CHAPTER TWELVE

"Jesus," muttered Otto, staring at the dirty, mostly naked, abused young girls. "Where the fuck do we take them?"

"Nine arranged for a Japanese Coast Guard cutter to meet us," said Cruz. "They're going to take the girls and get them to safety and help them. Just give me a hand patching them up for now. Most of them won't speak to me. Mark their arms with permanent marker and a number. That's how I'll keep the medical treatment records separated."

"They're not afraid of us at all," said Vince, frowning at his friend. "Most trafficking survivors are terrified. These girls are just sitting there as if they're waiting for orders. What the fuck is happening?"

"These girls have been bred to not be afraid. They've been trained since they were babies," said Cruz. "They don't understand fear. They only understand pain. That's good and bad. They won't fight us when we try to help them, but they may not tell me where the pain is. They might not be able to."

With the speed of the G.R.I.P.-designed boat, they were able to meet the Japanese vessel in a little over six hours. It took Cruz that long just to get the women cleaned and their wounds dressed.

The internal damage, the psychological damage would take forever. Not expecting them all to need clothing, they had to make do with what they had. Each young woman was given a long-sleeved t-shirt that fell to their knees.

As the Japanese team stepped on board, they stared at the three dozen girls and gasped.

"It's worse than it looks," said Cruz to the Japanese doctor. "They don't express pain. If they did, they were beaten. I'm fairly sure we have a few broken bones. I've included the x-rays from the portable machine in the medical records. I didn't dare try an internal examination of any of them. I think they'll have to be anesthetized in order to do that. Or worse, they won't."

"I've never seen anything like this," whispered the young man. "I have a sister their age. I can't imagine."

"I know, brother. I know."

As the last of the girls were carefully, gently boarded onto the next ship, hopefully, headed toward a better, healing life, the final young girl turned to Cruz and the others.

"Thank you." The ship sailed onward, and Otto looked at Cruz and Vince.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit! Can we go back and help kill those men?" Cruz nodded at him.

"We're going back."

Trak, Jean, and Whiskey walked toward the table where the three men were still seated. Actually, they didn't have an option. Their hands had been secured to the table with machetes. Machetes they attempted to use on Rory.

"I take it they fought you?" smirked Jean.

"Well, they tried," shrugged Rory. "Here's the fun shit. They're American. All three are fucking Americans. Former military." He tossed their IDs on the table, and the other three men stared at the IDs. Two were in their sixties, one in his mid-seventies.

"You fucking piece of shit," growled Jean.

"Call me what you want. You'll be dead by tomorrow," smirked the first man with a sense of arrogance that was unearned.

"Do you know how many times I've heard that in my life?" growled Rory. "And yet it hasn't happened yet."

Clearly in pain, the men grimaced, squirming in their seats.

"Who owns this place?" asked Trak. Silence met his glare until he pulled out the two bloody Bowie knives. "Who owns this place?"

"My friend isn't in the habit of repeating himself," said Whiskey. "If I were you, I'd speak to him now before you lose your tongue."

"Sorry. I know who you are," said one of the men. "I'll be dead either way. I won't break my loyalty. My honor and code."

Rory stared at him, then gripped the machete in his right hand, twisting it as he pulled it from his hand. He let out a scream that echoed in the trees, causing the birds and monkeys to screech. Lifting it, he brought it down, removing his hand.

"You like to deliver pain to little girls. Girls who can't fight for themselves. Girls that you've taught to be silent, even in torture. There is a special hell for you, and I'm going to send you there. You swore an oath, a code, once upon a time. And you've just revealed to me that the man you answer to also did."

His eyes went wide as he tried to press the stump of his arm into his gut to staunch the bleeding.

"Before you kill him," said Code, "turn them so I can get a read on their faces and get their fingerprints. Just in case the IDs are fake."

Rory gripped their faces so that they could easily be seen in his camera. Whiskey scanned their IDs and sent them to Code while Trak pressed their fingers onto the tablet for the fingerprints.

"Where is he? Where is your boss?" asked Trak. He twisted the machete on the second man's hand as he screamed, grimacing in pain.

"We don't know! Okay, stop. We don't know. He comes and goes at odd times. We never know."

"A name," repeated Trak. They were completely silent. "Okay. We'll leave a message for your boss."

"You're letting us live?" asked one of the men hopefully.

"No."

Dragging the three men toward the tarp-covered structure, their hands were nailed to the supports with the machetes once again. The man with one hand was secured by his remaining limb. Then Trak disappeared, returning a few moments later with the whip that Rikovsky had used on the girl.

He whipped the razor-sharp strands around the three bodies, their screams seemingly unheard by the other men. When they were secured, Trak set several charges around the compound.

"You're fucking crazy," gasped one of the men. "Everyone always said you were fucking crazy."

"Oh, you haven't even met crazy," said Rory. "Crazy is still at home. But they're coming. They're all fucking coming for your boss, and we will find him."

"Please, please don't do this," he pleaded.

"Where is the island?" asked Jean. The men froze, staring at their tormentors. "Last chance. Where is the island?"

"We don't know," said the now one-handed man. "We were never there. Only they go."

"They?" frowned Whiskey.

"Him and his brother. That's all I can say. We don't know where the islands are."

"Islands? Well, aren't you full of surprises," growled Jean. "You've fucking started. Finish this!"

He stubbornly shook his head, and Jean just stepped back, staring at the three men.

"Do it," he said, nodding to Trak. "And if it's possible, make it slow."

As the men walked toward the road, the slow explosions behind them sent thunderous clouds of smoke and fire into the air. Not one of them said a word. Quietly moving toward their ultimate target. They would find the men in charge, and they would find those islands. When they did, they would exact a pain on them the likes of which their sick imaginations had never conceived.