Trafficking

***
Trafficking
***

I try not to think about it as I slam the barrel of my gun into the back of the woman's head. I do it fast and quick; she doesn't have time to utter a sound as she crumbles unconscious. I reach out and catch her in my arms, laying her gently on the damp pavement. The only sound made is the plastic trash bag she held in her hands falling to the ground with a gentle tingle, barely loud enough to gather any attention.

The alleyway on the side of her cramped apartment is shadowy and dark, the burnt-out light bulb of the drooping lamppost flickering intermittently. A large dumpster blocked us from the deserted street, obscuring us further from any prying eyes. There is plenty of cover and I am not worried about any nocturnal wanderers inadvertently crossing our path at this time of night.

I notice the glistening of blood on the hilt of my pistol. I wipe it carefully off onto her
loose blouse before tucking the gun safely into its holster. Crouching next to the cataleptic woman, I bind her wrists together with plastic ties. After she is bound I pull out a roll of duct tape and tightly tape her mouth. Silent.

A stolen car sits at the entrance to the alleyway, some punk's little tuner car with beautifully blacked out windows; beyond perfect. I stole it earlier in the night in preparation for what needed to be done.

I lift the woman over my shoulder and carry her towards the car. Peering out from the shadows, I make sure to double-check that there are no unwanted visitors in the street. As usual, the dank streets are empty. A few parked cars, but nothing else.

Popping open the trunk to the car, I dump her inside. She doesn't stir in the slightest.

I glance back at the house, a habit. I can see her husband watching television inside, oblivious to the world. He will not notice the she is gone until his show is over. They never do.

Jogging to the side of the car, I open the door, slide inside, and quietly drive away.

***

The second woman I grab is a little more difficult. She is not at her own home but someone else’s, a toddler in her care. She is babysitting for a family, both an unexpected and welcomed distraction.

I crouch outside the family room window, concealed by the bushes. The lights are off in the room. Only the blue, flickering light of the television illuminates their faces. They are watching some sort of cartoon, something old and rare. Possibly Disney. They are sharing a bowl of popcorn and the child looks tired. It will have to be put to bed soon.

There are no alarms on the windows and it is unlocked. I sometimes feel bad when they make this so easy. Sometimes I wish for the challenge of an alarm or a well-trained dog. At least a camera or too. Instead, I am repeatedly faced with inadequacy and incompetence. These people put their own lives in danger. If it was not me, it would be somebody else sooner or later.

The girl, young and pretty this time, notices the exhaustion on the child’s face. I watch as she stands and takes the kid into her arms, leading it from the room. As she does this I slowly open the window until it is wide enough for me to slip through. She is singing a lullaby, something older than her years, and smiling. The toddler is drowsy but pouty, unable to resist her but too sleepy to do as asked. It provides the perfect diversion as I creep around the corner, hiding within the shadows.

The child’s room is just off of the family room, down a short hallway. A mirror, casually used as decoration, has now become a tool for me to observe them from across the room. I can study her as she walks the child into the bathroom. I can hear as she tells it to brush its teeth, change its clothes. I can watch as she finally gets the child into bed and closes its bedroom door, saying goodnight.

I hold my breath as she enters the family room. I run the risk of her turning on the light and spotting me, lurking around the corner. Instead she flounces back over to the coach and a plops down, curling up amongst blankets and pillows and watches the rest of the movie by herself. The probability of the parents returning increases slightly but I do not move, not yet. I was assured I would have an hour window. I will not risk premature action by letting my nerves get to me. Patience is the key.

The credits finally roll. She stands and grabs her empty glass of clinking ice and heads towards the kitchen. I wait in the shadows of the perfectly curved hallway, in between both rooms. If she takes the most probable route she has to pass where I linger silently in the darkness.

She goes down as quickly as the first.

This time I wrap a towel filled with chloroform around her head. She cries out pitifully, muffled from my hand clamped tightly over the mouth, before falling unconscious. The glass falls from her hand and I deftly reach out and catch it before it falls, placing it calmly on the granite countertop. I bind her wrists and ankles quickly and pull her towards the front door.

A soft cry is uttered in the dark.

