Page 74 of Rescuing Rebel

“It’s more than that. Kaufman’s hiding something here.” Walt places his hand over his stomach. “Something worse. Can’t describe it more than that.”

“Worse than kidnapping and trafficking women? Selling them to be sex slaves?” Hank shakes his head. Like me, he believes there’s nothing worse than trafficking women.

“Something—more.” Walt’s voice is tinged with disgust. “Can’t say what, just that this…” He spins in a slow circle, extending his arms to encompass all of Haven. “This place feels off.”

I nod, feeling the chill in the air, a warrior’s awareness sharpening my senses. “We agree on one thing. Whatever’s going on in this place, it’s dark and twisted.”

Hank’s hand drifts to his side, to where his gun would be if we were allowed to carry weapons. “The deeper we go, the more depraved it gets. I’ve seen some sick stuff in my time, but this—this is something else.”

I meet his eyes, understanding the horror he’s feeling.

The weight of our mission hangs heavy on my shoulders, the walls seeming to close in on us. With every step, we descend further into madness, and the echoes of our footsteps serve as haunting reminders of the darkness we’re facing.

The hallway seems to stretch forever, a gloomy abyss that the dim light barely reaches. As Hank, Walt, and I press on, my skin prickles with anticipation. We’ve reached the bowels of Haven, where no semblance of humanity remains.

As we round a corner, a heavy iron door looms before us. I enter the access codes Kaufman reluctantly handed over, and the lock disengages. Hank attaches a device Stitch created on the fly to insert a code that will allow us to unlock the door if Kaufman changes the code.

Whenhe changes the code, the man is a paranoid bastard.

Walt checks the door, his hand hesitating for a fraction of a second before he nudges it open. We step into a chamber filled with rows of holding cells. Thin mattresses line the floor, and rusty chains hang from the walls. The distantdrip, drip, dripof water echoes through the room. My heart pounds in my chest, a revulsion building deep in my gut.

“Jesus,” Walt murmurs, his voice a hoarse whisper. “This is where they keep them?”

I swallow hard, feeling the bile rise again. The terror that permeates these walls is almost tangible. “Let’s keep moving.” I keep my voice barely above a whisper.

Next, we come across a group shower facility. The room is bathed in a nauseating fluorescent light, revealing tiles stained with god-knows-what. My eyes are drawn to the chains affixed to the walls, rusted and worn. It doesn’t take much to imagine the bodies that have been bound here, the hollow eyes staring out in desperation and terror.

Hank’s breath catches as he examines the drainage grates, clogged with clumps of hair and unidentifiable matter.

Walt turns away, covering his mouth, his face a sickly shade of green. “What kind of people do this?” His voice breaks as he chokes on the words.

My throat is tight, my words struggling to find their way out. “Monsters,” I reply, my voice devoid of emotion. “Only monsters do this.”

The air is heavy with the residue of human fear, suffering, and humiliation. The water-streaked mirrors reflect a twisted reality where innocence is lost and cruelty reigns.

I move to a row of sinks, grimacing at the brown stains splattered across the porcelain. The faucets are caked with grime, and the handles are polished by regular use. Everything is a testament to the depravity of this place.

We stand in silence, the only sound the distant drip of a leaky pipe, each drop a reminder of the tears shed within these walls. The echoes of anguished cries seem to reverberate in the tiles beneath our feet, the memories of countless victims forever etched into the very fabric of this hellish room.

No one speaks as we exit the wash facility. Our minds are unable to fully grasp the atrocities that have occurred here.

The weight of our mission has never felt heavier, and as we press on, I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve barely begun to scratch the surface of the darkness that awaits us.

Those chains, those stains, that room will forever be etched in my mind, a haunting reminder of the inhumanity that exists in the shadows, hidden away from the world, but all too real for those trapped within the atrocity.

The nausea is almost overwhelming, but we press on. The deeper we go, the worse it gets: a twisting, gnawing realization that the darkness we uncover is far more malignant than we could have imagined.

More rooms filled with cells. More wash facilities. It’s a never-ending horror show.

Finally, we reach a door marked “CLINIC.” I push it open, and we enter a pristine, sterile room, starkly contrasting the grime and decay outside. Everything is white and gleaming, with shelves lined with medical supplies.

“What is this place?” Hank asks, his voice trembling.

I look to Walt. “I think we’ve found what was twisting your gut.” I stand outside another door. This one is marked “OR.”

I open it, and we’re met with a sight that freezes us all in our tracks. It’s an operating room, state-of-the-art, equipped with everything needed for complex surgeries.

The operating room is a pristine, sterile environment, filled with the sharp tang of antiseptics and the cold gleam of metal. Every surface is spotless, reflecting our stunned expressions back at us. I move further into the room, the dread growing in the pit of my stomach.

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