Page 2 of Stolen

“Same.”

Looking around, I noticed we were located in some kind of large hallway with glass block windows covered by silver bars, letting in enough sunlight to illuminate my confines. Cages were lined on either side of me—one after another filled with women as far as I could see. The girl on the other side of me was sleeping, curled up in a tight protective ball with dark bruises covering her bare back as well.

To my left on the floor of the cage was what looked like a simple hole in the ground, but it turned out to be an opening to a long pipe with running water about the width of a small bowling ball. I turned my head to the side, examining the pipe until I noticed the little roll of toilet paper sitting next to it.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

Shaking the idea of ever having to use the makeshift bathroom, I turned my attention back to my current situation.

“So, where are you from? How did you get here?” I asked her, trying to reduce my heart rate to a normal level as I leaned my aching body forward to examine the bars confining me. I needed some conversation to calm down, not to mention some information so I could assess the severity of my new fucked-up situation.

“I’m from Grand Rapids, Michigan. It’s still a little fuzzy on how I ended up here, but the last thing I remember is being downtown with my friends. I went outside for a cigarette, then there was some kind of struggle…and then blackness. When I finally came to, I was here. What do you remember?”

“There must be a trafficking trade in Michigan.” I wrapped my fingers around the thick bars and rattled them. They barely budged. “I’m from Royal Oak.”

She nodded in acknowledgment.

I reached around and grabbed the padlock that locked the door of my cage, jiggling it like an idiot as if I could somehow Hulk the damn thing apart.

“I don’t remember much,” I said, still examining the cage for any loose bars or screws, “but the last thing I do recall is leaving class sometime around ten o’clock at night in Detroit. I was walking to my car in the parking garage…” I thought really hard about what had happened next, but nothing wanted to appear. It was like my brain was purposely trying to block out the memory in order to protect my pride. That happened when you’re a devout martial artist—you didn’t like to admit defeat, especially when you’d been practicing and training for nearly two decades.

I fell in love with martial arts at the age of six after watching my firstPower Rangersepisode. I remembered wanting to be just like Trini and Kimberly, the yellow and pink rangers, able to do all the flips and kicks and fancy tricks they could do. To be capable of taking on the bad guys as a little girl and winning, being a valued team player, and seen as fearless and strong—now that had been an easy path to follow. From then on out, any bully that tried to come after me for my flaming red hair as a child didn’t stay a bully for long.

But eventually, the bullies grow up and become adults, and I remained the size of an overgrown child. So, naturally, I had to adapt to new styles of self-defense if I wanted to be able to protect my tiny ass. I practiced Taekwondo, Judo, and Jiu-Jitsu. I even took up gymnastics to become flexible and complete all the flips like the Pink Ranger. I was a girl obsessed.

And I didn’t limit myself to physical combat either. I trained with firearms, carried concealed, and wasn’t afraid to pull the trigger if I had to. I’d been in plenty of bar fights before, fought well competitively, and was in the best physical shape of my life. But even after all that training, here I was, still sitting in a giant dog cage, naked with zero memory.

How had I allowed this to happen? Regardless of my minuscule physicality, I was still pretty fucking smart. My situational awareness was practically second nature. I was constantly scanning my surroundings for threats, I avoided potentially dangerous situations, and I kept to myself. Even Jason would…

I stifled a gasp, forgetting my assessment of the bars that caged me, and suddenly remembered my family.

“How long have I been here?” I asked quickly.

“Hard to tell time around here.” She shrugged. “But it was dark when they brought you in with a bunch of others.”

“Shit, my family must know I’m missing by now. God…Jason…”

“Boyfriend?” Kayla asked sadly.

I nodded.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “How long have you guys been together?”

“Four years,” I answered, my stomach shriveling at the thought of how worried he must be.

“I was with mine for two,” she offered.

“I’m sorry,” I offered.

“Doesn’t matter much now,” she added with a deep sigh. “Soon, we’ll be sold, and that’ll be that. Or at least that’s what I was told.”

Ouch.

Well, fuck. That was harsh to say to someone who was fucking new here.

“Well, fuck that mentality,” I retorted. “Tell me what you know about this place.” I gave up on the cage and directed my full attention to her.

“What do you mean?”

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