Operation Trafficked

By Helen C. Escott

It is possible to get away with murder if you kill people whose lives are already devalued by society.

A spectacular murder in a downtown hotel of a sixteen-year-old girl brings together seasoned police officers Sgt. Nicholas Myra (Operation Wormwood) and Cpl. Gail McNaughton (Operation Vanished) in a Joint Forces Investigation. They quickly dive into a twisting, turning, breathless race through the $28 billion dollar business of human trafficking.

Myra and McNaughton put together a team of experts who explore this modern-day form of slavery, where women and girls are openly sold on the world’s markets. They discover a sophisticated criminal organization that operates with impunity due to vast corruption and hides in the underground hallways of power. They quickly learn it’s not the oldest profession but the oldest form of oppression. When the team learns a seven-year-old girl is up for sale, they race to find her before she is transported over the border and lost forever.

In her most thrilling novel to date, bestselling, award-winning author Helen C. Escott takes you on a lightning-paced, chillingly current criminal investigation that is surprising at every twist up to its astonishing conclusion.

"Tremendous read! Electrifying and riveting. Time is of the essence. Intense, fast-paced twists and turns transform sensation, horror, and emotions into the final links to solve the puzzles. Winding leads and modern-day policing techniques play crucial roles in the vital protection of these vulnerable women and girls purposed for human trafficking. Escott enthralls readers, revealing chilling real-life accounts of victim encounters. A brilliant, suspenseful read and gripping to the end!” — Chris MacNaughton, Inspector (Retired), RCMP

"Operation Trafficked is thrilling! The reader will have great difficulty putting this book down. Helen Escott shines an eye-opening spotlight on the disturbing world of human trafficking. She gives a voice to the voiceless and brings realistic awareness to this global issue. This book will forever change your view of sex work and the impact on its victims and their families." — S. C. O’Reilly, Superintendent (Retired), Royal Newfoundland Constabulary

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flanker Press
• Release date: Aug 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781774570531

Helen C. Escott

Helen C. Escott is an award-winning, bestselling Canadian author. Her crime thriller Operation Vanished was awarded a Silver Medal for Best Regional Fiction at the 24th annual Independent Publisher Book Awards. Operation Vanished is a mind-bending, sophisticated psychological crime thriller that will keep you guessing who the real killer is. In Operation Wormwood: The Reckoning, Escott’s main character, Sgt. Nick Myra, is back with a vengeance, and he is looking for blood. This roller coaster of a crime thriller is the explosive follow-up to the bestselling crime thriller Operation Wormwood, a finalist for the 2019 Arthur Ellis Awards for Best First Crime Novel. In addition to her fiction work, Escott is the author of In Search of Adventure: 70 Years of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Newfoundland and Labrador, culminating from two years of research and interviewing veterans to create this comprehensive collection of personal stories and history of the province. Her hysterically funny blog, I Am Funny Like That, was turned into a bestselling memoir. It is a collection of humorous stories about raising children, keeping a marriage together, working, cleaning, and life in general. Escott is also a playwright who wrote and created the brilliant musical comedy If It’s Not One Thing, It’s Your Mother. She is a retired civilian member of the RCMP and was the communications lead on high-profile events, including the RCMP’s NL response to the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Helen wrote and implemented the Atlantic Region Communication Strategies to combat organized crime and outlaw biker gangs, created a media relations course, and taught it in several provinces as well as at the Canadian Police College in Ottawa. She also served as a communications strategist at the 2010 Vancouver Olympics. Before joining the RCMP, Escott worked in the media for ten years. In 2017, she was presented with the CLB Governor and Commandant’s Medallion in recognition of her achievements of excellence in volunteering and fundraising work, including creating the idea and concept for the Spirit of Newfoundland dinner theatre show Where Once They Stood. In 2019 she was presented with the Governor General’s Sovereign’s Medal for Volunteers.

