Page 11 of Tag
“Perfect place for a holding site,” Tag muttered.
My stomach turned. I wanted to kick in the door. Run in guns blazing. But he grabbed my arm, voice low and firm. “Wait.”
We watched.
Time stretched.
Then a black SUV rolled up. Lights off. No plates.
Two men climbed out. One wore a hoodie pulled low over his face. The other held something that looked like a long duffel bag—too stiff to be clothes.
My heart seized. “That’s a body bag.”
Tag’s grip on my arm tightened.
The men unlocked the gate with ease. Not forced entry. Keys.
They disappeared inside, the warehouse swallowing them whole.
Tag finally spoke. “We need to get closer. See what’s inside.”
“There’s a service ladder along the south wall,” I said. “I saw it earlier on the satellite image. Might lead to the roof.”
He gave a grim nod. “Let’s move.”
We kept low, using shadows as cover until we reached the ladder. I went first—Tag right behind me.
At the top, we belly-crawled across the gravel-lined rooftop to a skylight cracked just enough to peek through.
What we saw stopped my breath cold.
Inside were cages. Not dog crates. Not animal pens.
Human cages.
Some were empty.
Some weren’t.
My hand gripped the edge of the skylight so hard my knuckles went white.
Girls.
Three of them.
Barely teenagers. One was crying. Another just stared, hollow-eyed. The third clutched a broken shoe as if it were her last possession on Earth.
“I’m going in,” I whispered.
“No, you’re not,” Tag said, his voice a warning. “We don’t have backup. No exits. No confirmation on how many guards are in there. If we blow this now—”
“Then we lose them,” I choked out.
He didn’t argue. Just stared through the glass.
I looked at him. “What do we do?”
“We get them out,” he said. “But we do it right. We find their routine. We map the exits. We come back tomorrow night—with everything we’ve got.”
