Page 29 of Gabriel
I was just about to leave when I heard faint voices drifting through the air. For a moment, I stood undecided whether to check it out or not. Curiosity got the best of me, and I followed it, my feet soundless against the ground. Until I saw it and I froze.
Young girls. Containers. Men who laughed and antagonized as they ushered women into the steel prisons.
It was a goddamncampfor human traffickers.
Fury slithered down my spine, and I knew there’d be no leaving now. I couldn’t turn my back and pretend I didn’t see this. Instead, I watched as they opened the container, then men attempted to load girls into it. Some girls obeyed, others fought.
The September heat made the air humid. I could feel sweat sticking to my skin as well as a plan I began to conjure in my head.
I lowered my backpack to the ground. Its weight would make it hard to fight these men. Instead, I pinned its location using my phone, then dug out my weapons and continued moving around, searching for the best angle to attack.
I was wary of a team guarding the perimeter, but I refused to let anything or anyone stop me. I crouched low, knees aching, sweat and dirt slicking my hands. My breath came slow and shallow as I watched four men shove a dozen screaming girls into a shipping container. The door slammed shut, bolts locking with a metallic finality.
They laughed as the girls whimpered and cried.
The sun bled orange through the canopy of trees, but the heat clung to everything. My skin burned under dried sweat and mosquito bites.
I didn’t know what the hell I was planning to do.
And yet, I couldn’t look away.
One of the men—bald, thick-necked, sweat-soaked shirt open to reveal a gold chain—spat on the dirt and lit a cigarette. The others passed around a bottle, their words a blur of Spanish too fast for me to follow. But I caught enough to understand their jokes about “gringa meat.”
My grip tightened around the knife in my hand just as the container door creaked open.
The youngest of the men dragged a girl out who couldn’t be older than fifteen. She wore a dirty dress, her limbs thin, face hollow with shock. Her hair was matted, her feet bare.
Something in me broke.
I moved before I could think.
I was on the bald one first. The blade slid up under his jaw, clean and fast. His gasp was soft, but it echoed through my skull like a tolling bell. I grabbed the pistol from his waistband before he hit the ground.
The second man turned, eyes wide. I shot him in the gut. He crumpled, screaming.
Gunfire erupted behind me.
I dove behind the container as bullets tore through the metal, and I prayed the girls knew to lie flat.
My ears rang, but I didn’t hesitate. I slid along the far side, rose up just enough, and fired. The first shot missed, but the second didn’t. The third man dropped.
The last one ran, shouting. I caught him before he hit the trees.
We struggled; he was stronger. He slammed me into a trunk, snarling in Spanish with both hands on my throat. I headbutted him, stars flashing behind my eyes, then drove the knife into his side. Again. And again.
He fell in a twitching heap.
And just like that, the jungle exhaled.
No gunfire. No shouting. Just the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of life.
The girls were gone. They’d scattered like deer, vanishing into the green. I could only hope they knew the layout better than I did.
I stood there, panting, while blood soaked into my jeans. My hands trembled and silence pressed into my chest louder than screams.
My thoughts scattered. I couldn’t breathe.
Was Jet involved with this shit? Was Santos?