Book preview

Praise for Helen C. Escott

Operation Wormwood

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! With skilled, detective-like precision, Escott kept me at the edge of my seat throughout this well-told story of hurt and faith. Filled with a ton of well-researched facts and figures regarding Newfoundland and Labrador’s history, criminal investigative processes, and relevant political complications, this novel fills the reader’s need for action, suspense, and emotion. This book will make every Newfoundlander and Labradorian reflect on their complicated history and fully intrigue those who come from away. Operation Wormwood is wicked . . . simply wicked . . . in every definition of the word." — E. B. Merrill, S/Sgt. (Rtd.), Royal Canadian Mounted Police

At the heart of this gut-wrenching, savagely realistic novel is a deep theological struggle: why does evil against the most vulnerable go unpunished by a loving, all-powerful God? Escott combines first-hand police experience, superb storytelling, and deep faith in this Dan Brown–style epic. — Rev. Robert Cooke

"Operation Wormwood . . . gives us a sense of what first responders deal with in their daily lives. A well-written book. Great job, Mrs. Escott." — Edwards Book Club

"Operation Wormwood is one heck of a thriller."

— The Telegram

Operation Vanished

"Operation Vanished is a powerful page-turner that will resonate with any reader who enjoys a good murder mystery. Helen C. Escott doesn’t just seek justice and remembrance for female victims of crime but makes a brilliant attempt to emancipate them from the bonds of yesteryear." — Fireside Collections

"Operation Vanished is a must-read Newfoundland mystery-thriller!" — The Miramichi Reader

Operation Vanished was awarded a Silver Medal for

Best Regional Fiction at the 24th annual

Independent Publisher Book Awards

Operation Wormwood: The Reckoning

"Operation Wormwood: The Reckoning is the sequel that readers will love to hate! Its raw emotion is palpable and shocking yet will leave you hopeful in knowing that there are good people in the world fighting for humanity and justice. Hats off to Helen C. Escott on the conclusion to this crime thriller!" — Fireside Collections

Fans will be pleased . . . — The Telegram

"I don’t think it is too much of a stretch to say that Helen C. Escott is Newfoundland’s premier crime-thriller author. Her novels such as Operation Vanished (2019, Flanker Press) and now the two Operation Wormwood books will cement her career as such. I highly recommend the reading of the two books in order, so if you haven’t read Operation Wormwood already, then you should do so before reading The Reckoning. Both books are well-written and contain enough plot lines to keep the reader thoroughly engaged. I know I was! Well done, Ms. Escott!" — The Miramichi Reader

Operation Trafficked

Helen C. Escott

Flanker Press Limited

St. John’s

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Operation trafficked / Helen C. Escott.

Names: Escott, Helen C., author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210256400 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210256419 | ISBN

9781774570524 (softcover) | ISBN 9781774570531 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781774570555 (PDF)

Classification: LCC PS8609.S36 O74 2021 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

——————————————————————————————————————————————------——

© 2021 by Helen C. Escott

All Rights Reserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.

Printed in Canada

Edited by Donna Morrissey Cover Design by Graham Blair

Flanker Press Ltd.

PO Box 2522, Station C

St. John’s, NL

Canada

Telephone: [phone] Fax: [phone] Toll-free: 1-866-739-4420

www.flankerpress.com

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Graphic depicting government funding logos, Government of Canada, Canada Council for the Arts, Government of Newfoundland and Labrador

We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture, Industry and Innovation for our publishing activities. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $157 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 157 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.

This book is dedicated to the thousands of women and children who are trafficked every day. It is unbelievable to me that this sexual slave trade is permitted to happen. Human trafficking is a crime against all humanity. It affects us all.

* * * * *

To my husband, Robert, and our children—Sabrina, Daniel, and Colin—my daughter-in-law, Alanna, and grandchildren, Sophie and Maximus. Remember:

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

So are you.

Love forever and always, Mom.

To Minnie & Salem,

Thanks for the company into the late hours

of the night and the early mornings.

