Page 39 of Gamma

As long as Rin stays out of his hands.

Please, Rin. Don’t do anything stupid.

10

Innocence Lost

Ilearned when Apollo kidnapped me that fear is impossible to sustain, long-term.

The ride is long, dusty, hot, and rough. We hit ruts and potholes that send us flying off the benches, sprawling on each other and on the floor, scrambling for balance. Those who share language exchange whispers and murmurs—there are at least four other girls I see that are European, but no one I can identify as American. One girl is French, her sobbed whispers understood by a Black girl who I think is from one of the African countries where French is spoken. There are several from East Asia, but none of them seem to share a language. Two speak German to each other. One mutters something in what I think might be Dutch. I’m no linguist, and I’m not fluent in any other language but English. Several of the girls speak multiple languages, and it is through them that we’re able, in passed-along whispers, to establish some kind of rapport with each other.

No one asks what’s happening, where are they taking us—we all know.

How much should I reveal? Will we be able to rescue them all? Because if the others think I’m going to escape with Yelena and Apollo and leave these poor girls to their fate in the hands of Spaulding, they have another think coming.

I decide I can’t promise them anything. But I should at least warn them, right? And I’m not guaranteed another moment with them where I won’t be overheard.

I position myself between some of the girls who are our interpreters. “I have friends out there,” I whisper, gesturing at the walls of the truck. “They’re going to take down this operation.”

The message is passed along—side conversations cease and everyone focuses on me, and the interpreters around me. I wait until the message has been passed around and everyone seems to understand. There are more than a couple girls who don’t share a language with anyone, and I’m not sure what to do about them. I can only do what I can do, right?

“Don’t try anything. Just wait. When things start happening, you do whatever you have to do to get away. So just be ready. Because something big is going to happen, and you’ll know it when it happens.”

There are a lot of questions, but I make it clear I can’t say anything more than that—because I genuinely don’t know. I can’t promise everyone will be rescued. I don’t know what, or when, or how. I just know it’s coming.

I hope it’s enough. I hope the guys have made provisions for the girls. I know Duke and Anselm, and I know there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell they’d just let these poor girls get sold, not while they have breath in their lungs and blood pumping through their hearts. I don’t know Alexei or Thomas very well, but Duke and Anselm know and trust Alexei, and Alexei trusts Thomas, so…

Hours of bumping, and then we slow, pause, turn around, and back up. There’s a flap over the back of the truck, so we can’t see outside. The truck reverses slowly, stops, and then jolts and settles as the driver sets the brake. Chattering, some laughter. The tailgate is unchained, unbolted, and dropped, revealing a blinding rectangle of light. A body climbs up and in, lifting the flap and tying it off. Slowly, our eyes—or at least, my eyes—adjust and I see a crumbling stone wall, an open doorway leading to the interior of the abandoned fortress. The guard now in the bed of the truck with us is armed with a very new-looking fully automatic assault rifle; he gestures at the tailgate, indicating that we should exit.

The bed is a good four, almost five feet off the ground, so for most of the shorter girls, it’s a drop almost as high as they are tall. Several guards stand around, weapons hanging barrels-up by straps from their shoulders, watching. All of us being bound, climbing down on our own is nearly impossible. Yet, none of them make any attempt to help. Being near the back of the truck anyway, I decide to be the first, rather than risk being shoved out.

I move to my butt, legs hanging off the edge, scoot forward, and then push off. I land hard, but part of my self-defense training with Sasha was how to fall, so I let my legs absorb the impact. It’s not high enough to warrant a tuck and roll, but it does send a decent jolt through my ankles.

The next girl to jump mimics me, but when she lands she tips sideways. None the worse for wear, she makes her feet and gets out of the way, standing near me. One by one, the rest of the girls make the jump, and only a few of them twist their ankles, and not badly.

Once we’re all out, one of the guards gestures curtly at us, indicating we should head for a doorway in a corner. I remember the surveillance video Thomas showed us, and this tracks with it. The doorway is dark, forbidding. For some reason, they have us go one at a time, waiting a seemingly predetermined amount of time before sending the next one; having been the first out of the truck, the way the line forms means I’m last. So I watch as one girl after another vanishes through the dark rectangle. There’s no way to know what lies on the other side.

Finally, I’m next up.

I look around, and spot Ahmed. He’s among a group of men, unarmed—drivers, I presume. He gives me the subtlest of nods. It helps my courage.

Through the doorway—stairs down. Steep, nearly ladderlike, and the steps are short, even for my fairly small feet, the walls narrow. The landing at the bottom is lit only by the now-distant square of light above. A right turn opens into a small chamber. There are two armed guards, and, seeming out of place in this ancient underground chamber, professional photography equipment set up, including a white backdrop; the camera is connected by a cord to a nearby laptop set upon a stack of milk crates.

The unarmed man I assume is the photographer looks at me as I enter. He’s European, but I don’t know much more than that—dark hair, dark eyes, fair skin, bad teeth, a hooked nose. Cruel, hard eyes.

One of the guards approaches me with a pair of wire cutters and snips the zip ties off my wrists, and then returns to his position by the door.

The photographer juts his chin at me. “Strip.” His accent is…indeterminate. Slavic? I don’t know. I’m too scared to figure out, too scared to care.

I swallow hard. “Wh-what?”

“Your clothing. Strip. All of it.”

I look at the guards, the photographer. Swallow hard again, lick my lips.

“You will not be touched.” He gestures at the guards with a jerk of his thumb. “At least, not by them, and not yet.” His face goes vicious. “Last time I say—strip.”

I waste no more time. I can do this. I’m no prude, not shy about my body. Shit, I’ve gone to topless beaches with Apollo. This is different—verydifferent. But clearly I have no choice.