Usual disclaimers.
The sound of Reid's nonverbal protest was echoing through Oliver's ears. Though the lights were blinding, he could almost make out the 'inspector' sticking his fingers into the agent's mouth, trying to get a better 'look' at his teeth and tongue.
"I'll say it again," the 'inspector' said. "If it weren't for the impairment, I'd say we could make an excellent profit on him. Good physique, though a little thin, and seems more than intelligent."
"I didn't think we looked for that," Oliver's guard mused.
"Well, they've got to take direction," the 'inspector' pointed out. "You really want to buy damaged goods?" It made Oliver shudder to hear how these individuals were talking about other human beings—as though they were nothing more than cattle on an auction block. "Now, hook that troublemaker up here and I'll have a look at him while you put this one in the hold."
The 'hold'? What's that? Oliver wondered as he heard Reid being dragged off. The sounds of protesting feet and limbs carried over the space, and the guard cursed at the agent more than once. Oliver heard Reid cough and grunt a little as several blows were dealt to him.
"Where are you taking him?!" Oliver shouted, trying desperately to be understood over the thick oily cloth that had been shoved between his teeth. The question came out only as a garbled mess of sounds and half-coherent words, but still Oliver called out to demand answers. A savage blow struck him in the head, and the investigator saw large white stars forming behind his eyes.
"It's a good thing the boss's decided to keep you, esclavo," the 'inspector' said. "Otherwise I'd recommend you were sold off to the worst buyer in the place come auction day. Though don't think you'll fare much better on that account—the boss doesn't suffer disobedience lightly."
Bright blue eyes sparkled with fire as the 'inspector's' hands worked their way over his frame. "Little more to you than your friend, but still slight," he said appraisingly. "A bit smaller, but a decent height. The eyes are a plus—blue is always a popular selling point."
Thanks, Oliver thought savagely.
The 'inspector' called out to his companion, speaking in a dialect of Spanish Oliver didn't understand. He tried to shy away from the footsteps coming towards him, but he was securely fastened to something metal and solid, and his hands were still bound behind him. Oliver desperately wished he could have the use of his hands, if only to defend himself from the 'inspector's' groping fingers.
"What are--" Oliver tried to eke out, despising the hateful gag lodged in his mouth, but something sharp pressed against the flesh of his neck, daring Oliver to 'misbehave.'
"My amigo here, he likes his blades," the 'inspector' purred evilly as his fingers ran themselves over Oliver's brow. "You get any ideas, and he'll find a new sheath for this one, comprende?"
Oliver nodded his head, very slightly. The 'inspector's' invasive fingers sampled the investigator's ears, nose, chin, and the nape of his neck before placing themselves onto his lips. The man deftly removed Oliver's gag, letting it drop to the floor as the tip of his finger ran against Oliver's teeth.
"Open up," the 'inspector' demanded, and the pressure of the knife against Oliver's most vulnerable point increased. Trying to keep his terror in check, Oliver took deep, even breaths as he unwillingly allowed the persistent fingertips access to his tongue and soft palate.
"Very nice," the inspector said, almost breathily. "A fine specimen." As soon as the hateful digits exited his mouth, Oliver began to cough and sputter in an attempt to get taste off of his tongue. "Put him in the hold with his friend. Soon they'll have to get ready."
Ready for what? Oliver wondered silently. He had to keep himself in check—it would do neither himself nor Reid any good should he end up an 'unfortunate casualty' of the situation. Oliver felt himself being released from the metal support, though his hands were still bound in Reid's handcuffs, and the 'inspector's' companion dragged him through a series of subterranean hallways, each one dim and dusty and difficult to see in.
"In here," the man said finally, as Oliver heard the sound of metal creaking on worn hinges. "Someone will be by in a few minutes to finish you up."
The thought did not make Oliver feel any better, and he nearly stumbled over his own feet as he was roughly shoved into the dark closet-like space. Heaving huge breaths in an attempt to steady himself, Oliver tried to pick himself up from the ground and get his bearings.
"Oliver? Is that you?" a familiar voice whispered, trying desperately to keep its owner's secret.
"Yeah, it's me. Listen, are you free?"
