Page 60 of Buried in Blood
Lines traced. Notes scrawled. Red Xs, yellow circles, routes highlighted and crossed out, and drawn again. Every possibility accounted for. Every threat neutralized.
Almost.
I drag the chalk across the wall in a jagged line, connecting Sector B to the north corridor gate. My hands are shaking, but not from fear.
From anticipation.
Seven girls, one boy. Just one week from now.
Each is more valuable than the last.
The final shipment before the Orchard transitions. Before we become untouchable.
But it has to be perfect.
“No phones,” I mutter to myself, scribbling across the margin. “No live GPS. No convoys larger than two vehicles. No branded vans. Only trusted handlers.”
My pen snaps.
I don’t care.
I grab another and keep writing.
“Three routes. Three drivers. Three decoys.”
Each girl will be tagged, cuffed, and sedated. Enrique will ride with the highest-value target—Anya, and Brooke. Reese with the twins and our only male. I will escort the three younger girls myself.
I trust no one with them.
Not anymore.
I move to the table and slam my hand down on the files—each one cataloged like livestock. Name. Age. Sellable traits. Psychological profile. Auction tier. They also have brands. We started using freeze branding on them to mark them. It works perfectly so that the imperfection is barely visible to buyers.
Harmony used to help with this.
I shove the thought away.
“Reese gets the south exit,” I mutter, circling the map. “Enrique takes Route 94. I’ll go west, through the industrial corridor—no cameras, no checkpoints, just burnt-out buildings and asphalt ghosts.”
I draw another line.
Thick. Bold.
The main decoy route.
A fake convoy loaded with crates, GPS tagged to an old warehouse in Kansas. I’ll let a few rumors leak. Let the scent drift.
Ifanyone’s watching?
They’ll chase shadows.
I pace, running my fingers through my hair, tugging hard.
Breathe.
Focus.
“They’ll move Tuesday,” I decide. “But we prep on Sunday. Lockdown begins tomorrow. No visitors. No messages. The captives stay separate. No contact. No chance to plot.”
