Page 5 of Dagger

He looks at me, a smirk tugging at his lips, and then he laughs. Not a nervous laugh, not a friendly one—a mocking, dismissive laugh.

I stand up, my grip on the blanket tightening. My glare locks onto him. “Where did you put my things? I need to get home.”

His laugh grows louder, meaner. It’s the kind of laugh that makes my skin crawl.

“What’s so damn funny?” I yell, my voice cracking slightly, but I don’t back down.

Jake leans against the wall, his arms crossed, still smirking. “You,” he says, shaking his head like I’m the punchline to some private joke. “You think you’re in control here, huh? Cute.”

My stomach knots, but I refuse to let him see how scared I am. “I’m not joking, Jake. Where are my clothes? My phone? I need to leave.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stares at me, his smirk slowly fading into something colder. I take a step back, my mind screaming at me to figure out what to do next. This isn’t just uncomfortable—it’s dangerous.

I lunge for the phone on the nightstand, desperate to call for help, but Jake moves faster. He grabs it before I can, yanking it out of the wall with a sharp snap. My breath catches as he hurls it across the room, the phone smashing into the wall and falling to the floor in pieces.

Panic grips me, stronger and colder than anything I’ve ever felt. I take a step back, my heart pounding in my chest as Jake turns to face me.

“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice is low, dangerous, his dark eyes gleaming with something that makes my blood run cold. “Your life is over now.”

I shake my head, my voice trembling. “What are you talking about? I just want to go home—”

He cuts me off with a bitter laugh, stepping closer. I instinctively step back until I feel the edge of the bed against the backs of my legs.

“You don’t get to go home,” he says, his tone cold and final. “You don’t get to see your friends again. You’re leaving with me.”

I shake my head again, harder this time, but he keeps going, his words slicing through me like a knife.

“My boss will decide what you do, who you see, and what your life will be. He’ll tell you how to survive—if you’re lucky. Listen to him, and maybe you’ll make it out of this alive.”

The dark laugh that escapes him sends chills down my spine. His words hang in the air, suffocating and final, and I realize just how much trouble I’m in.

This isn’t a bad night that I’ll laugh about later. This is a nightmare—and I don’t know how I’m going to wake up.

TWO

JEREMY “DAGGER” WILSON

A year ago

As I walk aroundin front of the motel building, the scene unfolding before me feels surreal, like something out of a terrible movie. Women are being led out, rescued, but they don’t look relieved. They look… hollow.

Their frames are too thin, their clothes hanging off them like they don’t belong. Their faces are pale, eyes sunken and haunted, as if they’ve seen things no one should ever see. Some are crying softly, others staring ahead blankly, too numb to react.

I feel sick. How can anyone do this to another human being? How can these men—these monsters—look at these women and see nothing but something to use and discard?

I feel the bile rise in my throat, the weight of it all crashing down on me. These women—they’re not just victims. They’re survivors of something so dark, so unimaginable, that I don’t know if they’ll ever truly escape it.

I look away, overwhelmed, but the image of their faces is burned into my mind. This isn’t just wrong. It’s evil. And I can’tfathom how anyone could be part of something like this, how they could look at these women and strip away their humanity.

I want to rage, to do something to make it stop. But all I can do is stand there, my hands clenched into fists.

The only thing I can think about is making these men understand—showing them exactly what happens when they treat people,women, like this. Not just objects, butwomen. Women like my aunt and grandma, who raised me with love and respect. Women who were saints, who taught me from day one how to value and honor others.

The thought of these men doing this to women makes my blood boil, my vision narrowing until it’s nothing but rage. They didn’t just hurt these women—they shattered lives. They destroyed something sacred.

I walk into one of the dingy motel rooms, the smell of sweat and stale beer clinging to the walls. Inside, one of the scumbags is tied to a chair, his face already pale with fear. He’s not so tough now, not when he doesn’t have the power, not when the tables have turned.

He tries to say something—maybe to plead, maybe to sneer—but I don’t let him get the chance. My fist connects with his jaw before the words can leave his mouth. The force of it sends a jolt up my arm, but I don’t care.

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