Page 29 of Huck Frasier

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I crept closer, heart hammering.

One of them said something about “shipments.” Another mentioned a date and a route number.

I didn’t need a translator. I knew the code. They were moving kids.

I pulled my phone out and started recording.

Then the door creaked open.

Footsteps.

I turned to run—and slammed straight into someone.

Big. Hard. Unforgiving.

Hands grabbed me.

“¡Eh, qué haces aquí?!”

I understood that. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

I twisted, kicking wildly. My foot connected with something solid and the man let out a grunt. I bolted sideways—but not fast enough.

Pain exploded in my side as something cracked into my ribs.

I went down hard, face-first into gravel, breath gone, limbs screaming.

The man cursed and backed off, maybe startled by how fast I’d dropped.

I rolled under a nearby wrecked car and bit down on a cry as pain lanced through my ribs.

Definitely cracked. Maybe worse.

My phone was still in my hand, the recording still running. I hit stop and crawled deeper under the chassis, blood dripping from my elbow.

They were shouting now. Flashlights swept across the yard. Boots crunched closer.

I couldn’t outrun them this time.

So I stayed still. Silent.

Prayed they’d give up.

A minute passed. Then five.

Eventually, the footsteps moved away. A car engine started. Then another.

Gone.

But I stayed put, my side throbbing, breath coming in short gasps.

When I finally crawled out, my hands were shaking.

The phone in my palm felt like gold. It had their voices. The location. Proof.

But I wouldn’t make it far on my own, not like this.

I leaned against a rusted bumper, clutched my side, and did the thing I swore I wouldn’t.

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