Page 40 of Savage Ranger Daddy

Silence. Then the woman with the hollow cheeks reaches into her boot and pulls out a cheap prepaid phone, the kind you buy at a gas station. "They didn't find it when they searched me. Battery is almost dead. No minutes left."

"I don't need minutes. I need the phone to be on and broadcasting a signal." I take it and check the screen. Four percent battery. No service inside the container, but outside, in the clearing, there might be enough tower coverage for a ping. If I can slide the phone through the drainage gap and get it outside the metal walls of the container, the signal might reach far enough for the cell towers to register a location.

I wrap the phone in the corner of the blanket the two women were sharing, creating a small padded bundle, and push it down through the drainage grate into the channel. The channel angles toward the exterior wall. I reach in, arm extended to the shoulder, and shove the bundle as far as I can. My fingers feel cold air at the far end. The gap opens to the outside.

"That's our beacon," I say, pulling my arm back. "If it picks up even a whisper of signal, the towers will register a location ping. It's not GPS accuracy, but it's enough to put rescuers within a quarter mile of this clearing."

The woman with the bruised jaw looks at me with something that isn't quite hope yet but isn't emptiness anymore either. "What else?"

"The door." I move to the entrance and study the latch mechanism through the gap where the door meets the frame. The padlock is on the outside, but the latch itself is a simple slide bolt. If I can access the bolt through the gap, I can work it open from inside. "I need something thin and strong. A piece of wire. A hairpin. Anything I can bend into a hook."

One of the younger women pulls a bobby pin from her hair without a word and holds it out.

I take it, bend it into an L-shape, and slide it through the gap between the door and the frame. The bolt is about six inches above my reach point. I angle the pin upward, feeling for the mechanism. The metal is slick with condensation. My fingers are numb from the cold. The pin slips twice and I have to pull it back and rebend it.

Outside I can hear the men loading the flatbed. Dale's voice, giving orders. The clang of crates being stacked. They're almost done with the first container.

"When they finish loading that truck," I say, keeping my voice low, "they're coming for us. We have maybe fifteen minutes."

I work the pin against the bolt. The angle is wrong. I try from lower on the gap, pressing my face against the cold metal to see through the crack. The bolt is right there. I can see its edge. I hook the pin under it and pull.

It moves. A quarter inch. Maybe less.

I pull again. Another fraction. The bolt is sliding, millimeter by millimeter, against rust and gravity. My wrist aches from the angle. My fingers are cramping around the tiny piece of bent metal.

"Someone talk to me," I whisper. "Keep me focused."

The woman with the hollow cheeks moves closer. "My name is Katya. I was taken from a rest stop outside of Billings four weeks ago." Her voice is quiet and matter-of-fact, the tone of someone who has processed the horror enough to speak about it without breaking. "There were more of us. Some were moved south last week. I don't know where."

"When we get out of here, I'm going to need you to tell me everything you remember," I say, still working the pin. "Names. Places. Vehicle descriptions. Anything. The federal investigation is active and every detail matters."

"I remember everything," she says.

The bolt slides another eighth of an inch. I can feel it loosening, the rust giving way to sustained pressure. My arm is shaking from holding the angle.

Outside, the loading sounds change. The clang of crates stops. I hear the flatbed's tailgate slam shut. Voices move closer to our container.

"They're coming," Megan whispers from the back.

I pull the pin one more time. The bolt slides free with a soft metallic scrape. The latch releases. The door isn't locked anymore.

But the padlock is still in place. The latch is open but the padlock's shackle is threaded through the hasp. The door won't swing until the padlock is removed, and I can't reach the padlock from inside.

Footsteps on gravel. Getting closer.

"Change of plan," I whisper. "When they open that door, the latch is already free. The second they pull the padlock and swing the door, we move. Not one at a time. All of us. At once. They're expecting cargo. They're not expecting a fight."

I look at the women. Six faces. Scared. Exhausted. Angry. The anger is what I need.

"The drainage grates. Pull them up." I demonstrate, lifting the heavy metal grate from the floor. It's about three pounds of cast iron with sharp edges. "These are weapons. Not great ones, but better than nothing. When the door opens, the two strongest of us rush the first man through. Hit low. Hit the knees. Everyone else runs for the tree line. Don't stop. Don't look back. Get into the trees and keep going until you can't hear them behind you."

Katya picks up a grate. Megan picks up the other. The remaining women position themselves behind them, ready to run. We arrange ourselves in the dark, backs against the walls on either side of the door, so when it swings open we're behind it, not in front of it.

I hold the drainage grate in both hands. My arms are shaking. My heart is slamming against my ribs. The footsteps stop outside the door.

A key rattles in the padlock.

The lock drops. The hasp swings free. The door handle turns.