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  Rising from my seat, I press my hands on top of Spencer’s desk and lean in.

  “What order?”

  Spencer takes in a deep breath and let out a slow sigh.

  “The shipment goes out, regardless of whether or not his quota has been met. Regardless of the schedule. His men have been instructed to pack up everything and vanish, the products included.”

  Products?

  Not people, or children.

  Not joyful lives, or human beings, but products.

  That’s how El Toro sees his victims.

  For the ones who escape, they never see home again. For those who survive, they face an unspeakable future. If The Bull goes down, all of his victims go down with him. It’s a gut-wrenching thought, especially now that Haylee’s included.

  My empty stomach feels full of guilt and hopelessness.

  Detective Spencer is hesitant to tell me something else. It’s when my stare burns into his face that he realizes, whatever it was, he’s going to fess up.

  He smears his palm across his scruffy chin.

  “There is one person who might be able to help, but for your protection, I didn’t want to bring him up. He’s someone who may hold the key to ending this whole thing. We’ve been trying to get him to talk, but he refuses unless…he can talk to you.”

  This is not the time for Spencer to hold back on me. With my rage, my desperation, my intent to do everything I can to find Haylee, whomever this person is, I will make them talk. All Spencer needs to do was put me in a room with them, but he doesn’t think it’s a good idea.

  Grabbing the files from his desk and throwing them against the wall, pictures and papers scatter and fall to the carpet like leaves from a tree.

  The commotion draws the attention of people passing by the office, including Reverend Jonas.

  My face burns red at the detective.

  “Like it or not, I’m involved! I’m not going to sit and watch from the sidelines! This isn’t some product! This is not some case number in a folder!”

  My anger is overwhelming and tears overcome me as I sob between each breath.

  Reverend Jonas enters and closes the door behind him. His heavy eyes watch me fall to my knees. He looks to the detective who stands and shakes his head. The Reverend leans down and rests his hands on my shoulders. In his company, breaking down becomes easier.

  Wiping my face, I look up at Spencer.

  “Haylee is not some random person who’s gone missing… She’s our daughter.”

  15. EITHER SIDE

  A drowsy and confused Haylee lay flat on a bare twin spring mattress in an old room. The door sits open a few inches from the frame. The sound of sniffles and quiet sobs come from outside in The Hallway. Her blurred vision comes into focus. The urge to sit up in panic is held back by her grogginess. She has no idea how she got there, and no clue where she is.

  The room is wrapped with shredded wallpaper from an old office. The light fixture is only a bulb socket with a small dangling chain as a switch. The wires curl out from under the ceiling tile. The carpet is a faded pattern, smashed so deep, it’s as hard as the concrete underneath.

  Beside the posts of her bed frame, sitting Indian-style with her legs crisscrossed and holding her head over her lap, is a weeping girl of the same age—Cherish.

  She’s startled by the squeak of the rusty bedframe, and rushes to Haylee’s side to keep her calm and tell her not to speak. It’s a hard task for anyone who doesn’t know my daughter.

  “Don’t freak out,” says Cherish, covering Haylee’s lips with one finger. “You’re safe for now.”

  Haylee’s wide eyes can’t look away as the strange girl examines her, flipping the collars of her shirt, the sides of her arms, behind her ears and neck.

  “You’re not marked,” says Cherish. “That’s good.”

  “What is this place?” asks Haylee.

  Her new friend tells her again to stay quiet, to not move, not to attract attention, and it’s better that Haylee not know the details just yet. Instead, she needs to listen and follow instructions. Cherish explains if Haylee has no tattoos, no scars, no birthmarks, nothing out of the ordinary, she might survive long enough to find a way out. She explains El Toro’s rules, and how Haylee has nothing to worry about, at least not at the present time. Haylee doesn’t appear to be rattled one bit. She brushes her hand through her hair and drops it to her lap.

  “My mom is a cop,” she says.

  Cherish smacks Haylee’s face to the side.

