Page 11

CHAPTER 11

Rusty

Rusty ran his fingers along the seam that was barely visible in the lava tube wall, searching for a way to open the secret door. It took two passes before his fingertips brushed a pressure plate tucked behind a natural outcrop.

Fuck me. Carving into ancient lava was not easy. Let alone making a secret doorway with trigger mechanisms.

“Stay back.” He shoved Sienna behind him, and pressing his body against the wall, he engaged the plate.

The door slid open with a hydraulic hiss that raised every hair on his neck. No grind of disuse, no rust. This access point was well maintained. But access to what?

Hugging the wall, he edged forward and peered around the corner into a narrow passage. Strip lighting ran along the base of the floor, casting a cold, sterile glow that confirmed the truth—this was not another lava tube. It was a manmade tunnel.

His combat instincts, honed by countless missions in dark, hostile places, sent warning flares up his spine. That door was a hidden access tunnel leading straight to the lava tube. But why?

Whoever built this door needed covert access to the lava tube—and he doubted tourism was their motive. This was the kind of setup designed for disposing of problems. Like the body Sienna had witnessed them trying to bury.

With his gun out of ammo, his only weapon was the one he’d lifted off the trigger-happy bastard who’d shot him center-mass, thank God, rather than his head. Without the Kevlar, he’d be lying in a pool of his own blood. With the gun locked and loaded, he leaned close to Sienna’s ear and whispered, “Stay here. I’ll?—”

“Hell no.” Her words sliced through the darkness, sharp as a combat knife. “I’m coming with you.”

“This isn’t a debate,” he said, but he knew that look of hers. Same steel in her spine she’d shown before jumping off cliffs into the ocean all those years ago. Stubborn then, stubborn now.

“You’re right—it’s not.” She stepped toward the doorway. “I’m coming whether you like it or not.”

Fucking hell. Going in blind with no recon, no backup, and no intel was suicide.

But he had no choice. He lined up his priorities like targets: protect Sienna, control Soda, find Pickle, and get the fuck outta there.

Simple. Clean. Doable.

Except Sienna’s steel-spined determination made his blood run hot, adding another layer of complication to a FUBAR situation. He wrapped Soda’s lead around his hand twice, feeling her muscles coil with anticipation. Time to move.

“Stay close,” he growled at Sienna. “And if I say run, you fucking run.”

“Got it.” She swept her hair back, chin lifted with courage he prayed wasn’t false bravado.

Clenching his jaw, he led them into the passage, and Soda’s nails clicked softly against the polished concrete floor. Every time Sienna brushed against him in the narrow space, his skin sizzled. Bad fucking timing for that distraction.

They moved like shadows with Soda rigid at point, her tail straight and ears locked forward like a four-legged radar system scanning for trouble. Behind him, Sienna matched his pace with a grace that spoke of hard-learned lessons. No rookie stumbling or nervous whispers, just measured breaths and careful steps that told their own story.

He’d seen that kind of controlled movement before in people who’d learned the hard way that survival sometimes meant risking everything. The thought of what might have taught her those skills made his blood simmer. Yet her combined strength and vulnerability still pulled at something deep in his chest.

The further they went in the underground passage, the more his gut screamed that they were heading into a trap.

Soda’s increasing tension confirmed it too.

A doorway appeared on their right, standing wide open. He raised his fist in a silent halt signal. Without hesitation, Sienna pressed herself against the wall behind him while Soda’s muscles bunched, her nose working overtime. Something about this place had his K9 on edge—a warning he never ignored. The silence screamed louder than any alarm.

Easing forward, he peered around the doorway and into a luxury suite that seemed ripped from another world. Plush furnishings filled the room, and precision lighting cast a golden glow, painting warm sepia radiance across the walls. What the hell? Did we just stumble into an underground section of one of the luxury resorts that dotted the coastline?

He racked his brain, trying to work out which resort it could be. But he had no idea how far they’d traveled or which direction they’d gone.

In the corner, a private bar gleamed with bottles worth more than most locals earned in a month. Every surface shone and every detail screamed excess.

Luxury wasn’t the right word for it—this was fuck-you money on full display.

Weapon ready, he edged forward. A massage table dominated the back wall, but it wasn’t the table that made his teeth grind. Mirrors lined the walls at calculated angles, and beside rows of innocent-looking lotions hung equipment that belonged in a dungeon.