I jerk my head towards the sound. Standing in the doorway, blanket clutched in one hand, stands the child. Its eyes take in the sight of me, hunched over the unmoving body of his young caretaker. His eyes widen and fill with tears. I do not move, afraid of startling the child further, but something has to be done.

His lips begin to shake and I brace myself for the screams of fear that do not come. Whether it is from exceptional parenting or dumb luck, the child cries silently. Leaving the body, I slowly walk towards the child. He shies away from me, terror plain in his face. I am masked, a simple black hood that reveals only the darkness of my eyes. I remove it.

I am not afraid of the child seeing my face. He is not old enough to recognize it and no police force would dare forcibly extracting the memory electronically from a child so young.

This tiny reassurance of familiarity, the act of seeing that I am, for lack of a better word, human in his eyes instead of a dark monster, serves to confuse him further. He softly cries harder and I take him into my arms. He clutches me tightly around my neck, taking comfort.

I shush him, carrying him back towards his room. I gently lay him into his bed and cover him. Kneeling by his side, I whisper to him. Reassuring words, soothing sounds, I tell him everything is going to be all right. His parents are going to be home soon. They love him.

He shrinks against the bed, much too large for his small body. I am done here.

I stand, leaving his bedroom. I shut the door behind me and wait thirty seconds. He does not follow me.

I go back to the comatose body of the girl and drag her the rest of the way towards the front door. It is a waste of time to attempt pulling her out the window and besides, I try not to make it look like there was in any way a struggle.

Before I open the door I turn off the lights on the front porch. The house is on the darkest corner of the residential street with plenty of shrubbery blocking the view; another perfect location.

As I leave I make sure to lock the front door before I close it. The little boy is innocent and did not deserve any danger that could befall him. He will be fine the twenty or so minutes left before his parents come home. Maybe this will teach them to have better security.

Once again I pull the girl over my shoulder and carry her to the car. Popping open the trunk, I plop her next to the other girl, close the trunk and then drive away.

***


The third girl is the hardest.

I drive up to a secluded house on a bad side of town. Her house is lit with lights; Christmas lights and Halloween decorations, an eclectic array of extinct holidays and traditions, really anything that will light the place up. People are laying about the front yard, smoking and drinking, kissing and probably fucking.

Cars are parked everywhere. I have to park too far away; far enough that it makes me extremely anxious. The last thing I need is some dickwad breaking into my car and finding the bound girls.

I sit for a moment in my car before getting out. I remove my mask. It would be useless. I also pull a black sweatshirt out from underneath the passenger seat and pull it over the outside of my armor. It made me look inconspicuous and supplementary appropriate for a party scene. I hated it. It made me feel clumsy and crude.

I get out of my car, careful to lock it before walking towards the party. I feel unprofessionally nervous. My hands are beginning to sweat and my mouth is dry. This cannot be a simple grab and bag. There is no way I can get away with carrying the hostess out of her own party.

My gun is safe and secure in my pants but it is of little comfort.

I walk past the various groups of people mingling on the lawn. The men are tatted up and menacing, towering over me. They are an assorted mix of Mexicans and whites, a couple blacks. The men are all dressed similarly enough, with jeans and t-shirts, jewelry and other crap garnishing their bodies obnoxiously. Hats are cocked askew on their heads and cigarettes dangle from many of their mouths. The women, on the other hand, stand out.

Some are wearing dresses so short they leave nothing to the imagination. Skin tight, they leave their asses and tits bulging, their nipples poking and anyone can tell if they are shaved or not. Their hair is big and long, extensions obvious on some, others rarely natural with glossy waves. Blondes, brunettes, redheads - impossible to tell who is natural and who is not. Their eyes are illuminated with eyeliner and falsies, cartoonish and jarring. Glossed over with drugs or alcohol, they are walking dolls.

I know what my mark looks like but I am afraid that she might be in a very frustratingly accidental disguise. I will have to ask around for her which will only bring unwanted attention onto me. I prefer to be a ghost, not a kidnapper.

The people are crowding around the front door and for a second I fear there will be a bouncer. Further observations shows that they are just ignorant sheep all pushing together at once to get in. There is a gate on the side that a few people are entering so I take that route.

