Page 54 of Untamed Hunter Daddy

“They always say that,” she says. Her voice is flat. “Someone’s coming. Help is on the way. It doesn’t come.”

“It came for me once already. A man tracked me through the mountains in a blizzard and carried me out. He’s a federal marshal. He’s got a team and they have evidence that’s going to bring this whole operation down. I’m not guessing. I know.”

She studies me for a long moment.

“I’m Sara,” she says finally. Not trust. Just a name offered as a test.

“How long have you been here, Sara?”

“Three weeks. Maybe four. The days blur.” She glances at the others, who are listening without speaking. “We came from different places. Different towns. Same story. A charming man. A job that sounded better. A car ride that went too far.”

Different towns. That means the network is bigger than Timber Creek and Alpha Range. Multiple recruiters feeding into central holding locations.

“How many men have you seen?” I ask. Not how are you. Not I’m sorry. The questions that matter are the ones that will help the team when they get here.

Sara’s eyes shift. Something like curiosity flickers behind the flatness.

“Four regulars. They work in shifts, two at a time. They come and go through the loading dock. There’s a room on the far side they use as an office. The man who runs it, the one they call Derek, has been in three times. He doesn’t stay long.”

“Derek is Tyler. That’s his real name. He’s a recruiter for a trafficking network the federal government has been investigating for months. The last operation he ran got shut down in a raid. Fourteen women were recovered. He rebuilt here because he thought no one was watching.”

The information moves through the enclosure. I can feel it hitting each woman in turn.

A voice from the back speaks. I thought she was asleep. Her accent is careful, each word chosen deliberately.

“There are more of us. Not here. Another place. I heard them talking about a shipment. Tomorrow night. They’re moving us. All of us. Somewhere further. One of the men said the word Canada.”

Canada. Tomorrow night. A shipment.

“What time?” I ask.

“Late. After dark. One of them said they’d load the vans at eleven.”

Eleven PM tomorrow. That’s the deadline.

I look at the padlock. Heavy hardened steel. Not something I can break. The chain-link is bolted down on three sides, but the fourth side, closest to the wall, has a gap at the bottom where the concrete is uneven. Maybe six inches. Not enough to squeeze through. Enough to pass a message under.

“Sara. Is there anything sharp in here? A nail, a screw, a piece of wire? Anything I can write with?”

She reaches under her sleeping bag and pulls out a bent three-inch nail, rusted. She’s been keeping it hidden.

“I was going to use it on the next man who touched me,” she says. Matter-of-fact.

“Can I borrow it? I’ll give it back.”

She hands it over. It’s warm from her body. I turn to the concrete near the gap under the fence, where a stripe of outside light falls across the floor, and start scratching.

The nail bites into the surface with a harsh scraping sound. Each letter takes full pressure from my wrist and forearm. The handwriting is jagged and uneven, but legible. That’s all that matters.

6 WOMEN. 4 GUARDS. 2 SHIFT. OFFICE FAR WALL. MOVE TO CANADA 11PM TOMORROW. ZOE IS HERE.

I put the message as close to the gap as I can, where the light will catch it if someone sweeps this way with a flashlight.

Then I start on the zip ties.

Ryker showed me the technique one evening in the cabin. Arms up above the head, elbows wide, then bring them down hard toward the waist while pulling the wrists apart. The force concentrates on the ratchet. The ratchet fails.

In theory.