Page 16 of Beaches

“Police get money to stay away and ignore complaints. If you complain to them, they tell the men who own the place, and you never seen again. They won’t go near it.” She handed them a napkin and started to walk back inside. “If you save the girls. Don’t bring here. They take them again. You take them somewhere else. Far away.”

The four men stared at one another. Jean pushed his hands through his thick hair, pacing back and forth. Of the nine Robicheaux brothers, he was the most in control, calm, cool. Until he wasn’t. When he wasn’t, he rivaled Trak in his temper.

With Whiskey and Rory, you knew they were pissed. You could see it on their faces, in their clenched fists. Trak was just Trak. His face was always dark, always dangerous.

“Get all the weapons, explosives, and detonators we have,” said Trak. He looked down at the map the woman had given them. The sun was beginning to set, which would play well for them. “Tell the team to have a boat at this dock in one hour. Meet me here. I’m going to do a little recon.”

Trak was exactly where he’d told the team he would be. Staring at a poorly constructed structure with tarps hanging over makeshift rooms. On benches outside were dozens of young girls, not one of them appearing to be over twenty-five, waiting for their time in hell.

Men, young and old, went in and out with their expensive watches, jewelry, and suits. Not concerned for the filth around them, they paid the exorbitant fees to do whatever they wanted in four-hour increments.

Silently observing, all four of the men practically charged straight at them when a young girl was dragged from one of the openings, blood all over her body, her face disfigured from an obvious beating. She was forced to take a seat on the bench and wait her next turn at torment.

There was no medical treatment, no one offering her help, no one washing her. She was nothing more than an animal to be abused. Even the other women could only look straight ahead, more than likely knowing that if they helped, they too would be beaten.

“Trak? Remember what Nine and Gaspar said?” Jean stared at his friend.

“No killing everyone.” Jean nodded, then shook his head.

“Fuck that. Kill them all.”

Trak gave a small nod and pointed toward the flashing light near the dock. Their boat was ready for the young women.

Most of the men were young, not much older than the girls being abused. The ones they wanted alive were the three sixty-somethings seated at a table beneath a ceiling fan hanging from a tree, counting money, drinking whiskey, and enjoying their lives.

“Rory?” said Trak. “Take those three. We’ll take the rest. Whiskey? As we clear out the men, get the girls to the boat.”

What helped the men the most was the thing they hated. The girls had been taught not to scream, not say a word, not fight. Taking the back openings first, they tried not to look at the girls at all. Very few were even clothed. They couldn’t help that. What they could help was eliminating the men.

One by one, they killed the men sweating, hovering over their tiny bodies, and Whiskey would take the girls to the boat where the team of Cruz, Vince, and Otto were waiting. The girls were so compliant, so willing to do whatever told. It almost made the men sick.

By the time they reached the last man, Trak saw the face and knew exactly who it was. Rikovsky. Known drug trafficker, mobster, and terrorist. Judging by the razor whip in his hand, he was also April’s tormentor.

“Who are you? Leave! I have another ten hours with my doll.”

Trak looked at the girl on the floor. If she wasn’t dead, she would be soon. Her body was bleeding an unhealthy amount, her skin sliced from her young, frail body.

“Are you deaf? Get out!”

Trak swiftly released one knife, hitting the man in his sternum. The shocked expression gave Trak the satisfaction he needed in the moment. It was small, but it helped to keep his focus. Taking a step closer, he gripped the whip, ripping it from his hands and tossing it aside.

“Who are you?” gasped the Russian.

“I am someone you know. Someone who has stopped you more times than even I can count. This time. I will stop you permanently. Welcome to hell.”

When he was done, Trak sheathed the two massive Bowie knives, leaving pieces of what was once a man behind. In many ways, it didn’t satisfy him at all. In some ways, he knew that he’d rid the world of one of the worst criminals on the planet. But it didn’t help the young girl at his feet.

He knelt beside the girl, verifying what he already knew. She was dead.

“Rest, little one. You are at peace now.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Jesus,” muttered Otto, staring at the dirty, mostly naked, abused young girls. “Where the fuck do we take them?”

“Nine arranged for a Japanese Coast Guard cutter to meet us,” said Cruz. “They’re going to take the girls and get them to safety and help them. Just give me a hand patching them up for now. Most of them won’t speak to me. Mark their arms with permanent marker and a number. That’s how I’ll keep the medical treatment records separated.”

“They’re not afraid of us at all,” said Vince, frowning at his friend. “Most trafficking survivors are terrified. These girls are just sitting there as if they’re waiting for orders. What the fuck is happening?”

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