Page 96 of Kneeling to Candy

The crew scoffs, shaking their heads and cursing under their breaths.

“The rest of the missing people are either being reserved for a different auction or already sold off to other buyers who have certain requests.”

“Or shoved into underground brothels,” I add coldly.

“Could be,” Chase says gravely, agreeing.

“Looks like our missing college girls are among the auction profiles,” Butch chimes in, his eyes focused on the twenty faces staring back at us.

“Indeed they are,” Atlas says, his eyes fixed on the monitors.

“Who are the CSU students?” I ask, wanting to see the faces of the women taken close to our home.

Ziggy goes up to the touch screens and circles the three women in red, saying their names in order. “Stacy Gander, Jolie Hernandez, and Bree Nowak.”

I take in the photos of the three women. All of them are pretty and young. Stacy is a blond with pixie hair and glasses, the bookish type—she’ll be popular among some buyers. Bree is a willowy woman, with long chestnut hair and sad blue eyes. She’ll fetch a heavy price. I stare at Jolie’s photo the longest. She’s a beauty, with long black lashes and a shoulder-length bob of thick black curls. But it’s the cherry emoji on her profile that grips my heart.

“The handlers will keep Jolie separate from the others,” I inform the group, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Why?” Gauge asks, his eyebrow cocked.

I point to her profile. “A cherry means she’s a virgin. She’ll be among the last of the women to be brought out—perhaps the last. Virgins are popular among the buyers, and they save the most profitable for last. They also keep them away from the others being sold, so as not to confuse the men guarding the rest.”

“Why does it matter if they’re separated?” Punk presses me for more information.

It takes a moment for my nerves to settle before I can answer without crying. “They keep them separate so the guards don’t confuse a virgin for a non-virgin, in case a guard treats himself to a prisoner. It’s how they ensure the virgins remain virgins through the sale.”

Tank snarls with disgust, turning his head away from the faces on the screens. “Fucking hell.”

The tank-size biker’s reaction is understandable. It’s tough to have an objective conversation regarding what horrors the women are potentially facing when you’ve seen their faces. It makes the job that much harder to endure.

“Disgusting,” Piero mutters, his nose turned up. “But makes sense from the business perspective. A seller needs to ensure its buyer their product is what they say it is.”

“This is helpful, Candy. We know the victims will be kept in at least two different holding areas,” Atlas muses aloud, staying focused on the task. “Do you know where in the building the prisoners are kept?”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t, only that it’s underground. They come up through elevators on either side of the auction stage, where the buyers can observe them from their personal box seats.”

“Can you see the other buyers?” Ziggy asks.

“Not really. The luxury box windows are tinted to protect the identity of the other buyers. Only the stage is lit. Someone would have to be pressed against the glass to get an idea of who sits there.”

“Nothing a little night vision wouldn’t help with,” Punk muses aloud.

“There’s no way our inside team can sneak night vision goggles in. But when the rest of us ambush, it’ll help to have them,” Atlas says before motioning with his hand for me to continue.

“As I was saying, the bulk of the captives come from the left elevator, while the most valuable come out the right elevator. That’s how I learned about the virgins. I overheard Lorenzo mention to another buyer how they separate them from the gen pop to ensure the ‘quality isn’t tainted.’”

“Still valuable intel,” Atlas says. “Every bit helps.” He signals for the discussion to move on to the next topic, clapping his hands together once. “Updates are done. Let’s try some roleplay scenarios to see how this team will act under pressure.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CANDY

With roleplay and self-defense training comes mandatory therapy—per Atlas’s demand, and much to Butch’s relief. We’re six days away from the auction, making squeezing in these counseling sessions into my schedule a priority.

Brandon sits across from me in one of the smaller conference rooms, pen and notepad in hand. He looks at me with a friendly smile, a smile I’m sure he uses on all his patients.

“How are you holding up, Candy?”

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