hateful daggers at him with my eyes, at the men around me.
There’s rapid conversation in an overlap of languages I don’t understand.
Gestures, back and forth, at me, at the truck.
Ahmed gestures back the way we came, at me.
Knowing I need to sell this, I try to break away, as if I’d rather run into the desert and die there than submit to what I know is coming.
Ahmed yanks me back by my ponytail—he isn’t gentle. He can’t be, to sell this. I fall to the ground awkwardly, dirt scraping at my cheek, stinging in my cut lip.
I work gracelessly to my feet, spitting dirty, bloody saliva. Ahmed’s eyes betray something vicious. “I do you favor, girl—you run, you die. Alive, you are worth money. If you make yourself more trouble than you are worth, you are dead.” He pinches my face between hard, cruel fingers, prying my jaw apart. “Understand?”
I stare back at him with hate and fear in my eyes—suddenly I can only hope this is all part of the charade for him. I’m on my own. I’m bound, surrounded by armed sex traffickers, about to be shipped to a compound for sale. And I have to rescue myself.
And then find and rescue Apollo.
It’s all in my hands—it’s all on me.
I feel my bladder threatening to give out from the raw shedding pulse of terror; I let that fear show in my eyes as I hesitantly nod at Ahmed.
What have I done?
What have I gotten myself into?
I’m shoved toward the back of the truck—by one of the other men, not Ahmed, who is receiving a stack of bills from one of the men. Makes sense that he’d get a cut, if he providedmerchandise. The heavy tailgate is unlatched on both sides and hanging down. Within, some twenty, maybe twenty-five women huddle on the benches on either side of the truck bed. Most have bruises or split lips like me, others no visible signs of struggle. They are of all races and appearances, but they are all within the range of eighteen to thirty at most, and all are fairly attractive. No one is unduly overweight, or scarred, or otherwise undesirable to the type of men who are the prospective clients. They all stare at me, their eyes betraying fear like mine.
One girl, as I am shoved up and in—with a wholly unnecessary groping of my ass—sobs noisily. The guard who shoved me up into the tailgate snaps something at her, bringing his rifle around and pointing it at her. The sobbing girl looks East Asian, so I doubt she understood him any better than I do, but the meaning is clear: shut up.
She silences.
The tailgate slams up into place, and bolts are shoved home, chains rattling as they’re fastened.
A huge diesel motor catches to life with a clattering chug.
Doors slam closed, several in quick succession.
Then, with a jerk, we’re in motion.
I’m fully committed now.
There’s no going back.
I can do this.
I must.
For Apollo.
9
Shell Games
My ruined arm throbs like the fires of hell. I used my good hand and my teeth to rip my shirt into strips so I could fashion a crude sling, one strip cinched around the wound, the rest knotted together around my neck so I can rest my arm in it.
My suit coat was long since discarded, left on the truck which had taken me from the cargo plane to wherever I am—it had grown oppressively hot, and I’d stripped off the coat first, then the button-down. When I’d heard the motor slow and felt us turning, I’d put the button-down back on—out of habit, I think. Out of some instinct to wear formal clothes like some kind of mental armor. So, I’d removed the button-down, ripped the T-shirt into a bandage and sling, and was now wearing the button-down over the bandage.
There is not a moment it doesn’t hurt worse than any pain I’ve experienced. Albeit, I’ve never been shot before.
