Deep Woods

I rounded a hedge and saw it, and my lungs filled in hope. The helicopter was still there. I ran over, wrenched open the door, and pointed my assault rifle at the pilot.

He threw his hands in the air. He was in his early sixties, with curling white hair and a paunch. “I swear, these assholes just hired me last night to fly them out to the woods. I never would have taken the job if I’d known what was going on out here. But that big Russian guy, he said he’d kill my family if I went to the cops!”

I relaxed and lowered the gun. “You help me,” I told him, “and you’ll never have to worry about him again. How long to the port of Seattle?”

The pilot pursed his lips. “Two hours. Less, if I push it.”

“Push it,” I told him, and jumped into the back with Rufus.

* * *

Less than two hours later, the helicopter swung in low and touched down beside a warehouse. “Close as I can get you,” the pilot told me. “Good luck!”

I thanked him and Rufus and I jumped out. Now, all we had to do was find a red container. We ran around the corner of the warehouse and—

I stumbled to a stop.

The port went on for a couple of square miles. And a huge chunk of it was filled with cargo containers. Thousands of them, stacked five-high to form a sprawling maze. More containers hung from gantries that whirred back and forth on rails, stacking them like building blocks. Still more were being trundled around by huge forklift trucks. And then I turned and saw the ones already sitting on the decks of cargo ships. At least one in five of them was red.

68

Bethany

THE SOUND of quiet, constant sobbing filled the container. All of us were slumped on the floor, now, our backs against the padded walls. It had been hours since we’d been loaded onto the ship and since then, we’d felt the impact as containers thudded into place either side and then, terrifyingly, on top of ours. We were being buried in a stack. Is there an air hole, somewhere? What if they’ve covered it up? One mistake by the workers loading the ship and we could die in here!

There was a plastic crate in one corner with bottles of water and energy bars and a covered bucket for a toilet. How long are they going to keep us in here? The other women didn’t know any more than I did. They all had similar stories to me: low-paid jobs, cameras in their workplace, a sudden offer of a job in another city, and then waking up in the mansion. They’d all been drugged a second time before waking up in this room. Where are we? I hadn’t seen anywhere like this when I was last here, but then I’d only seen a few rooms and the mansion was huge.

And if we did survive the journey, what awaited us in Russia wasn’t much better. Rich Russian men, who’d pay to do what those bastards at the club did. Who wanted a woman who couldn’t go to the police. My stomach knotted.

I felt something. I couldn’t figure out what it was, at first, because there was no sound, just a sensation. A deep, throbbing vibration. There were some crumbs on the floor from when someone had eaten one of the energy bars and they began to dance and shuffle along the padding. I felt my face crumple and I let out a silent no of horror as I realized what that meant.

The engines had started. The ship was about to leave.

69

Cal

RUFUS LOOKED expectantly up at me. But I didn’t have an answer, didn’t have any idea how to find her. I only knew that she was slipping away from us with each passing second. And this place...I’d never felt so out of my element. The city was bad but even a city has trees and parks. This place was nothing but metal and concrete. And after the soft green and brown of the woods, this place was an overwhelming riot of bright primary colors, all mixed chaotically together like a world made of random Legos. Every surface was hard and smooth, reflecting and amplifying the noise as containers banged together and diesel engines roared. I felt like a mouse trapped inside the world’s biggest machine.

This wasn’t some problem I could solve with a gun, or with brute strength. What would Bethany do?

She’d talk to people. She was good at that. I wasn’t.

But if I wanted to save her, I had to try.

I hid the assault rifle behind a dumpster and ran to a tall building whose top floor had big, sloping windows that overlooked the dockside—the control room, I hoped.

I burst inside and looked around wildly. It reminded me of the offices on military bases: the ground floor was full of harried staff dealing with questions about pay and assignments. What I needed must be upstairs.