Chapter 3

The moment they shoved me down from the truck, light pressed in from above, and the smell of rain mixed with diesel filled my nose.

The ground was rough concrete. Tire tracks and dark forklift marks overlapped like a net that had been run over again and again.

The main entrance sat on the south side. A roll-up door was half open, and a searchlight stood beside it, its beam sweeping the truck’s rear.

A guard pointed his gun at us, voice flat and hard. “Inside. Line up. Faces to the wall. Don’t turn around.”

They drove us over the threshold. Underfoot, it changed from wet concrete to the drier, colder floor inside the warehouse.

I lifted my head and saw an outer hall partitioned with sheet metal. The fluorescent tubes hung low.

A numbering table sat in the middle. Behind it was a chain-link gate. On the east wall to the right, a small door sat flush to the wall with a faded sign that read OFFICE. Not far behind me, near the roll-up door, there was another smaller door—good for cutting back out into the yard.

The people in front of me were still shaking. Someone whispered, “Where are we?” and got kicked silent immediately.

The warehouse carried a heavy echo; every sound multiplied. It made me calmer. I focused only on what mattered: who had the keys, who had the guns, who was counting bodies.

Zip ties, number tags, duct tape, and a plastic bin were spread across the table.

Two guards handled searches. One kept records, a radio clipped to his chest.

A key ring hung at one man’s waist, several keys and a small padlock clinking together each time he moved.

I watched it for two seconds, then looked away like it meant nothing.

When it was my turn, a guard shoved me against the table and went through my pockets with rough hands. My wallet, documents, and cash were dumped into the plastic bin.

A number tag was slapped onto my chest. Cold plastic against damp fabric. The guard looked up at me like he was pricing livestock. “This one—mark him ‘dangerous.’”

I heard someone nearby get marked “rush order.” A few bigger bodies were pulled aside and lined up separately.

People muttered about price, about “leaving tomorrow morning.” Every word was short, clipped, like they were moving cargo instead of people.

Heavy bootsteps hit the concrete near the entrance. The line went quiet on instinct.

A man who looked like the boss walked in. He didn’t make a show of it, but the guards’ shoulders tightened the moment he arrived.

His coat hung open. A holster rode at his waist.

He stopped by the numbering table, eyes sweeping over us like a head count.

His first sentence was blunt. “One rule: obey. Anyone causes trouble loses a hand.”

No one spoke.

The boss tipped his chin at the guards. “The one who bit someone in the truck—who is it?”

Someone yanked me out of the line and shoved me forward.

He stared at me like he was matching a face to a description. No extra words. He brought the rifle stock up and slammed it into the side of my face—clean, efficient force. My vision flashed white. Iron flooded my mouth, but I stayed on my feet. I didn’t fall. I didn’t raise my hands to block.

The second hit was heavier. My head snapped to the side, a high ringing filling my ears.

He leaned closer, voice low. “You’d better pray you sell for a good price. Otherwise you’re nothing but trouble.”

I turned my eyes back to him. No answer. No challenge.

I needed him to think the drugs and restraints had me under control.

He let the rifle stock hang by his leg and turned, giving the guards a few quick instructions.

He mentioned “loading the next run before daylight.” He mentioned “don’t waste time.” His words came fast, like he was counting hours.

Then he headed for the OFFICE door on the right side of the hall. One guard followed him. The door opened and shut, the metal hinge squealing once.

Before daylight. The next run.

This warehouse wasn’t going to give me time to test options. If I waited, people would get loaded out in batches, and I wouldn’t be able to stop it.

The guards started pushing everyone deeper inside.

Past the chain-link gate, it was colder. The rust smell was stronger.

The crowd was herded in. Crying was forced down into tight breathing.

The main cage area was there: rows of cages along the walls, wire mesh cutting people into blocks of shadow. Most were shoved inside, and each door snapped shut with a click, fast as an assembly line.

I thought they’d throw me in too. Instead, the guard with the key ring called my number, then pointed to two others nearby.

They were a couple. The man kept his body between the woman and the guards. Her wrists were red from zip ties, but her eyes were still clear.

“You three. Move,” the guard said, flicking his gun.

They took us farther back, past the end of the main cages.

He led, and two more guards stayed behind us to make sure we didn’t try anything.

There was a solid door ahead, thick, with rubber trim around the edge—meant to keep sound in.

He pulled out a key and unlocked it. Inside was a small room under a yellowed bulb.

Along one wall were a few separate cages. Old padlocks hung from the bars.

No other prisoners. No extra guards.

The door slammed behind us. The bolt dropped. Then another lock. The key ring swung, and the metal clink sounded too loud in the small space.

“Dangerous,” the lead guard said, tapping my number tag with a smile that barely showed. “You stay here. Saves us trouble if you bite again.”

Then he looked at the couple, and his eyes changed. “You two are worth money. Worth money means you know how to behave.”

The woman shrank back. The man stepped tighter in front of her.

One guard reached for the woman’s chin. The man shoved him away.

The rifle stock smashed into the man’s side, a heavy dull thud. He folded over.

Another guard stepped in and kicked the back of his knee. The man dropped to one knee, and then fists came down—thick, hard punches with the sound of knuckles on bone, like someone hitting wood.

The woman sucked in a sharp breath and tried to lunge forward, but the lead guard caught her shoulder and shoved her into the cage bars.

Her fingers clamped onto the wire mesh, knuckles bleaching white.

I stood in front of the cage and didn’t speak. I didn’t move.

My eyes tracked their feet, their spacing, where the guns sat, where the keys sat—one detail at a time.

The lead guard turned and caught me watching. His brow tightened. “What are you staring at?”

He walked over, rolling the rifle stock in his palm, the tone turning playful in a way that meant trouble. “You didn’t get hit enough earlier? You want a turn too?”

I still didn’t answer. I let him close the distance.

The next second, the rifle stock swung toward my face. I didn’t dodge. I didn’t lift a hand to block. I simply dropped with it, crouching as if I’d been forced down.

From that angle, the key ring at his waist swung right in front of me—one inch from my fingertips.

I raised my hand. My fingers reached out and closed around that cold loop of metal.