Page 77 of Scarred in Silence
“Ready?” he asks.
“Let’s go.”
We slip back into the corridor, vanish into the night like we were never here.
Eleven minutes, forty-nine seconds.
* * *
Silas sits chained in Room 6, wrists raw, shirt soaked in sweat. He tries to mask relief when he sees us—like he expects salvation because he cooperated. Fucking idiot.
I slam the lock box onto the metal table next to the fingerprint scanner. Then I toss the USB down like it’s poison.
Silas flinches. “I need water. Please.”
Dante unscrews a bottle and pours half over Silas’s head. “Watered.”
I yank Silas’s chair upright. “Thumb. Iris. Now.”
His hands tremble as he presses the pad. Green light. He leans forward, and the optical scanner flickers.
Beep.
The box clicks.
Dante opens it. Inside, a two-inch stack of black cards like casino chips; each card etched with a stylized skull with a snake wrapped through the eye sockets. A second USB drive—red. And a sealed manila envelope stamped with a serpentine S.
Dante spreads it on the table. “Start talking.”
Silas swallows. “The cards are credits—currency for auctions. Each chip equals ten thousand dollars.”
“Traceable?”
He shakes his head. “Not once they’re laundered through the chain.”
“The chain,” I echo. “Spelled N-I-C-O—”
He winces.
“Yes. Nicolette lures the girls—promises modeling gigs, private dances, ‘chance encounters’ with wealthy clients. She brings them here, drugs them next door inVelvet Noose. Miles transports— using SUVs and private jets. Enrique Martinez handles Mexico-Utah–Vegas routing, and he also supplies the drugs for the girls.”
“And Damien?” Dante’s voice drops an octave.
Silas’s eyes dart. Why the fuck is he bringing up Damien?
“He—he was the architect. He set up the digital side. The bidding protocols, the encryption keys, the bio-metrics. He called himself Midas in the ledgers. At least he did… before he died.”
That name is etched on half the black chips: Midas in gold foil.
My breath turns to glass shards in my lungs. “He funded this.”
“I didn’t know he was your—” Silas starts.
I punch him hard across the face. “Don’t.”
Blood streaks his lip—tears pool.
He thinks I give a fuck. I knew he was fucked up. I just didn’t think it was this fucking bad.