  “Shut the fuck up,” she whispers. “Here, you don’t have a mother. You’re not even a person. If you start talking about your life out there, it will put you in more danger.”

  Haylee grabs ahold of Cherish’s arm and twists it to where it won’t bend any farther.

  “Touch me again, bitch, and I’ll break your wrist.”

  Cherish’s lips speak shaking words.

  “I’m trying to save you.”

  Haylee isn’t playing a game of secrets; she wants to know what’s going on. Promising Cherish she won’t overreact, she listens to what fate lies ahead.

  Moments pass, and the more Cherish speaks, the more weak and frightened Haylee becomes. Yet, she stays calm as her thoughts race to find a solution.

  “If I’m marked now,” she says, “they kill me, but what happens if you’re marked after you’re traded or sold? What would those people do?”

  Cherish, frustrated to get Haylee to understand the severity of the situation, doesn’t have an answer. She assumes, in this imaginary scenario, whomever purchases her would do the same as El Toro, if not worse.

  “Why do they call him that?” asks Haylee.

  Cherish shrugs and returns to where she sat before. She whispers to Haylee about her sister, Valerie. She describes the fear and helplessness in her twin’s eyes. The sounds she made. The heavy pieces of her broken heart.

  Haylee climbs out of bed and takes a seat on the floor beside her. Sticking out from underneath the rusty frame is a sharp piece of metal, dislodged over the years of wear and tear. Haylee doesn’t notice it, not even when it snags the side of her pants.

  With her eyes gazing at the shred, she bites her lip and tells Cherish, “I’m not going out like that. If my mother doesn’t come for me, I’ll raise hell before I go.”

  Cherish leans against the wall, trying to keep her weeping from being heard. Haylee scoots closer and pushes Cherish’s hair from her face.

  “There was nothing I could do,” says Cherish. “I couldn’t save her. That bastard yanked the life right out of her, all because of a tattoo. My sister didn’t deserve that.”

  Haylee hangs her head for a beat and exhales through her nose.

  “This is bullshit,” she says. “A solution has to come from either side, out there or in here. Since we don’t know anything, it’s up to us to try from within these walls. We can at least try something. Your sister would want that. I have a family and a boyfriend, and I know they’re going crazy right now. I owe it to them to figure this out.”

  Cherish wipes her nose with her palm and her tears with her wrist.

  “It’s too bad our boyfriends are not in here with us,” she says, chuckling. “Mine always tells me he’ll protect me. That he’s alway wanted to be my hero.”

  A rush of weight and emptiness fills Haylee’s chest. Her eyes go wide as her face turns toward Cherish. She’s not angry at the girl, after all, it’s not her fault. Their shared boyfriend has done well keeping his secrets separated. Why add to an already stressful situation? Why say anything at that point? With the two girls being promised to soon live a short future, why make things worse?

  Like I’ve said before, Haylee’s a smart girl.

  Unfortunately, bottling up emotions can alter your ability to make rational decisions. When this happens to Haylee, she doesn’t always think things through. Like how she handled the bully in the lunchroom at her school; she tends to jump straight to action. Sure, it’s justifiable, but it can lead h
er to trouble.

  She scans the ceiling, but her ideas of crawling across the tiles to a possible freedom are sidetracked with imagined visions of Austin and Cherish together.

  She ganders at the guards outside the room, but as each one passes by, her thoughts of sizing them up for a fight change back to Austin winking and blowing her kisses.

  She tells Cherish to think up ways to escape, but each time the girl says anything, Haylee’s mind wanders back to Austin.

  Breaking free is impossible from both The Hallway and her own devastating thoughts.

  As Haylee stands, a sharp pain slices across the back of her thigh.

  The snagged cold shred of the bedframe leaves a small cut.

  Wiping a fingertip of blood away, Haylee smears a red blob to the carpet. It’s not until her newfound friend gasps, when it occurs to Haylee that she’s in immediate danger.

  Her mouth falls open, and the two stare at each other.