His father’s FBI briefing last month echoed in his skull. High-end trafficking rings were infesting Hawaii like parasites, servicing wealthy bastards who paid top dollar to keep their appetites private.

Operations like that needed hidden facilities. Staff. Victims. Muscle.

And privileged fucks with deep pockets.

Sienna’s sharp intake of breath hit his ears as she pressed closer. “What is this place?” Her whisper was tight with tension.

“Some rich bastards’ sick playground.” His jaw ached from clenching.

“The body I saw them burying—do you think it came from here?” Her voice caught.

“Yep.” He fought the urge to shield her. She’d hate the protective gesture, but something primitive in him screamed to get her away from these rooms and the evil they were about to stumble into.

Combat was his addiction, his comfort zone. But having Sienna at his six rewired everything, making threats multiply in every corner. Silence pressed in like a physical weight, broken only by Soda’s active sniffing, and his pulse fired like a machine gun. When Soda’s hackles lifted, and she angled toward something deeper in the room, every combat-honed instinct he had lit up like a Christmas tree.

This place was dead silent, and the word ‘trap’ crashed through his mind like a wrecking ball.

“Where is everyone?” Sienna’s whisper cut through the silence, sharp with tension.

“Don’t know. Time to move.” He grabbed her hand, leading her back to the doorway, his instincts firing on full alert. After confirming the passage was clear, he signaled for Soda to take point.

They moved in silence, following the strip lighting along the floor, and they came across room after room. Each one was vacant, yet they were all a fresh testament to calculated evil.

Money. Power. Corruption. This luxury resort was a cog in a sadistic machine, meticulously designed to turn human suffering into profit.

In every room, he searched for clues: emblems, signs, anything that might betray which resort they were in. But he didn’t find any logos or markings. No doubt deliberate, to keep the women forced to work there in the dark.

Their footsteps echoed through the deserted halls. Each empty room ratcheted up the wrongness clawing at his gut. No guards. No captives. No sadistic bastards. Just pristine rooms set up for things that he did not want to think of. Like a theater before the curtain rises.

And they were walking straight into the show.

The silence shattered with the sounds of boots pounding against the floor, accompanied by sharp, barking orders that he couldn’t decipher.

Rusty grabbed Sienna’s hand and yanked her behind him. “Soda, here,” he commanded, and they darted into the nearest open doorway.

Inside yet another room lined with equipment that turned his stomach, Rusty led Sienna to the back. Squatting behind a massage table, he shielded her with his body and trained his weapon on the entrance. Soda melted into the shadows, black fur blending seamlessly with the carpet. Muscles coiled, she was a predator waiting to strike.

The shelf digging into his shoulder was stocked with rows of pharmaceutical boxes. The sleek, unbranded packaging screamed black market—designer drugs meant for the worst kind of buyers.

Radio static cracked through the darkness, followed by cold, professional voices.

“. . . intruder alert in tunnel four . . . three men down . . . sweep the area and kill those bastards.”

Blood roared in Rusty’s ears as heavy boots thundered past the doorway. Shadows moved across the walls as a squad of men raced down the passage, their footsteps echoing off the concrete. They didn’t stop to look inside—thankfully.

Sienna pressed against him, frozen, but her quick, shallow breaths betrayed her fear. Through the doorway, Rusty caught sight of their gear: semi-automatic weapons, tactical vests. His jaw tightened. Military-grade equipment. These weren’t amateurs—and they probably had training to match that equipment.

The thunder of boots faded, but Rusty didn’t move. He held position, counting his heartbeats until the silence felt real again.

Only then did he turn to Sienna in the tight, suffocating space. The urge to ask if she was okay burned on his lips, but he bit it back. She wasn’t okay. Nothing about this was okay.

“They found the men I dropped in the tunnel,” he murmured, voice rough.

Sienna released a shaky breath. When their eyes met in the darkness, an unspoken charge crackled between them, raw and electric.

“We need to get the hell out of here,” he said, reaching for her hand. When her fingers curled into his, the simple familiarity of her touch sent a flutter through his chest—a fragile reminder of what he was fighting to protect.

He drew his weapon, signaled to Soda, and she slipped ahead without hesitation, nose working the air. They moved swiftly down the tunnel, heading in the opposite direction from the armed men, sticking close to the walls where the shadows offered cover.

