Page 21 of Her Mercenary

I heard her last gasp of air. Heard her body hit the ground.

I turned my face as I was marched past her dead body, holding my breath so as not to smell the blood pouring from her. My heart roared as I forced my gaze to stay on my dirty bare feet. One step, another, and another.

The grind of doors opening sounded ahead, the smell of oil and gasoline wafting on the air. Though I couldn’t hear them, I could feel that I was suddenly in the presence of many people. My heart beat faster.

“Up.”

The backs of my bare legs were whipped by a stick, the gun shoved into the side of my head as I approached what appeared to be the back of a U-Haul truck, the kind of inconspicuous moving van you pass every day on the highway without giving it a second glance. Most are filled with food or cargo, but this one was filled with at least a dozen slaves of human trafficking. Each was handcuffed, barely dressed, covered in bruises, sitting in rows on the floor.

I could feel the fear radiating off them.

What is happening? Where are we being taken?

I struggled to get up into the truck, not only because my hands were cuffed but because my legs were stiff from being immobile for weeks.

“Up!” the guard spat in my face.

I scrambled onto the trailer, accidently slamming my knee as I pulled my leg up to meet my body. Someone laughed behind me.

A hand gripped my bicep, jerking me for my incompetence. Then I was pulled to my feet and guided down the row of skinny, desensitized humans.

That’s when I saw them. Four wide, wild eyes among the dead souls. The children, barely visible behind two adult women.

I stumbled, shifting my body weight as I slipped out of the hands of my captor and fell onto the floor, scrambling my way to the children. Someone screamed. The guards yelled, guns lifted.

I slid behind the children, pulled my knees to my chest, and froze, keeping my eyes down.

My life was spared that night.

Once the doors were shut and secured, we were told by the guards who remained in the trailer to stay down, stay quiet, and to not move. Wearing army fatigues and balaclavas, and carrying AK-47s, they walked through the rows of slaves, tapping our heads with the tip of the barrel as they passed. Up and down, up and down, they slowly walked through the rows of slaves.

We drove for hours upon hours through that night.

The little boy was deathly pale, his skin gray, his eyes glassy. This time, he threw up quietly in his hand and hid it there. I began to wonder if he had some sort of sickness. An illness that needed medication.

At some point, we were given water to drink and some sort of wafers to eat.

Over the course of the ride, I noticed the girl becoming increasingly agitated in front of me, shifting constantly, breathing heavily, an occasional moan escaping her chapped lips. I didn’t know what was happening until she shifted enough to where I noticed the blood smeared on the floor. The girl had started her period. For the first time, I guessed.

I recalled the first time I’d started my period. I was in the bathroom, my mom next to me, boxes of both pads and tampons laid out in front of me—because my mom didn’t know which brand I would like the most, so she’d bought them all. We went through it together, she and I.

The girl’s shoulders shook as she began to cry.

My heart shattered.

I gently put my hand on her back, staring for a moment at the grotesque deformity that had once been my pinky finger.

I closed my eyes, bowed my head, and began to pray.

11

SAM

When the U-Haul came to an abrupt stop, I awoke with a jolt. Bodies banged against each other, unceremoniously awoken. Wide, panicked eyes gazed back and forth, everyone curious as to where we had arrived.

Correction—where we’d been taken to.

I squeezed the girl’s hand. We hadn’t let go of each other since the moment I prayed against her ear. For hours, we’d secretly held hands. Whatever comfort she was able to draw from me rejuvenated my need for survival. I had a reason now to be strong, to live, for this young girl and her twin brother.