  “He hasn’t inspected you yet,” says Cherish. “Now you’re defective.”

  Heavy butterflies fall to the bottom of Haylee’s stomach.

  Examining the inside of her leg, the blood has soaked a red spot into her shorts.

  No longer do her thoughts search for ways to escape.

  No longer does she think of Austin.

  Now, she has to find a way to stay alive.

  16. BURN THE BULL (PART 5)

  KANSAS CITY, KANSAS - 2013

  The man, now known throughout Ft. Leavenworth as El Toro, walked through quiet rooms and wings of the prison. He was barefoot, wearing only sweatpants and a white cotton tank top.

  The guards had given the order for lights out long ago, but with The Bull’s rise to power, they allowed the monster to roam free.

  Bull had learned of a way out through the prison’s laundry room. At night, it was lit only by a single fluorescent bulb. To anyone who could experience fear, the room would seem creepy. Large industrial washing machines and dryers lined the room, appearing as beasts with their round doors, like mouths waiting to be fed. The buzzing sound from the electric panel gave the room an eerie theme.

  A click, like someone stepping on a piece of plastic, drew Bull’s attention.

  Two prison guards, neither of them associated with any wrong doing, came strolling through the laundry room. One of them lit a cigar. Once his eyes stopped fluttering from the smoke, he noticed Bull standing alone behind stacks of white laundry bags. Before both guards could pull the pistols from their holsters, he charged them with his arms spread outward, knocking them down like a clothesline.

  He towered over them and took away their guns, dropping one of the weapons in a barrel of bleach. Both guards stood and tried to subdue Bull, but his hands wrapped around their heads and with one clap, he smashed them together. The pain overwhelmed them. One man passed out and the two fell again to the hard concrete floor.

  Bull unwrapped his upper body by ripping his tank top into shreds, exposing the tattoo on his back. The face and horns of a bull, just underneath the back of his right shoulder.

  He lifted the head of the sleeping guard by his hair, shoved the man’s own gun into his mouth and unloaded the chamber.

  Blood and brain matter splattered the remaining guard’s face. Bull dropped the body, leaving it to leak puddles, and stomped toward the man, tossing the smoking gun to the side. The guard shook his head and begged El Toro not to be killed. He said he had a wife and kids waiting for him at home.

  The buzz-headed and sweaty Bull lifted him to his feet and pulled a wallet from the weak man’s pocket. He swung open a big round door to one of the washing machines, opening the billfold and removing a photograph of the guard, his wife, and two children.

  Clenching the man’s uniformed chest, Bull pulled his face closer and looked him dead in the eyes.

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  The guard shouted and tried to fight back, but every kick and punch did nothing to deter Bull from shoving him into the large machine. He slammed the door and punched a large red button on the side panel. The desperate man inside smacked his palms against the glass and kicked the glass with his boots.

  Gray clouded water, leveled with a cap of soapsuds filled the machine. The tub inside began spinning, tossing the guard around like a rag-doll trapped in an ocean current.

  Bull sat against the door, his weight pressing against the latch to keep the guard from breaking free. He picked the burning cigar from the floor and stuck the tip between his teeth, ignoring the muffled sounds of screaming through thick glass.

  The washing machine had filled to its capacity, leaving only a few inches of air for the guard to breathe. He inhaled deep before going under and held the air inside until he lost the battle with his own body. Large bubbles escaped from his mouth each time he tried to scream. Using his last bit of strength for one last attempt to break free, the guard slammed his boot against the latch. It came loose, pushing the door open, but only long enough for a splash of water to leak out.

  Bull slammed his back again, sealing the door, and slid his back up as he stood.

  The freed water splashed down the panel and seeped underneath the red button. A small flame burst and sparks scattered across his back.

  The flame burned into his tattoo, melting layers of skin.

  Anyone else would shout and pull away from the pain, but The Bull pressed his weight even harder against the smoldering panel and drew smoke from the cigar.

