Chapter 40
PART TWO
As the gray gun smoke dissipates and the house becomes dark and eerily quiet, the usual watery burn from the smoke hits my eyes. I'll take the acrid smell home on my clothes and my eyes will remain red until I sleep off the effects.
After hours of preparing the SWAT team's entry, the violence is over quickly and several bullet-riddled bodies lay on the bare floor. Unlike what Hollywood portrays, there are only small pools of blood beneath the bodies. No splattered blood-covered walls, just a body count.
The underground intel led us to believe there were only three men inside, but where there's one gun, there are two and with two, there are three. Training dictates you never forget the plus-one rule.
The entry team suffered no injuries, though a piece of sharp, splintered wood from the doorframe nicked my face. I barely notice the sting or the thin line of blood; my attention is on the safety of my men and finding the women.
"Clear, clear, clear." The cries sound from other team members spreading out and checking all the rooms. Their boots make barely a sound on the tiled floor, and the swish of their pants legs is hardly a whisper.
The house is mostly bare with no furniture or decoration of any kind. Comfort is not what the structure is for.
My gaze flows over the great room as the team steadily makes its way back to me. I radio for an ambulance while my fellow teammates handcuff the fallen men and then check each for a pulse. Only one shows signs of life but not much. One of the team members nods at me and I check the wounded man's pulse. He has an unsteady heartbeat that vibrates slightly beneath my fingers.
"Rogers, grab a triage kit and apply pressure to this worthless son of a bitch. Maybe we can save him for prosecution." I really don't care if the fucker dies, but someone always seems to be watching and filming, so I cover my ass.
"Yes, sir," Rogers belts out.
No one relaxes-our job is only half over. We must locate the women. My informant described a trap door hidden inside the front closet and then a narrow flight of stairs. Hopefully, we will find the captives below.
"Loftner, cover that door." I point to the only closet in the room.
I'm betting my intel is accurate, but I won't gamble my men's lives on the information. We are fully prepared for who might be waiting downstairs.
Rogers takes over the triage as I requested and I lift my hand from the dirty jacket we're using to apply pressure on the bloody hole in the fallen man's stomach. "We're going to do another entry downstairs. Everyone ready?" I say in a low clipped voice.
"Oorah." The quiet grunts echo softly.
"Stay alert," I caution. The last thing I want is to lose a man.
The smell hits us when the trap door is lifted; human death-sweet, sickening, and intrusive-not quite overpowered by excrement and urine. The quiet is as absolute as the darkness.
The narrow stairs equal a tunnel of death. I signal two members: high and low. They go down almost in each other's pocket with one taking the top position and one taking the bottom. Only their built-in Colt M4 Carbine strobe lights illuminate the passage.
It kills me not to be on the entry, but as a new SWAT lieutenant, my job is to give directions and hang back from the action no matter how much it sucks. We wait and I hold the rest of my men back with a locked fist, which signals them to remain still. Moments pass. My fist is sweating, although my heartbeat has steadied to a slow beat as we prepare for a threat.
A female scream from below makes me put my foot on the stairwell before I hear the sound of my teammate's voice yelling, "Fucking clear! Get down here, LT."
With my flashlight pointed downward so I don't blind the entry team, I take the steep stairs three at a time with the remainder of the men following. The smell is stronger when I reach the bottom. My flashlight brightens the dark cement floor.
I flip it in the direction of the screaming woman and when my light hits her the screams turn to quiet sobs. She's secured naked and spread-eagle on a plywood table. Lash marks and bruises cover her bloody body. She's unbelievably thin and her bones protrude almost through her skin. She's alive, and even in her condition she's one of the lucky ones.
My hand sweeps up farther and with horrifying brightness, I see fucking dog cages lined up on the floor full of women. No, not only women. God help me, some appear to be under eighteen. They press their naked bodies to the back of the cages and remain eerily quiet while the bound woman continues crying.
"This is fucked up, LT," one of my men murmurs.
I tip my flashlight down so it doesn't shine in the women's eyes. "Campbell, get on your cell phone with dispatch and have social services called along with multiple ambulances. I don't want this over the radio. Hopefully we can keep the media out of our hair long enough to give these women some privacy. Everyone but Slade and Kip, back upstairs. When you finish the calls, Campbell, bring down another triage kit. Hell, take the one from Rogers too. If the son of a bitch dies, I won't put a bullet through his dick. Michaels, go to the vehicles and bring back every blanket, jacket, and covering you can find." My voice doesn't betray the fury pounding through my blood.
In seconds, the noise of my men going back up the stairs gives way to softening sobs from the bound woman, and I lift my light back up.
"Slade, see if you can locate an overhead light switch."
I'm afraid to touch the restrained woman and cause her more pain. My knife comes out and I make short work of her leg and wrist restraints. I murmur while I work and really have no idea what I'm saying besides offering comfort. She rolls to her side and curls into a tight ball. I quickly remove my outer Kevlar vest, divest myself of the tactical shirt beneath it, and place it over the shaking woman. I immediately shrug the vest back over my black undershirt.
I stand back from the woman and don't touch her. "We're here to help."
Soft mewling sounds are my answer.
My eyes follow the flashlight's beam as I trail it around the room. Someone is dead down here. A girl squatting in the first cage begins trembling when the light focuses inside her small prison. Her head tucks down into her shoulder and against her chest. Long, matted hair covers much of her body.
"They do not speak English." The voice is throaty, trembling, but fierce with a touch of an accent.
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