Page 99 of Brick's Retribution

White walls gleaming in the afternoon sun, manicured grounds that probably require a small army to maintain.

Beautiful architecture hiding unimaginable evil.

The checkpoint is thorough but professional.

Guards with automatic weapons check our credentials, verify our invitation codes, search the vehicle looking for anything out of place.

They're not cartel thugs—these are trained professionals, the crem de la crem.

"Welcome, Ms. Torres," the lead guard says respectfully. "Mr. Salazar is expecting you. Please follow the valet to the reception area."

We're directed to park among dozens of other luxury vehicles—Bentleys, Ferraris, armored Mercedes.

The wealth on display is staggering.

Every car represents someone who profits from human suffering.

Inside, the opulence continues.

Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, artwork that belongs in museums.

A grotesque display of wealth built on the backs of victims like Lashes.

"Imani Torres," a cultured voice calls out. "What an unexpected pleasure."

We turn to find a distinguished man in his sixties approaching—silver hair, expensive suit, predator's smile.

"Don Carlos," Imani greets him coolly. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Business is business," he replies, his eyes doing a quick assessment of her—and me. "Your father finally expanding into new markets?"

"Testing the waters," she confirms. "He believes in diversification."

"Smart man. The margins in this particular trade are... exceptional." He leans closer conspiratorially. "I hear today's selection is particularly impressive. Some unique lots."

My hands itch to wrap around his throat, but I remain statue-still, playing my role.

"I look forward to seeing them," Imani says with just the right amount of aristocratic boredom.

We mingle for another hour, and each conversation is worse than the last.

These people discuss buying human beings like they're talking about real estate investments.

Casual mentions of "breaking in new purchases" and "training techniques" that make my blood boil.

Imani plays her part flawlessly, expressing just enough interest to seem legitimate while deflecting attempts to dig deeper into her family's intentions.

I shadow her every move, using my position to memorize faces, escape routes, security positions.

Finally, a melodic chime signals the main event.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a hostess announces, "the auction will begin momentarily. Please proceed to the viewing chamber."

We follow the crowd through reinforced doors and down a wide staircase.

The temperature drops as we descend underground, and the festive atmosphere becomes somehow more sinister.

The viewing chamber is like a twisted theater—rows of plush seats facing a raised platform.

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