Invictus

by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

1

The September night sky was navy blue, brimming with wet grey clouds that whirled under a surreal, velvet, starry cover. A freezing rain sprinkled the streets, leaving everything shiny and slippery beneath the yellow glow of the street lights. Taxis splashed through puddles of water, letting off fares along the soaked downtown streets of St. John’s.

A turbulent, vengeful wind pushed around a scattering of dead leaves: a warning that a powerful storm was brewing over the city.

Groups of jovial bar-goers dotted the sidewalk in front of the vibrantly coloured row houses that had been turned into restaurants and pubs to create a particularly well-lit strip. Each establishment was covered by a black-shingled, mansard roof, and featured brightly trimmed dormer windows, giving each a distinct personality. Drinking songs poured out of the doorways and open windows, along with the aroma of deep-fried fresh codfish, homemade fries, and beer, luring chilly customers inside.

A tall glass-and-concrete hotel stood watch over the downtown district. The stifling hot air inside the hotel room on New Gower Street was filled with a distinctive, sickly sweet decaying odour that to the experienced was immediately recognizable and extremely hard to forget.

It was the smell of death.

Sgt. Nicholas Myra got off the elevator at the fourth floor and spotted two uniformed officers chatting outside a doorway at the end of the hall. He nodded at a third officer who stood next to the elevator, taking down information from a sobbing woman wearing a hotel uniform.

The senior officer on duty lost no time heading toward Sgt. Myra. He met Myra halfway and walked with him.

Sir, we got the call at three a.m. from the front desk. The clerk said they had an outside call alerting them to a guest in this room who needed medical attention. The clerk said she called the room and didn’t get any response, so she came up and let herself in. She found the body.

I’m guessing the clerk is the one I just passed. Myra looked back toward the elevator.

Yes, that’s her.

Get her to a private room and take her statement.

Sgt. Myra weaved his way through a group of guests who were standing in the hallway trying to find out what the commotion was about. He called back to the officer. Get everyone back in their rooms and keep the hall clear until we can get the body out.

Yes, sir, the officer stammered as they approached the doorway. You’re not going to believe what we found in the room.

Myra took a pair of blue rubber gloves out of the pocket of his tweed sports coat and stretched them over his sausage-like fingers and up around his thick wrists. I’ve seen dead bodies before, Constable. There’s not much that surprises me at this point in my career.

They stopped at the hotel room door. It’s not just the body, sir. The RCMP are here.

The uniformed officers moved back from the doorway. Myra’s left eyebrow twitched. It took him a second to recognize the woman standing over the slumped corpse.

Mountie, you lost? The low rumble of Myra’s voice made RCMP Cpl. Gail McNaughton look up and grin.

Sergeant Nick Myra, the legend of the Royal Newfoundland Constabulary. Cpl. McNaughton looked up from examining the body. Man, you city cops certainly take your time getting to a murder scene.

Myra instinctively covered his mouth and nose as the stale smell of death hit him. McNaughton carefully tiptoed toward him, cautious of not disturbing the shoes and clothing strewn about the floor.

She’s been dead for about four, maybe five hours.

Myra looked back toward the uniformed officers. They said the call came in about an hour ago.

Whoever called it in made sure they were far away from the scene first. McNaughton pointed a blue rubber-gloved hand at the body. You want to have a look? Forensics are on the way.

What do we have? Myra carefully moved around the body of a young girl slumped in a chair, her head resting on the desk in front of her as if she were asleep.

Nick, I hear congratulations are in order. I heard you got married and had a baby.

I did. He took a wallet out of the inside pocket of his blazer, opened it, and flashed a picture while still looking at the deceased. This is Clara. She’s six months old and the reason I have these thick bags under my eyes. He pointed to his tired, heavily lined eyelids. She doesn’t sleep.

Oh, but she is so cute, McNaughton cooed as she looked at the photo of a chubby little cherub in a pink-and-white frilly dress, sitting up on a white carpet. Look at that smile. She’s gorgeous. She must take after her mother, McNaughton teased. What a sweetie pie.

