Page 47 of Under His Protection

"Zara," a stronger voice cuts through the darkness from the back of the container. I can make out a girl with fiery red hair, her face hidden in the shadows. "Fuckers snatched me from my work. I clean buildings at night. If I just had a gun, I would—"

Her English is near-perfect, a sign she's been here for a while. The picture is clear now. They kidnap girls no one will miss, no one will look for. They ship them back as sex slaves, or worse, to their own country. To be kept in captivity, at the mercy of Veles Network mafia members. My anger boils over, a white-hot rage that threatens to eat me. Stay calm, Ava.

One by one, they tell me their names, their voices hesitant, their accents thick. There is Anya, her face bruised and swollen. Nadia, her dark eyes burning with an angry fire.

“We all need to remember who we are,” I say, my gaze sweeping over their faces. “No matter what they do to us.”

The words feel empty, like a flimsy curtain trying to block out a hurricane. We're clinging to these scraps of identity, these whispers of who we are, but it's like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a teacup. It's a losing battle, and I know it. Soon, they'll be gone, stripped away, leaving us naked and vulnerable.

I push myself to my feet, my gaze scanning the metal walls of the container. It’s like trying to find an escape route from a steel coffin. I tug at the metal plates and test the latches, my fingers scraping against the cold, hard surface. I can feel the weight of the metal and the strength of its construction. There’s no way out.

Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, finally pulls me down. I slump beside Emily, her large, Bambi-like eyes watching me with a haunted intensity. I close my eyes, and my limbs feel heavy and useless.

A girl, her face hidden between her hands, suddenly speaks up, her voice hesitant. “Poland,” she whispers, her English broken but understandable. “Tonight. We— go Poland. Then train— to Russia.”

Russia. The word sends a fresh wave of terror through my limp. The Veles mafia is connected to its motherland. I open my eyes, my gaze meeting Emily’s. We’re running out of time, and we both know it.

The darkness closes in around us, and I can’t shake the feeling that our fate is already sealed.

I’m shoved out of the container, the guy digging his fingers into my arm, his grip bruising. His grin is stretched wide as he pushes Michelle and me out. The metal door swings open, revealing three men flanking the entrance. Their gazes are fixed on us reminding us that escape isn’t an option.

My eyes squint, struggling to adjust to the harsh glare of the overhead spotlights, bright white beams that do little to hide our battered faces. The place stretches out before me. There are towering metal containers, each one labeled with faded, scratched lettering. Some are in English, some in a language I’m guessing is Russian.

My eyes scan the scene. The place feels raw, industrial, like a forgotten battlefield. My stomach churns. The smell of oil is almost comforting compared to the memory of the metallic tang that clung to the air in the “red room.”

I take a shuddering breath, the scent of the warehouse catching in my throat. With a sickening lurch in my stomach, I realize that each one of those containers could hold another group of girls. Emily had said we were the first group to be trafficked overseas, but who knows what else Cole would lie about?

More of Cole’s men emerge from the back of the room, their footsteps heavy on the concrete floor. Between them, they drag a broken figure.

I recognize him immediately: Alexander.

My gaze traces the path of his body, the way his head lolls against his chest, his limbs moving with an unnatural stiffness.

His clothes are torn, hanging from his frame in shredded strips, revealing bruises and cuts that paint his skin a horrifying canvas of purple, yellow, and red. Blood crusts on his split lip and his breathing is ragged; he inhales a shallow gasp that rattles in his chest. His eyes are wild and desperate, burning with a trapped, caged fury.

A strangled sound escapes my lips. He’s alive, a surge of relief, sharp and fleeting, cutting through the icy fear gripping me for hours. But the relief is quickly eclipsed by what I see. He is alive, but barely.

How much has Cole done to him?

“Alexander,” I gasp. I can’t hold it in or deny the wellspring of emotion that surges through me at the sight of him.

His head lifts slightly, his gaze meeting mine. A flicker of recognition, a spark of something desperate and raw, flashes in his eyes.

“Ava—” he mumbles, the word a struggle, distorted by the blood in his mouth. He spits a crimson stain, landing on the concrete floor with a soft splat. He groans, his body straining against the men who hold him captive, a futile attempt to break free. “Let her the fuck go, Cole,” he says, his voice ragged. “She’s not part of this.”

Alexander’s eyes fall on Michelle behind me as she stumbles forward, her face pale, her eyes wide.

Alexander’s gaze shifts to her, and his one visible eye widens. “Cole, you fucking piece of shit,” he spits, his voice a guttural growl.

Cole, who has been watching the scene unfold with a detached amusement, steps forward. He is dressed in a white-collar shirt. His sandy hair is perfectly styled, and his ghastly white shoes gleam.

My gaze snags on the gun in his hand, a gleaming gold monster in the harsh warehouse light. I can almost feel its weight, the terror it would inspire, and, strangely, the satisfaction of wielding it.

“It was my brother’s,” Cole says, his voice soft, almost conversational, as if discussing the weather. He runs a finger along the smooth, golden barrel, his touch possessive, almost loving. “I’ll use it to kill Alexander.”

He’s talking to me.

The golden gun seems to pulse with energy. I glance from the weapon to the shipping containers again. How many girls? How many future shattered lives will Cole be responsible for?

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