Page 17 of Priest

Another round of bullets came through. I pressed a finger against my lips because I knew that, in a moment, whoever was on the other side would run out of ammunition unless they had a fucking arsenal in there.

I beat the door with my fist, and nothing happened. We still weren’t in the clear yet, so I waited for a few more seconds before I went low and Ox went high, and we rushed into the room.

There was nothing in the room except for six mattresses, the same as I saw in rooms two and three. My best guess, based on the empty plates on the floors of each room, discarded clothing, and trash that this was where the victims were kept until they were transferred somewhere else.

I had nothing linking Morgan to this brothel except for a dead man’s word. Now, there was someone in the room waiting to take out Ox and me, and I had to take them out first. Although Ox was a shoot first, and ask questions later kind of nigga, I didn’t always operate that way. As the president of the Immortal Descendents, there were times when I had to exercise discipline, and that shit wasn’t always easy. This was one of those times. A deep instinct was telling me to tread lightly.

We both stepped around the mattresses as we carefully made our way to what we presumed was a closet door. I jerked the door open and looked inside. It was empty except for a tiny frame huddled in the corner.

“Hey,” I stated as I lowered to my knees.

I couldn’t tell if the person was male or female or how old they were. The gun hung loosely from their fingers. I didn’t reach out immediately to take it because although the perpetrator’sarms were wrapped around their knees and their knees were pulled to their chest, I didn’t want to underestimate them.

“I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help,” I explained.

When they didn’t move, I looked at Ox, who shrugged.

“I can help you if you let me.”

There was a subtle shift in movement before the person’s head slowly turned our way. Large brown eyes stared into mine out of a troubled, sandy brown face. He was a child, barely a teen.

“I’m Priest,” I announced.

The kid frowned at me in confusion, and I pointed at Ox. “This is my friend Ox. We’ve got other friends outside, and I swear that I just want to help. I’m not here to hurt you or take you anywhere that you don’t want to be.”

“They’re not coming back. We ran the bad guys off,” Ox offered.

The kid’s eyes widened in their head.

“Do you have any family that we could call to come and get you?” I asked, knowing the answer to that question already.

To confirm my suspicions, his shoulders slumped, and he rested his head on his knees again, but he didn’t turn his back to ours.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I nodded. “I promise. They aren’t coming back.”

“ICE?”

“We’re not calling any Feds either. Trust me, I don’t trust them bitches. What’s your name?”

“Gael.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. That was the name Jeremih had given me.

“Where are you from, Gael?”

“Here.” Gael replied proudly and thrust his chest out and dropped his knees.

“Yeah, you’re from here. As much as President Claudia Pardo,” I replied, referencing Mexican president.

Gael dropped his head to his knees again.

“Seriously. Where are you from, little man? I’m not trying to send you back.”

“San Simón Zahuatlán. It is in Oaxaca in Mexico.”

“How long have you been here? Your English is pretty good.”

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