Chapter 42
I finally prop Hooriya against the wall by the stairs so I can help the other women.
"Stay here. I'll carry you up when the others are taken care of. I need you to keep assuring them that we mean no harm." Soft, soulful cries are now coming from several of the cages and we need to get them out as quickly as possible.
Though Hooriya's voice is shaky, it's firm and soothing. Even if I can't understand the words, I understand the tone. A female paramedic arrives and helps assess the victims. I don't know the woman well but fully understand the tight set of her jaw as she takes in the scene and evaluates the situation. Slade and Kip carry women one by one up the stairs. I chose these two men because they are both married and known to be tight-lipped. Cops love gossip and I want to keep the women out of as much of that tongue-wagging as possible.
Hooriya is barely standing on her own when the last woman is carried away. "I'm going to lift and carry you up the stairs," I tell her.
"No, I can walk." Her voice is barely audible and her shaking increases.
I feel bad for not giving her a choice, but I know she won't make it up the stairs on her own. She needs to be checked out by medical so she's off my watch. Her quiet strength and dignity are causing my anger to boil over and I need to keep a lid on my temper for another few hours. The sight of her large bruises caused by obvious torture along with her unending dignity will be forever imprinted on my brain.
She doesn't fight when I lift her, but she goes stiff in my arms. "You will be soiled," she mutters in mortification. The embarrassment in her voice makes me pull her firmly against my chest in a cradle position.
I understand what she's saying and I don't care about the urine. No, that's not how I was trained but sometimes humanity takes president. "I've been soiled before," I assure her. "Hush now, and let's get you checked out."
"Please don't leave Sahar," she begs and cranes her neck around to see one of the cages.
"Kip," I call. "Stay here with the other woman. I don't want her left alone. Understand?"
"Yes, LT."
"Thank you, sir," Hooriya whispers with relief.
She weighs practically nothing, and I carry her easily upstairs. When we reach the top, I hear crying and quiet murmurs. The EMS crews are quickly loading the women one after the other onto stretchers and wheeling them out to waiting ambulances. I keep a tight hold on Hooriya. A young paramedic takes notice.
"You can put her here." He points to a padded blanket on the floor.
"I'm okay until you have an available cart," I tell him. Hooriya has no idea that she's giving me comfort too. My brain is currently on overload. It doesn't matter how many times you see this shit; you never grow accustomed to it. This time it's hitting me particularly hard and I want nothing more than my fingers squeezing one of the necks responsible.
"It could be a while," the paramedic tells me.
"I'll wait." Her body relaxes into my bulletproof vest. I carry every conceivable SWAT accessory known to mankind on the front of the vest and belt and realize she can't be comfortable. I refuse to lay her on the floor, though, and her legs won't hold her up for long if she tries to stand. If she doesn't complain, I'll hold on.
I watch what's happening around me, still having trouble accepting the horrors that surround these women. When a stretcher is finally available, I place Hooriya down gently. The med team takes over and I step back feeling the strangest emptiness in my arms. Her hand comes out of the blanket seeking mine and I close my fingers around the same fingers that offered comfort to a dead woman. I will never forget the sight of those two hands-one dead, one alive -clutching each other in such desperation.
I walk beside the crew as they wheel her out to the ambulance. When the stretcher is pushed inside the waiting vehicle, a bright light shines down on her and I meet her unexpected vivid blue gaze. One lone tear slides down her cheek and I want to taste the salt from the watery trail gliding over her beautiful face. I'm a sick bastard for desiring an incredible woman who will probably spend the rest of her life hating men. Fuck me. Even through the bruises and dirt, she's beautiful. Her image will haunt my dreams forever.
***
My unwrapped fists hit the bag. The pain explodes in my knuckles and it feels damn good. I can't see the blood on the black bag, but I know it's there; I'll worry about it later. Right now I need this release.
Thunk, thunk. I lost count after the first one hundred punches. Wet trails of sweat pour down my bare chest and absorb into the waist of my low-slung sweatpants. My legs are no longer moving. I just stand and plant one fist after another into the bag killing sex traffickers in my imagination.
The memories of the women locked in cages burn with the pain in my hands. The third human trafficker died, which, in some ways is a good thing. The women will not be re-victimized by lengthy court proceedings, but I know there is one woman who would fight for a chance to speak out.
I didn't see her again after EMS put her in the ambulance, and now, three months later, I have no idea where she is. My life continues while her blue eyes invade my dreams. I punish the bag until my mind can no longer picture her incredible, haunting face. Or so I tell myself. As sleep takes over that night, she comes to me again and I welcome her into my arms.
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