You wouldn’t say that if you heard her scream. She now commands the entire house. He slid the wallet back in his pocket.

The two investigators bantered back and forth, both hardened to the scene around them. Soon, officers from the Forensic Identification Unit arrived, dressed in white overalls. They began the arduous task of collecting evidence and taking photos that would be admissible in court at some later date.

Gentlemen and ladies. Sgt. Myra winked hello and let his gaze fall back on the body. We will be out of your way in a few minutes.

I heard you moved out of the Integrated Child Exploitation Unit. McNaughton moved toward an opened suitcase on the bed.

Right. I moved to the Major Crime Unit. I hated to give up the ICE Unit, but I needed a break.

McNaughton chuckled. Only you would move to Major Crime to get a break.

Myra looked closer at the tie around the victim’s neck. What do we have here, anyway? His gut churned as he took note of the school uniform she wore. Bit young to be a sex worker?

I know, but it looks that way, McNaughton replied. I went through the suitcase. There’s no ID, no plane ticket, no credit card. Nothing. The scene has been cleaned.

Myra examined the ligature marks around the dead girl’s neck. What is the front desk saying?

She checked in with a male companion, her guard, this afternoon around one. The staffer described him as a suspicious-looking character: broad, bald, wearing a red blazer, lots of gold on his fingers and around his neck, and he had a thick Russian accent. I’m thinking ROC.

Russian organized crime? Myra let out a whistle. Who was the room registered to?

They had two rooms booked, McNaughton continued. The one next door is registered to a Donny Oliver. Ident is in there now, but the room has been wiped clean. This room is registered to Jane Smith. I’m guessing both are fake names. She rolled her eyes.

Myra looked around the hotel room. What can you tell me about ROC?

ROC runs the sex trade in the hotels. They have a ring of trafficked women and girls circulating from here to Ontario. McNaughton moved back to allow a forensics officer to take photos. We can’t seem to find who the main guy is now. There was a power shift a few months ago. The ROC boss was found with a bullet in his brain, and no one has stepped up to claim the title.

Sgt. Myra moved to allow the officers fuller access to the body. What about bikers?

The biker gangs run the local massage parlours and street corners. Organized crime allows the bikers to buy the girls the mob doesn’t have any use for.

Myra raised an eyebrow. No use for them?

The ones still pretty and young but have diseases, or tried to escape too many times, or asked the johns to help them. They get rid of them fast. ROC doesn’t want anyone making noise.

The officer at the door shouted into the room. Stretcher is here.

McNaughton looked to Myra’s questioning eyes.

We have permission from the coroner to move the body.

Two attendants wheeled a gurney down the hall and parked it inside the doorway. The forensic team carefully placed the thin, limp girl into a thick, white vinyl body bag. The smell of death wafted up around their nostrils, and they held their breath until the job was done. The young girl’s faded grey eyes were empty and her lips pale as the officer zipped the bag over her face.

Two officers placed the body bag on the gurney, and the attendants pushed the remains of the unknown young girl toward the freight elevator. A police officer accompanied the body to protect the integrity of the evidence until they could turn the body over to the coroner for autopsy.

So, what are you doing here, Mountie? St. John’s is RNC jurisdiction. Sgt. Myra peeled the rubber gloves off as he watched the ambulance attendants manoeuvre the gurney out of the room.

McNaughton explained. I’m doing a sex trafficking investigation in the Atlantic region. We received a tip a few days ago from an undercover officer in Halifax. She peeled off her gloves and deposited them in a garbage bin. He reported that a Polish girl working in the sex trade in Halifax told him she had been kidnapped from her hometown under the guise of being offered a babysitting job. She was twelve when it happened and was now sixteen. That’s four years of being prostituted around the world. She wanted out. By the time the team got there, she was gone.

Cpl. McNaughton picked up the writing pad on the desk. The first dozen letters of the alphabet were scratched across the top in child-like printing. We got a tip yesterday that ROC was sending her to St. John’s to work a convention. I was told she was getting in tomorrow afternoon. But the traffickers changed plans. She got in today.