Drifting through the darkness came the sounds of female voices. But this wasn’t happy chatter, the whispered fragments were laced with fear. Although their languages were unfamiliar, terror didn’t need translation.

His gut twisted as the pieces fell into place: the military-grade security, the hidden underground complex, the terrified voices . . . and the setups in those rooms. Of all the nightmares they could have stumbled into, it had to be one of the sick operations his dad had warned him about—human trafficking and prostitution.

And now, it wasn’t just Sienna he had to protect. He had to save the victims, too.

His grip tightened on his weapon, and a white-hot fury coiled in his chest. Every instinct screamed at him to find a way to hide Sienna and keep her safe before pushing forward alone and dealing with the evil waiting ahead.

But he knew her too well. If he tried, she’d either follow him anyway or do something reckless that put her life on the line.

They pressed forward, timing their movements between the pools of light spilling from doorways. The labyrinth of underground passages and privacy rooms seemed endless, but Soda’s unwavering focus told him they were getting close to something.

Something bad.

The tunnel opened onto a circular balcony hemmed in by elaborate iron railings and supported by towering marble columns. Below was a grand rotunda that was dominated by an empty circular stage. Twin marble staircases that would have cost a fucking fortune, curved down to the lower level, where massive copper planters housed palm trees. A crystal chandelier hung suspended between the levels, casting fractured light across the deserted space. Rusty pressed against the railing, scanning the vacant area below. It was impossible to fathom that all this was below ground. Whoever built this place. . . they had some serious coin.

The silence felt wrong. Like the calm before a storm.

“Where is everyone?” Sienna’s whisper was warm against his ear.

“I have no fucking?—”

“Move!” The command boomed through the chamber.

Rusty yanked Sienna back from the railing, wrapping his body around hers as they retreated behind a marble column. His heart hammered against her spine.

“I said, move!” The voice was deep, brutish, the kind that enjoyed causing pain.

A woman’s terrified cry split the air. Sienna went rigid in his arms.

They crept forward together, crossing the carpeted balcony to the railing so they could peer over the edge. Rusty’s breath froze in his lungs. On the lower level, women stumbled out of a doorway, inching forward in a ragged precession. Their heads hung low, and their arms were crossed protectively over their bodies like broken shields. Behind them, a mountain of a man jabbed his assault rifle at anyone who faltered, driving them forward like livestock.

Rusty clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

Six women in identical white robes shuffled onto the circular stage at the center of the room. The harsh overhead lighting bleached their faces, emphasizing the hollows of their cheeks and the glassy terror in their eyes. Rusty’s gaze caught on the logo embroidered on their sleeves, and his blood turned to ice. It was the same logo on the robe worn by the unconscious woman he’d found in the drug den. His eyes dropped to their necks, and his breath hitched. Each of them wore a gold cross. He’d bet his RAM truck it was the same cross with red stones the woman in the drug den had been wearing.

The robe on the woman at the front slipped off her shoulder to reveal a blue bikini underneath. Rusty’s jaw tightened as he studied her face. “Oh fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“What?” Sienna’s whisper was tight with dread.

Rusty forced himself to swallow the rising knot in his throat. “That girl at the front is Grace Williams. I took her mother, Sarah, to the police station to report her missing. That’s why I was there when you were.” The implication behind this discovery slammed into him like a physical blow. “Son of a bitch.”

“What?” Her breath hitched as she curled her hair behind her ear.

His hands curled into fists around the railing as he stared down at the stage. “I think we’re in Pearl Lagoon Resort and it’s a front for their fucking human trafficking hunting ground.”

“Jesus.” She released a small sound that carried volumes of horror. “We have to save them.”

The pieces slotted together in his mind with sickening clarity. The luxury amenities, the smiling staff, the pristine reputation —it was all a carefully constructed facade to hide the nightmare unfolding beneath the ground.

How long had these bastards been operating here? How many lives had they destroyed?

Sienna’s fingers gripped his forearm, trembling. “What do we do?”

“I’m working on it,” he said, his mind racing.

They hadn’t just stumbled onto a trafficking operation. This could be their headquarters. And if that was true, the men he’d seen earlier with assault rifles weren’t the exception. They were the rule.

His pulse hammered as he glanced back at Sienna. They weren’t just trapped there. They were well and truly outnumbered.