  When the shorting electricity finished popping and crackling, he turned away. The wretched scent of burnt flesh rose in through his nose. His tattoo was shiny, smoldered with black and red. Layers of his skin had peeled deep enough, the inked animal was no longer recognizable. In the future, it would heal into a scar.

  He watched as the guard flipped back and forth with each turn of the machine. The man tried more to break free, but after a short moment, his efforts felt limp. Another washing cycle began, spinning the dead man around and around. Rising from the red panel button was a small steady flame. Bull exhaled his cigar smoke, extinguishing the small fire.

  He scrunched his face and licked his lips like ridding himself of a bad taste.

  Standing next to a pool of blood, Bull leaned over the shot guard and what was left of his head. From the corpse’s uniform pocket, he removed a pack of chewing gum.

  Throwing a stick of peppermint flavor into his mouth, and shoving the family picture in his pocket, he tossed the burning cigar into a dirty laundry bin. Not a moment passed before the clothing inside burst into flames.

  As with other areas of the prison like the boiler room and the kitchen, the laundry room was yet another place without security cameras. Another place far away from listening ears or wandering eyes. Fortunately for El Toro, the two guards were the last people to ever see him inside the walls of a cage.

  17. DEATH AND MISDIRECTION

  Outside Spencer’s office, Reverend Jonas reaches for my elbow.

  “Walk with me,” he says. “Let’s get some air.”

  That last thing I feel like doing right now is taking a stroll. Each moment I spend not looking for Haylee is wasted. Jonas says I need to clear my head and focus. He tells me by freeing fuzzy thoughts, it makes more room to concentrate on the situation at hand.

  It makes sense, I guess.

  The days have gotten shorter. Night comes early these days. A brisk cool air is filled with some relief, or maybe it’s the company. Jonas has a way of grounding me, getting me back in touch with everything. Most important, he knows what I’m going through. We don’t go far from the station, in fact, we don’t go anywhere. I sit on the front steps overlooking the parking lot and Jonas takes a rest beside me.

  “The boy you rescued,” he says, “Ms. Pritchett says she will take care of him until we can find his father.”

  I worry, because of the twin girls, whether or not she’s the right person to house another child, but Jonas assures me the boy’s safety. He’s younger than the other victims, too young in fac
t. It’s surprising Mateo would bother with such a small child if his intentions were to bring him to El Toro. As it seems, the young boy has taking a liking to Ms. Pritchett. Of all the people asking him, she was the one who was able to finally get him to tell them his name.

  “Randin,” says Jonas.

  “Where’s his father?” I ask.

  Jonas says no one knows. Randin told police his father was there when he was taken, but was just as afraid as he was. He doesn’t know if his dad is alive or dead. Jonas hands me a sheet of paper, information Ms. Pritchett had written down, a name of the boy’s father—Jace Marshall.

  “It must bring you some piece of mind,” he says, “knowing you saved one of the children. Randin is the only one who has ever been saved.”

  I’d be lying if I denied it, but with my own daughter missing, this achievement doesn’t call for much of a celebration.

  Jonas’ hand rests on my shoulder.

  “You’ve come to me for advice before, but you’ve never told me what happened between you and Spencer.”

  I’m not one to burden others with my personal problems. My private life is nobody’s business, but I confide in the Reverend. With him, I know I’m free of judgment, and after all, it would help to talk about it.

  When Spencer took lead on the El Toro case, I knew it would be rough, but I had no idea it was eating away at him for so long. Even being married to a detective, work isn’t something we talk about over dinner, no matter how stressful. We both try and separate the job from our home life. Even then, there’s not much he can tell me because of his title. Discussing active cases with family or friends is a good way to jeopardize his career.

  A week ago, he came home late. I never heard him come in. He kept to himself and never announced to anyone he was there. I could see it in his eyes something was wrong, but I figured, if it were something he could talk about, he would have. At the time, I worried whatever it was, it might have had something to do with our marriage. There was a lingering sense we were somehow falling apart.