You sure this is the Polish girl you’re looking for?

We don’t have a real name. They are too scared to use them. They’re all given an alias, but yes, this is her. He sent a picture. She laid the pad back down. We had an undercover officer embedded with housekeeping, but he didn’t see her. He called me when the body was discovered. I had a gut feeling it was her. I checked with the front desk and confirmed she was here. McNaughton shook her head. I was too late.

And her guard?

I have an officer at the airport checking flight logs.

Myra looked into the suitcase filled with lingerie. She was trying to get out?

Aren’t they all? McNaughton closed the suitcase and looked at the forensics officer. Put this in evidence.

Yes, ma’am. The officer took the suitcase from the room.

A flash of metal caught her eye, and she crouched down to examine it. She picked up a small City of St. John’s tourism pin stuck in the carpet, almost hidden under the bed. She passed it to the officer. Bag this, too. It might not be anything, but you never know. And take the pen and pad from the desk.

McNaughton looked at Myra. I haven’t met a prostitute yet who wasn’t trying to get out.

Myra walked into the empty hallway with McNaughton in tow. If the public only knew that the slave trade was alive and well, and operating under their nose with impunity, they would be shocked.

Be real, McNaughton corrected him. The public is okay with the sex trade as long as it’s not one of their daughters. They don’t care if some unknown eastern European girl is repeatedly raped.

I get it. I really do. We’re outnumbered when it comes to the sex trade. Every organized crime syndicate in the world is involved, from the bikers on up. Myra pushed his hands into the front pockets of his carefully creased black dress pants. There aren’t enough police officers to keep up with it, and there certainly isn’t enough funding to chase down criminals who are located all over the world, on top of having to investigate the corruption from every level of government that allows it to happen.

Did you know that, after drugs and firearms, organized crime’s third most profitable business is the sale of children and women in the sex trade? McNaughton zipped up her jacket in anticipation the cold fall air.

Myra slowly shook his head, continuing to follow McNaughton down the hall. How does it stop?

The corporal pressed the down arrow on the elevator. Her voice was cold. When men stop buying women and children for sex.

The door to the elevator opened. Sgt. Myra made no response.

They stepped into the elevator, and McNaughton looked up at him.

We need to find out who this girl is.

2

Earlier that night, Lena Kaminski softly ran her slender finger down the grimy hotel window. She lost herself for a few seconds, tracing the raindrops as they slid across the glass. The rain always calmed her.

She looked down at the street below, watching the partygoers laugh and chat over the thump of a band’s bass guitar. She watched as they darted in and out of the restaurants and bars, the sound of music escaping through open doorways. Through the bars’ windows she could see the flashing lights of dance floors splashing against the walls.

Neon signs blazed drink specials and band names. They were all in English—her first clue that she was no longer in Europe.

Cars lined the parking lot of a gas station down the street. She squinted to make out the licence plates. The main street sloped down to a harbour. Big, fat, grey and white seagulls sailed through the air, dive-bombing garbage buckets, then perching on the docked ships that swayed on the slight waves. Lena could almost hear their loud, repetitive cries from inside her room and wished she could open the window to smell the salty air.

She could see down a small hill to the harbour. Its water looked like a sheet of black ice that reflected the white and yellow glow of the moon. The lights from the boats bobbing beside the docks and the business and street lamps that surrounded the port were perfectly mirrored in the black stillness.

The harbour was bordered on one side by a tall mountain. The top was black under the night sky. She could just pick out the shape of the trees leading up to the summit. When she stood on her tippytoes, she could see a narrow opening to the left of the mountain that led out to the ocean.

Lena thought about running away, down to one of those ships in the harbour. She could hide on board and find her way back home. But she had no idea where she was.

