Chapter 11

Four thousand five hundred and sixty-two. Makayla counted the seconds into the journey, the box she was held in had begun to feel more like a coffin to her—smothering, dark, hot as hell and hopeless. Her body hurt all over, her skin had the sensation of hot sharp needles lancing into her as whatever drug shed been given started to wear off. A headache was forming behind her eye sockets, and she breathed in slow and steady to keep from using up the reduced oxygen supply. Thumping noises sounded all around her. She listened carefully, past the zing in her eardrums, and could make out the sound of wheels being guided by a track. She’d know that sound anywhere, her father worked in a manufacturing plant that used conveyer belts to move their products from one warehouse to the next. On weekends, when he had worked extra shifts, Makayla often used to hang out on the observation deck with a book, listening to the constant mechanical sounds. The memory brought a surprising wave of calm over her. At least she was in a familiar environment she told herself.

Four thousand five hundred and eighty-nine seconds until the box came to a complete stop as wood knocked against wood. She kept her eyes shut, carefully listening to her surroundings. Every detailed sound was significant; the squeak of doors opening accompanied a rumbling sound. It lasted nearly four seconds and then it was replaced by inaudible voices.

Holding her breath, Makayla could distinguish two or three different owners, but couldn’t make out exactly what was being said. Her box shook, and she heard the distinctive beeping sound of a truck backing up. There was more thumping and then her box moved, but it wasn’t the same mechanical movement, it was a free tilt then a shift in the other direction. She groaned against the sting as her body hit the sides. Makayla counted a few more seconds before she felt the jerk of something being stacked on top of her. Somehow, she knew she was no longer alone.

When everything fell silent, her fingers searched along the seams of her box, discovering the openings that were there before were now blocked above her. But at least the gaps remained on the side of her box meaning she could breathe, albeit with effort. Squeezing her hand so that it almost managed to push through the gaps, her fingers felt the ropes that were keeping the cargo boxes in place.

The harsh noise of the truck taking off and the shaking of the box as they started to move again redirected her attention. She began counting again whilst using her nail to scratch along her thigh as a marker. One, two, three, four, five… Thirteen seconds into the ride, the truck slowed down, then came to a complete stop. She scratched another marker into her thigh. One two, three, four, five… Ten seconds the truck started to move again, and her box slid to one side, then the other as it navigated a series of directional changes, in what she imagined turning onto a road. And she was right because the ride was less bumpy, and the smell of warm newly laid tar filled her nostrils.

Eventually, Makayla lost count during the long ride. She was struggling against the sleepy feeling that overwhelmed her. She knew it was because of the remains of drugs and the reduction of oxygen. And she also knew it was exactly what the kidnappers were counting on to keep her from waking up. But what they never counted on is her higher-than-normal tolerance levels to just such stressful situations. She was also trained to build up a tolerance to most common drugs used to incapacitate victims.

A scream of terror tore her from her slumber. She jerked when it resounded again, confirming her belief that she was not alone. Part of her was thrilled she was part of a kidnapping ring as that was what her assignment had been about, and this meant she was a step closer in the case. But the other part of her was terrified. The part that cared for victims too much, the part of her that was still a young woman, even one highly trained as herself. The muffled cries and banging gave her the push her foggy mind needed.

“I’m here,” she said, but the girl’s sobbing continued, and she didn’t reply.

“What is your name?” Makayla called out into the darkness.

This time, the shaky voice responded, “Hello?”

“My name is Makayla. What’s yours?”

“Veronice.”

“Veronice.” Makayla breathed out slowly.

At least the girl knew who she was, which was a good sign.

“You need to try and stay calm. I’m here with you.”

“What’s happening?”

Makayla couldn’t grasp the accent; it wasn’t quite Russian, she’d spent enough time there in 2009 in the case that made her career, but it was near—possibly Czech or Polish.

Makayla licked her lips for moisture. “What’s the last thing you remember Veronice?” she asked, keeping her tone soft and steady.