On the side of the house a man sits on a plastic chair, arms placed casually behind his head, as a bimbo kneels before him and gives him head. His pants are at his feet and she is fully clothed but this intimate act displayed so publicly makes me feel like they are both completely exposed. Another couple walks past them giggling like this act was completely natural to them. I hurry past them, trying not to gag at the sight of their debauchery.

Finally I round the back and can put it from my mind. I focus on the target ahead. A group of girls stand together, like sacrifices, as a group of men eyes them from afar. Ignoring the men, I approach one of the ladies and gently tap her on the shoulder.

She turns around, glaring, her eyes having trouble focusing on whoever is intruding on their conversation. Our eyes meet and instead of bitching at me like she clearly intended she breaks out into a marred smile, cigarette stained teeth showing up harshly against her garish red lipstick.

"H-hey," she slurs, stumbling on her sky-high heels. She grins at me like she won the prize. I shoot her back a smile of my own and watch as her heart melts. "Can I help you?"

"I'm hoping you can," I answer. I allow her to lean towards me. I know she can see that I am different from the other guys; I smell different, talk different, act different. I can see her eyes unabashedly glancing over my body, trying to determine who and what I am. "I'm looking for someone...a friend. I haven't seen her in a while and tonight we are supposed to meet."

She laughs hysterically. “You a cop, dude?”

I shake my head. “Do I look like a cop to you?”

She eyes me again. “Pfft. No. Too young ta be a cop. Who’re you?”

“Look, if you can’t help me, never mind.” I turn to walk away and she grabs my arm, stopping me.

"Ok, ok, fine! Who is it?"

My victim. "Jessica."

"Oh, Jessica! Ok! No problem! Um..." she turns to the other girls who are looking at her and me with interest. They begin whispering, their eyes looking me over, evaluating me. Some give her thumbs up. I smile shyly at them and they melt once more. "Yeah...she's inside, somewhere. We can go find her together."

"Perfect," I drawl, holding out my hand. She grins almost childlike at me and slips her hand into mine. Her clammy fingers in twine with mine and I resist the urge to shudder. She is freezing but her skin is covered with a light sheen of sweat. "Lead me there."

This girl puts on a show, dragging me past the other men like price. She repeatedly glances at me over her shoulder with an obvious lust in her eyes, attempting to give me coy, come hither looks. The other guys give us a glance but no one moves against us; they all have their pick of the rest of the lambs baited for them. What was one less?

The inside is worse than the outside. Cigarette smoke and pot smoke cloud the air from floor to ceiling. People move about the house like a living organism, a constant hum of conversation melting into the deep rhythm of the pulsing music. People kiss and fondle one another as we pass by them. I catch a glimpse through an open door of an orgy taking place. One small girl, probably barely legal, sucking on the cock of a lumbering man who pounds roughly into her mouth as two men stand behind her, each thrusting in and out of her in perfect harmony. Another man enters the room as we pass by it, closing the door behind him.

We move past it all and up a flight of stairs where one of the shut doors has a star on it and the name 'Jessica' scrawled across it in cursive.

The girl reaches for the door handle but the door opens up before she can reach it, a rather pretty woman shoves a muscular but short man from the room with a string of curses, the term 'needle dick' being the most prevalent.

"Stupid fucking cunt," he growls as he shoves by us and shuffles nosily down the stairs.

Jessica appears at the doorway, refreshingly natural looking, with her soft red hair pulled up in a messy bun atop her head and raccoon makeup smeared across her eyes. She looks both of us up and down before glancing at the girl still clutching my hand. "What the fuck is this?"

"He's here for you," she slurs, lightly pushing me towards the doorway. "A cute one, for once."

She observes me coolly. Instead of the typical compliance I am used to she shows signs of wariness. "I don't know you."

"He said he's a friend..."

"Fuck off, Rachel. Go back to your friends."

I do not glance at my guide as she disappears down the stairs. I keep my eyes on Jessica, watching her every move. My mind calculates the proper response. "You do know me,” I say, leaning against the doorway. “We met at the last party.”

She hesitates before responding. "Oh really."

I nod. I want to say more but she is less intoxicated than I would have liked. I was hoping she would be like the others.

