Page 47 of Kings of Cruelty

“Tell her to shut up,” I say in Russian. The Belarusian woman flinches, but the other three keep going. I guess they don’t understand me.

The guard with them laughs. He’s big, muscular, and bald, and I can imagine how easily he subdues these women. “Can’t do much about it. They cried the entire time in the van, too. Women are so fucking emotional.”

I don’t know what to say to that. We’re about to lock them into a cargo container with limited food, water, and two buckets in the corner to use as toilets.

“I’d be emotional too,” Nikolai mutters in English.

I don’t think the guard hears him because his expression doesn’t change. He’s too focused on the women. But making comments like that will get us into trouble, so I glare at Nikolai and mime zipping my lips.

Nikolai scowls at me, but he keeps whatever else he’d been planning to say to himself. He participates as little as he can, staying back to the point where one of the guards does start to eye him suspiciously.

“Problems?” the man asks darkly.

“No. No problems,” Nikolai says, limiting his words—probably to keep them from picking up on his American accent.

I guess he doesn’t want to be pegged as a sympathetic American, and he’s not wrong to be worried about that.

There are plenty of American men who are happy to buy a woman, though. This isn’t a uniquely Russian trade.

I glance through the passports to get the names of the women. “Natalia,” I say, and the Belarusian woman looks at me through her tear-stained eyes. “You and the women are going to be here for a few days. We have your passports. We know all the local authorities. The American cops, they will arrest you for being here illegally if you attempt to talk to them. Do you know what customs enforcers do when they have illegal women in their custody?”

She nods, sniffling. I’m sure the other men have been wearing them down by telling them how terrible American officials are and that they’d be worse than any other fate the women could have here.

Nikolai grits his teeth, but he doesn’t speak again. He glances at me with a thunderous look that he quickly gets under control.

“Do the other girls speak Russian or English?” I ask the guard.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. They didn’t react when I spoke to them in Russian.” He laughs again. “You should have seen how excited they were when they got out of the airport. Really thought they’d be getting some acting or modeling job here. Women are so fucking stupid.”

I clench my hands around the passports. This shouldn't be bothering me as much as it is, but my mind keeps going to Sierra.

She’d been so shaken after her confrontation with James. I can’t—don’t want to—imagine what she’d look like in a situation like this.

Sierra wouldn’t fall for a scam like this, right? She’s smarter, and she’s more jaded, and…

The excuses are dumb.

As I look at the women again, I see Sierra here, tucked away in a storage container and waiting to be sold off. It doesn’t escape me that we took Sierra to compensate for some missing weapons, either.

“Are we done here?” Nikolai asks in Russian.

The guard shrugs. “Should be.” He reaches out to one of the women and strokes her jaw. “We had fun, right?”

She can’t understand him, but her whimpering gets worse.

We herd the women into the container at gunpoint. I wish I didn’t have to look at their faces.

“Please,” Natalia says as I go to close the container door. “Please don’t do this. I can work. I can sew, or cook, or clean. Please.”

I laugh bitterly. “If you’re lucky, the person who buys you will want you to do that.”

Sex perverts aren’t the only ones who buy slaves, after all. Slave labor is a whole industry of its own, and Kotya had sat us down and explained all the numbers, and it makes financial sense but I’m still fucking angry that he’s making me do this.

I don’t see him here, staring down at the women, telling them their lives as they know it are over.

And I don’t see fucking Nikolai doing anything more than he absolutely has to, which leaves me to take on all of the responsibilities of making sure this goes smoothly.

One of the other women starts to speak, but I can’t understand her, and I know she can’t understand me either. The language barrier is almost welcome because it means I don’t have to hear her making the same pleas.

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