“I ...I don’t know.”

Her accent was thick, but she spoke English well. Makayla had to keep the girl engaged, not only in order to keep her calm, but she needed intel.

“Tell me, Veronice, where were you last night? Did you have any alcohol?”

As the words left her, it suddenly dawned on Makayla that she had no recollection of the past few hours, the last few days were patchy, and the other girl was most likely in the same position.

“I can’t remember. I’m sorry.”

“You need to think really carefully.”

“I didn’t drink anything. I’m no longer addict.” There was a slight pause. “I don’t drink anymore.”

Makayla turned her head in the direction Veronice’s voice was coming from. “And no one could have put something in your drink?”

The girl hesitated before answering, “No. I carry own bottles in my bag. My father …” the girl began to sob again.

“Veronice, listen to me, I think that’s why we were targeted, because we don’t drink alcohol. How long have you been in the country?” she asked, trying to establish a timeline.

“Almost one year. I want to be a Hollywood star. My father,” the girl’s voice hitched as she took a breath and started to cry again.

Makayla knew she was getting somewhere. “Tell me about your father, Veronice.”

“He works as janitor at one of the studios. He gave me contact for this party.” The girl’s voice lifted as if she started to remember. “An exclusive party with big time producer.” She paused again, longer this time, giving Makayla time to try place thing in her mind.

“Makayla,” the girl finally said, “what is happening to us?”

Makayla didn’t want to tell her she was FBI. Not only to avoid panic but something seemed off, she herself seemed to have forgotten what her mission was. The only reason she could think of being undercover was to expose a sex-trafficking ring, if it involved girls.

Makayla called out to Veronice. “Are you hurt in anyway?”

“I think I’m okay.” Then she whimpered and asked, “Are we going to die?”

Makayla highly doubted it; what would they gain by the death of the girls they worked so hard to make disappear? Instead, she gave the other girl hope. “My partner will find us. I promise you.”

The truck jerked from side to side then slowed down before coming to a complete halt. This caused her to bite down on her tongue and draw blood, which tasted oddly sweet in her mouth. She told the other girl to stay still as she heard the squeak of the doors opening. A faint stream of light filtered in through the tiny gaps on the sides of the box, craning her head to stare through one of them Makayla could see the definite outlines of a man.

Footfalls approached and she heard the loud groan and sigh of a male. “Okay girls, we know two of you are awake. Best you show yourselves now or I’ll shoot randomly.”

The sound of a cocked gun only brought further silence. “Three, two, one,” he said, before a shot rang out, followed by a scream from Veronice.

“Here!’ Makayla quickly called out.

His voice filled in the darkness. “Tap on your box so I can find you, little mouse.”

Makayla did as she was told, and she heard other boxes move before the one above her gave way. Then a popping sound came right by her head. It was like nails or rivets being pulled out from the box. Light flooded in, blinding her, meaning she could only make out the dark outline of her kidnapper.

“Come here, little mouse.” Rough hands clasped around her upper arms as she was yanked upward.

“Open your mouth.”

Massive fingers clamped down on each side of her jaw and the only way to relieve the pain was to open her mouth as he demanded. She turned her head from side to side, not wanting to be drugged again. Makayla gasped at the intense pain as her hair was violently pulled, causing her to unwillingly open her mouth. Something strange, not a tablet or liquid, but something plant-like was forced onto her tongue. A sweet taste filled her mouth and the slimy leaves of a flower slid down her throat. Tears streamed down her face as she gagged, trying to eject the flower. A hard smack to the head caused her to swallow. The oaf proceeded to tighten her hands together in front of her with cable ties and then lifted her back into the box. She should fight, but she needed to save her strength. Now she was drugged, even if she escaped, how far would she get?

He pushed her down into the box and closed the lid. “Now go to sleep.”

The sweetness come up her throat, burning her chest, and filling her senses. The nothingness took over. Whatever he had used was potent enough to knock her clean out.