Page 8 of Dirty

My eyes shot to the two nasty fuckers on the couch. Wearing what at one time may have been khakis and moldy wife beaters, they looked like living hell. As the air between us thickened with the taste of cordite, I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowed hard.

I pointed the pistol at the man on the right. Greasy strands of jet black hair were plastered against the sides of his face. He wiped his eye with the heel of his palm, and then blinked.

“Donde esta la chica?” I asked.

Where’s the girl?

He shifted his eyes toward the hallway. “Estan al final del pasillo.”

They’re at the end of the hallway.

The response of they instead of she took me off guard.

I raised the barrel of the pistol and pointed it at his face. “Cuantos?”

How many?

He shrugged one shoulder. “Cinco o seis?”

Five or six?

My jaw tightened. I had hoped to find Alexandra. I wasn’t prepared – physically or emotionally – to encounter five or six women.

“Quantos anos?”

How old?

He gazed at the floor, let out an exaggerated sigh, and then looked at me. “Uno es nueve.” He shrugged. “Uno es once. Las otras? Quizas…dieciocho.”

There were fifteen rounds left in the magazine. Upon hearing his response, I pulled the trigger repeatedly, shooting each of the men until all the bullets were spent and the pistol’s slide stayed locked open.

The thought of them having a nine-year-old girl held captive caused every muscle in my body to tense. I released the empty magazine, loaded a full one, and stepped over the dead man sprawled out in the hallway. When I reached the far door, I paused. After taking a deep breath, I grabbed the handle and pushed it open.

Dear fucking God.

An otherwise naked girl who was partially covered with a bedsheet stood with her arms outspread as if protecting the girls who were huddled behind her from harm. She was the tallest, and appeared to be the oldest of the group. Her hollow eyes and bruised face were a testament to the brutality she had experienced during the living hell I was sure she’d endured.

The room, void of any furnishings, reeked of urine, shit, and the scent of sex. I swallowed the bile that was rising into my throat and pushed my pistol into the waist of my pants.

I gazed at the half-naked protector. She looked just like Lucy, only younger. There was no doubt in my mind that she was her daughter, Alexandra.

Before I could speak, she locked eyes with me. “Fuck you,” she hissed. “You’re not taking her. Take me.”

Obviously, she didn’t recognize me, and thought I was one of them. It came as no surprise, I hadn’t seen her in more than ten years.

I raised my hands in the air.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m not here to hurt you.” I tipped my hat up slightly. “Your mother sent me. I’m here to help. I’m going to get you out of here – all of you – but I need to call for some help.”

I had to turn away. Seeing a room filled with petrified pre-teens was far more than my boiling emotions were capable of concealing. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and made the only call I knew would do any good.

He answered on the third ring. “What’s shakin’, motherfucker?”

I struggled not to vomit. After swallowing repeatedly, I responded. “Peeb, I need some help. I’m at Fourteenth and Bush in Oceanside. Bike’s out front. I need six – no make it seven – of the fellas here as quick as possible. Tell ‘em each to bring a spare helmet and glasses. They’ll uhhm. They’ll each have a rider on the roll out.”

“How quick’s quick?”

“It’s a 9-1-1, Brother.”