His Princess (A Royal Romance)(131)

He lifts his hand and peels back his coat sleeve to check his watch.

“Time is at hand. Now, we are leaving. I will give you simple instructions. You will walk outside and get in the vehicle. If you make any attempt to run, raise the alarm, or draw attention to yourself, you will be shot in the head. Is this clear to you?”

I nod.

“Good. Front door, to the car in the driveway. Go.”

I stand up, holding the girls’ hands. I have to drag Karen to her feet before she starts moving, practically clinging to me. I slowly walk to the front door, turn the knob, and step out. The sunlight stings my eyes.

The street is utterly deserted. There’s barely any sound other than the soft rumble of the big SUV sitting in my driveway. A tall, thin man in sunglasses is holding the back door open. Deep breath, and I gently push the girls in first then climb in after them and sit in the middle of the bench seat between them.

The door closes, and the other side opens. The man in the mask steps inside and sits in the seat in front of us, facing us, like a limo. He reaches into his coat, draws out a pistol with a long, fat tube on the barrel and rests it on his leg then reaches back and raps on the glass partition with his knuckles. I can’t see the driver.

Think, Rose. There’s a way out of this, an angle you’re not seeing.

“Where are we going?”

The masked man looks up, or at least his head lifts.

“Yes, I should have known you’d ask questions. It doesn’t matter. I’m taking you to a place of certain importance to recent events. Did Quentin tell you why he was forced to come here?”

“Yes.”

I glance at the girls and tighten my grip on their hands. They don’t need to hear that story.

“I would take you to the target’s house, but our dear Quentin burned it down. I will instead take you to one of his working facilities. That will, I think, be more appropriate.”

“Working facilities?”

“Patience, my sweet, thorny Rose. You shall see. In fact you shall become quite acquainted with it.”

Oh God.

I pull my girls close and stare at the floor, trying not to draw his attention. He holds the gun in a loose grip, his finger resting near the trigger. It’s pointed at the door now but he could have it pointed at me, or worse, one of my daughters, with a flick of his wrist.

I could try getting it away from him. I’m not tied down.

“I know what you are thinking,” he says in a bored voice. “It is a terrible idea. There are three of you. I can lose one before we reach the grand finale.”

I settle back into the seat.

“How do you know he’ll get your message?”

“I know where he’ll go when he’s put to flight. I know his ground. The rabbit will run into my snare, and he will put his head in the noose of his own volition. It was valiant to try and lie to me on his behalf but I have known Quentin Mulqueen since he was twelve years old. You cannot think you know his heart better than I. He loses his head for women. You are not the first.”

I feel a little sting there. Then I remind myself he wasn’t my first either. It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that we get out of this and get away from this lunatic.

This guy is nuts.

After maybe an hour in the car we turn off. I don’t recognize this place. It’s somewhere outside of Philadelphia, I think, in an industrial area. We drive through a chemical plant or an oil refinery, something like that. Lots of tanks and pipes, except there’s nothing going on, no activity. I know it’s Sunday but places like that don’t usually shut down. It takes a long time for them to start up.

Toward the back of the complex there’s a big warehouse. Parked outside are busses, tucked together in rows. Other cars, signs of life. I stare anxiously through the windows as we park and more men in suits emerge from the building.

They have guns.

The driver pulls the door open and Santiago motions with his pistol. I step out first and pull the girls close to me. Santiago steps out behind me and tucks his tie into his jacket to stop it blowing in the breeze. Sweat beads on his mask, soaking through the fabric. He takes a moment to dab it off with a handkerchief before shoving me around the car as I pull the girls along.

“Get them inside,” Santiago commands. “I don’t want them touched yet. Take them to the office.”

Three men nod, one of them shaking when Santiago looks at him. They’re afraid of this man, I realize. No, they’re terrified.

Karen and Kelly cling to my side when we walk inside. It’s boiling hot in the warehouse, and it smells. It takes me a moment to understand what I’m seeing.

Pens. There are pens. They’re made of chain link on posts driven into the floor, ten-foot fences open to their air and topped with concertina wire. Each has six bunk beds in it, and each pen is crowded with ten or more women and girls, packed so tightly together they can do nothing but lie on the beds in puddles of sweat or huddle close to each other, trying to cool themselves on the bare concrete floor. No showers, no privacy, just buckets.

Oh my God.

“Repulsive, isn’t it?” Santiago says loudly.

The armed men glance at him but quickly look away.

“All men are pigs, do you know this? All women, too. This is what people are: they eat and they shit and they make more little people to eat and shit. Strip away the veneer of civilization and this is what you are left with: the strong holding dominance over the weak. You have been told enough already by Quentin, no doubt, to understand that these women are here to be processed and sold.”