Page 22 of Her Mercenary

Doors slammed outside of the trailer, chatter ensued, less urgent than when we were loaded up from the house, but still an edgy, uncomfortable excitement. And still in Spanish, I noted.

The locks were lifted, the door opened.

To my surprise, it was still night, but instead of briny sea-salt air, a potent scent of earth, dirt, and lush plant life swept into the cab. I inhaled deeply, reminded of a tropical candle my mother would burn in the summertime.

Guns were pointed at our faces. We were ordered to stand.

My knees shook as I pulled myself up from the floor. I helped the children up, using every ounce of energy I had in me.

We were marched out of the truck, eyes down, guns at our temples. I stayed close behind the girl so the guards wouldn’t see the bloodstains on her shorts.

The ground was warm and moist beneath my bare feet. The scent of fresh, dewy vegetation was even stronger the farther we walked, but it was the noise that captured my attention. Despite being nighttime, birds chirped among a steady buzz of insects, a deafening white noise. Frogs croaked in tune with screaming insects. Life—the area was teeming with it.

I chanced a peek. A dense forest surrounded us, barely visible in the blackness, but a looming presence nonetheless.

We were in the middle of the jungle.

We were marched up a steep, narrow dirt road. Sharp rocks cut into the bottom of my feet, but I didn’t care. I was too busy inhaling the clean air, listening to the rustle of leaves, feeling the breeze against my skin. Still hot and humid, but clean, devoid of exhaust, smoke, and pollution.

Soon I realized that it wasn’t a road we were hiking, but a driveway that ended at the top of the hill. Ahead stood a large log cabin surrounded by trees. At each peak of the sprawling structure, blinding post lights shone into the woods, reminding me of a prison.

It was then that I realized how silent we all were. Not only the slaves, but the guards. No one was speaking. There was a nervous energy bouncing between us all.

Why?

I focused on my feet, one after the other, chancing peeks the farther up the drive we were led.

The building wasn’t so much a cabin, I realized, as a lodge. An old, abandoned vacation destination, perhaps. Vacant for a long time, based on the rotted wood planks, and the green vines that grew up the sides, stretching all the way to the dilapidated roof.

It was probably beautiful at one time. Luxurious, even.

We were marched onto a massive porch, then into the lodge and onto cool hardwood floors, stained and scuffed. The room smelled musty, of mildew and dirt, this confirming that it had been vacant for a very long time.

Orders were shouted, echoing down long, vacant halls.

I thought of Ardri, the King, and wondered if he were there. Secretly hoping he was, and then berating myself for how ridiculous that was.

The guards guided us down a long corridor. I heard the thump, thump, thump of footsteps descending a staircase before I saw it.

Another damn basement.

At the bottom was an endless concrete floor lined with dozens of tall dog cages, much like the ones in the house before, each with a number attached to the door. The space was massive, and I could see at least four long hopper windows, opened to allow for fresh air.

Apparently, this was our new home—but not new to some.

Half the cages were already occupied with slaves, mostly women, but also young girls and one teenage boy. They seemed worse off than we were, skinnier, paler, more sickly. Long stringy hair and malnourished bony bodies made them resemble the faceless zombies I’d imagined in the other house. While our eyes reflected fear, their eyes were hard, a venomous hatred beaming at us from the red rims.

I was shoved into the cage numbered 647. The cage door slammed behind me, echoing the closing of the others.

Locks were slid into place. The lights were turned out.

We were left alone.

There were no cries that night ... which was somehow more unnerving.

12

ROMAN

---