Chapter Seventy-Two
Brooklyn
The hallway stretches out in front of us like it never ends, and every step I take feels heavier than the one before it because I already know we’re walking straight into something awful. The walls are concrete and wet in places, and the floor dips just enough that water pools along the edges, and the sound of my breath mixes with the distant echo of voices somewhere deeper inside.
I can’t tell if the voices belong to girls or men, and the not knowing makes my whole body go tight. The air smells like mold and sweat and something sour that I can’t place, and I’m trying so hard to keep my breathing steady because I know one wrong sound out of me could get Jackson killed right in front of me.
Grant walks ahead like he’s giving us a tour of a place he’s proud of, and every time his boots scrape the ground, it makes my stomach clench. The man to my left keeps a hand on my arm even though he doesn’t need to, and Jackson stays just behind me, keeping Monroe’s lazy walk and half grin even though I can feel his real tension pressing against my back like a second heartbeat.
We go deeper, the hall twisting left then right, and the voices get louder. There’s laughter sometimes, but not the good kind, and I feel the cold rush through me so fast I almost stumble.
Jackson notices. He shifts just enough that his arm brushes mine, silent and steady, reminding me I’m not alone, and I swallow hard and force myself to keep going.
Grant slows when we reach a wider corridor, and he looks back at us like he wants to see the moment everything clicks. His smile is small, patient, and pleased, and it makes something inside me collapse in on itself. He lifts a hand and waves us forward like he’s showing off something he’s been saving.
We turn the corner, and I stop breathing.
There are cages.
Actual metal fucking cages lined against the wall, stacked in some places, big enough for a person to curl up in but not big enough to sit upright, and inside them are girls. They're young, filthy, and quiet. Their eyes move when we appear, but their bodies stay still like they’ve learned moving won’t help.
My stomach flips, and I slap a hand over my mouth because I can’t hold the sound that tries to break out of me. The bile burns at the back of my throat, and my whole chest starts shaking because this is worse than anything I could have imagined, worse than anything I've lived, worse than anything I ever thought Grant was capable of, and I lived in the dark with him for years.
Jackson steps up beside me, close enough that our arms touch, and his voice drops low for Grant even though it’s meant for me.
“Looks like business is good.”
Grant beams like he’s flattered. “I keep a tight operation.”
I want to scream, to run, and to claw the walls until they bleed. I want to break every lock on every cage, drag the girls out one by one, and tell them they didn’t do anything wrong, that they didn’t deserve this, and that they weren’t meant to be here.
My legs shake so hard that I think I’m going to fall, and I only stay upright because Jackson’s hand hovers behind me without touching, steady and warm like he’s silently holding me up.
Grant keeps walking like this is normal, like this is fine, and we follow because we don’t have a choice. We pass more cages, and then we pass girls chained to the walls, wrists pulled above their heads, hair matted, faces bruised, some awake and staring, some slumped like they left their bodies behind days ago. One girl meets my eyes, and something inside me shatters so fast I actually sway.
She looks like me.
Not in the face, not exactly, but in the way her eyes don’t shine anymore and the way her mouth trembles even when she isn’t speaking and the way her body hangs like she’s waiting for the next thing to hurt.
“Don’t,” she whispers.
I don’t know if she means don’t cry, don’t stop walking, don’t come closer, or don’t leave her here, and I can’t answer because I can’t trust my voice not to break.
Jackson speaks for both of us, his tone loose and easy, like he might be impressed. “How many do you got on site right now?”
Grant doesn’t hesitate. “Sixteen.”
The word hits me like a slap. Sixteen. Sixteen girls are living like this. Sixteen girls who won’t make it out if we mess this up.
Jackson lets out a low whistle, nodding slowly like he’s impressed instead of horrified. “Sixteen,” he repeats, loud enough that anyone listening through the mic will hear him clearly. “That’s a solid number.”
My heart lurches.
He just told Morris, Nash, and everyone else that's listening that we’ve got sixteen victims inside this place and that this op isn’t small and that if anything goes wrong, there are sixteen girls who will pay the price.
Grant smiles over his shoulder like he’s proud. “Quality over quantity, but sometimes you get both.”
I gag and turn my head, trying to pull air into my lungs because the room smells worse now, my vision starts to go blurry, and the floor begins to feel like it’s tilting.
Jackson shifts again, slow and careful, and his fingers graze the back of my arm just long enough for the shaking in me to stall, and for a second, I feel grounded again.
We keep walking because Grant keeps walking.
He leads us past the cages, the chains, and the dark corners, deeper into the belly of the building, where the air gets thicker and the light gets harsher. The girls disappear behind us, but the sound of them doesn’t. I can still hear breathing and shifting, and the clink of metal, and every sound cuts into me like a knife.
I feel smaller with every step, smaller and tighter and stretched too thin, like my skin doesn’t fit anymore, and I’m going to fall apart in the middle of this hallway.
Grant stops at a door with heavy locks and looks back at us.
“We’re almost to my office,” he says. “There are things we need to discuss.”
His words make my knees shake but Jackson nods, then says, “Lead the way.”
Grant unlocks the door, slow and deliberate, like he wants us to notice how many locks there are. His hand tightens on the last one before he pulls it open and steps inside, and the second he disappears into the office, Jackson shifts closer to me.
His voice is barely a whisper, just enough for me and the mic.
“We’re gettin' them out, baby. I swear to God. Every one of them.”
My chest breaks open but I nod because I believe him.
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