"No. The guy shoved me in here and told me to wait." Oliver noticed the wave of relief that had washed over his friend momentarily, one that was quickly replaced with confusion and fear. "I don't think I can take much more of this…"
"Hey, weren't you the guy who survived some religious nut near Atlanta a while back?" Oliver pointed out. "I've heard about that, a little bit."
Reid chuffed a little. His voice sounded lower than Oliver's, more of a positional aspect than an octave one. "Then, at least, I knew what was coming. He wanted to kill me, but he needed a 'justifiable reason,'" the agent replied. "These people…Oliver, I think we're going to wish we were dead by the time this is through."
"I know. You ever have any cases involving trafficking?"
Silence loomed over the small space for a moment, and Oliver managed to find a wall and slide down to the floor leaning against it. "One," he heard Reid say from across the room. Oliver's ears were strained to their limit trying to hear him. "We found a cellar full of 'merchandise,' as they called it. They were girls—some of them not even fourteen."
"Jesus," Oliver said softly, hoping he could be heard.
"I'll never forget the look on this one girl's face," Reid continued. "I mean, they all were obviously traumatized and in shock, but this girl—she was probably fifteen if she was a day—she looked like a walking shell of a woman. She had this…this 'look' to her eyes, like they'd seen hell and wanted no more of it."
"What happened to her?"
"I don't know," Reid said softly, so softly Oliver could barely make it out.
"We had one once, in Baltimore," Oliver said, inching along the wall of their melanoid prison. "Eastern Europeans, mostly. You would be surprised what lies these people will spin to lure their victims to them."
"That's usually how it works," Reid whispered. "Very few operations are supplied through kidnappings."
"There was a little girl—she said she was fourteen but she couldn't really have been more than twelve—who looked so beaten and worked over she resembled little more than a rag doll. When we sprung the place she said that she'd been promised work in America as a singer."
"Could she sing?"
"I think so, but probably not nearly as well as she was led to believe." Oliver swallowed thickly. "When we found her, she was seven months pregnant."
"My God," he could barely hear his friend say. "What happened to her?"
"Josh got involved, made arrangements for her to stay here and have the baby," Oliver replied. "She…she didn't make it. The abuse and the pregnancy were too much for her."
"The baby?"
"Adopted out. Josh made sure it was to a good family, and he gave them a letter for the little boy explaining about his mother."
Silence loomed over the space for a time. Finally, Reid spoke: "The fact that these are Latin individuals running this 'operation' is unique."
"Yeah," Oliver replied, keeping his voice as low as possible. "Usually it's Russians, or Chinese. Quite a few 'organizations' don't bother with people--too much trouble for the return. Drugs are easier to manipulate, not as much hassle."
"So a Latin group who specializes in trafficking, one that's willing to kidnap rather than lure..."
"I think we were an exception rather than a rule, Reid," Oliver mulled. "This boss figure seems to want revenge on Chase, and we just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Or not," Reid countered. "Perhaps they wanted a scapegoat all along, instead of the 'real problem'."
"How do you figure?"
"In the office, it sounded to me like this person in charge wanted either you or Kyle to sell off or abuse for their personal pleasure," Reid explained. "In fact, they knew your name, and from how they acted I think they know I'm not Kyle. There was no mention of taking a girl at all. "
"Yeah, the name thing bothers me--I mean, I've never heard of these people, and the case they're talking about could easily be over three years old--since before I started working in Campbell. But I don't get the feeling that these people are exclusive to one sex or the other," Oliver replied. "Most just want girls--easier to manipulate, easier to control. These people seem to be experienced in taking men, too."
"I didn't think there was a market..."
"Reid, you people deal with some pretty sick individuals. You don't think there's a market?"
A small chuff from Reid's position in the inky space was answer enough. "And they talked about 'specialized' markets..."
"You'd be surprised what people missing a limb would go for," Oliver said. "There were a couple in Baltimore. Plus the blind make easy targets--able to be manipulated and kept with minimal trouble; just throw enough obstacles in the way. The longer these people think you're hard-of-hearing, the better off we'll be. They find out you hear fine…"
"And we'll have more to deal with than a beating," Reid finished.