After watching me for a full minute she finally opens the door a little wider, giving me a glance of her room; bed without sheets, obvious stains. Bottles of liquor and cans of beer littering the ground. A mirror with white powder on it. She also gives me a glance of her body, surprisingly fit and unmarred, with the exception of a growing bruise on the inside of her left arm. "What do you want?"

"A repeat. Of that night.
"
She blinks as if surprised by my forwardness. I doubt I am the first one to say something along those lines to her. "Now?"

"No."

She frowns this time but I know that she is intrigued, even if a little afraid. I do not look like her other...customers. "When?"

"Somewhere else. I can't be around this."

"Why would I go anywhere with you?"

I sigh obnoxiously and languidly lick my lips. "Then you really don't remember me and aren't just playing hard to get. You didn't have a problem with it last time."

"Last time."

"Yes, last time," I snap, feeling slightly frustrated. If she noticed my break of character, she does not show it.

"Ok...where?"

"My car."

This time she laughs out loud. "No way, dude. Get lost."

Perfect. I shrug like it does not matter and start to back away. "Ok then, I guess." I start towards the stairs when she calls back to me.

"Why your car?"

I grin to myself; hook, line, and sinker. “You know why." I look back and see her pouting, her arms crossed against her chest. I reach out to grab her hand and begin pulling her towards the stairs. "Because I have it."

"What's ‘it’?"

"It," I say, emphasizing the word. Her hands go cold in my palms, and her grip tightens.

"No you don't," she contradicts, but her voice is anxious with excitement and now I know I have her for certain. "You can't possibly."

"I do." When I say this there is truth in my voice because it is true. I do have It. "That's why you wanted me in the first place, Jessica. You knew I had it then."

"Let's go. Quick, please."

She practically pushes me down the stairs and pass the unsuspecting people who mingled in their own selfishness. No one glances at us as we shove our way out the door and into the darkened street. She follows me to my car and I open the passenger door for her. She gets inside, vaguely complements my car, and I shut the door behind her.

I take my time on this one. She is jittery beside me, probably wondering when I am going to give her what she wants. Instead of giving her the satisfaction, I turn on the car and start heading out. I do not want to wait too long because if I do, she might start suspecting something.

"How did you get it?"

I pause. "I know someone."

She snorts. "We all know someone, kid." This time she turns to me and gives me a look, one that shows she knows I am not just some random party crasher or someone who came back to her after a good fuck. She does not know who I really am but if I am involved with ‘it’, I am at least someone she feels she can trust. How wrong she is. "Seriously, how did you get it? Is it good or old or..."

"It's fresh," I mumble, dropping my act. "There's a supplier in the city who does trades."

"Trades?" she asks, her anxiety building again. Good. "Instead of money?"

"Well, he takes money too," I say, driving through the country roads back towards civilization. There are no any other cars on these roads. I will be able to make my move soon. "Cash only, and rarely. He doesn't want money. He can't use money. He has to be paid with something he really wants."

I pull over the car when I find a secluded spot, a little nook off the side of the road that is shadowed by huge trees and a short hill. I park the car and turn off the headlights. The only light now comes from the moon above, pregnant and full. I open my car door and she follows suite.

"What do you trade for it?"

I ignore her and walk around the car till I am at the trunk. She stumbles after me, cold and shivering, grasping her arms tightly around her body. She looks weak, standing so timidly at my side, her secret inner strength kept hidden and probably weakened by her desire for it more than her own safety. I pop open the trunk and back away, slowly removing my gun.

She slowly approaches the trunk, her confusion evident. It is dark enough that she cannot see what is inside the trunk and I can see her tension grow. "Wh-what?"

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I lash out with the barrel of my gun, cracking her on the back of her skull. She lets out a soft cry before falling forward, halfway into the trunk. I quickly finish it up, binding her wrists and ankles, then gagging her. I slide her all the way into the trunk, tucking her gently between the other girls. The other two were still unconscious, helped by narcotics. All three would remain out by the time I returned to the City.

As I softly close the trunk, I mumble to myself Jessica's answer.

"I trade women."

***

Author's Notes:

Thank you for reading my story. Please review or rate. Criticism is much appreciated. English is not my first language so I apologize for any blatant errors.

Thank you.