She no longer asked questions of her traffickers or put up a fight when they gave her the tiny yellow sleeping pill before she boarded each plane. She took them willingly now. It was the only escape she had from the hell that was her life. Her travelling companion, her guard, would pass her off as his tired teenaged daughter or sleepy sister. She drifted off, breathing in his rancid body sweat before the seat belt sign came on.

She was no longer free—she was a slave. Captured. Owned. Broken. She could not refuse a customer no matter how violent or disgusting he was.

Sometimes she would glimpse the names of cities on signs in the airports and roadways, conscious of her guard’s watchful eye, always on her. She was taught to walk with her head down, eyes cast to the ground. Lena brought in too much money for them to lose her.

Over the years, she developed a heightened sense of alertness. She would quickly observe every detail around her, always planning her escape: the way people dressed, the language they spoke, the predominant colour of their skin, food smells, music being played. It all gave her clues as to where she was.

After each flight landed, she would be quickly ushered to a hotel room and prepared for a client who had pre-bought her on a dark web auction site. At sixteen she could still pass for twelve, due to her abnormally thin body and short stature, the result of being starved and tortured for days on end. Her handler would open her prepared suitcase, lay out a costume on the bed, and brief her on who was coming, what he wanted, and who she had to pretend to be.

She laughed at the word client. The disgusting men who raped her and bought her every day were clients, johns, customers, just innocent men shopping, while she was a harlot, prostitute, whore, hooker, or sex worker. Like it was a job she wanted.

Lena despised the sideway glances she received from hotel clerks. They knew why she was there, but not once did they ask if she needed help, or alert authorities that a thug was bringing a child to a hotel room. They knew why there was a steady stream of businessmen, fathers, coaches, and pillars of society going to that room. Everyone was willing to look the other way when there was a buck to be made.

Her breath fogged up a circle on the glass. She wiped it away and watched cars drive through the intersection below, eyes desperately searching for something that was familiar. A swirling wind pushed around the people on the sidewalk, and they pulled their winter coats tighter while holding on to their hats. The reflection of the street lights on the pavement glistened as a frost began to form. The tree branches were naked and dead. It must be late fall.

Fall was magical in Kielcza. Her mind drifted back to the carefree days of walking to school, past Saint Bartholomew Church, and how the trees surrounding it would come alive in an explosion of orange, red, and yellow. She could still see her classmates kicking the leaves around, piling them back up, and running through the stacks of colour, screaming in delight.

Lena closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She could smell her mother’s cooking as it drifted down the laneway. A mournful sob escaped her lips as she imagined reaching the dilapidated white stucco house. Her eyes flashed open when her fingers touched the damp, cold glass, her reflection staring back at her. She looked away.

A mother dragging a child through the cold night below caught her eye. She watched until they disappeared down a side street. Lena thought about her own mother. Was she still alive? Was she still in their little village? Was she looking for her?

She squeezed her eyelids to stop the tears from falling at the thought of her mother’s arms wrapped around her tiny body and the last kiss she left on her cheeks. It was the only thing she had left. Lena pushed the thought from her head so as not to give in to the fear. She had to survive—she had to escape. She did not have the luxury to replay memories that would make her fall apart. She kept those hidden—for when she needed strength.

Staying strong was the only way to get out.

She crept across the beige hotel carpet toward the door and peeked through the peephole. Her guard was outside, waiting for the first client. He would take the money, head to the nearest bar, wait for the hour to be up, then come back. After the first client left, he would give her fifteen minutes to shower. When she stepped out of the bathroom, her next outfit would be laid out, followed by another briefing. She never knew how many clients there would be.

The greasy, pocked-faced guard checked his watch and looked toward the elevator. He ran his hand over his shaved head and looked at the watch again. His thick frame filled up the whole peephole. She hated this particular guard. When the night was over, she knew it would be his turn. The bosses didn’t know about the freebies. If they did, he would go back to bounce at a sleazy joint in Kosovo. She would be tortured and murdered.

The threat of new clients and the stress of what she would have to endure terrified her. It never got easy. Lena fell into the bathroom and steadied herself against the marble sink. She checked her face in the mirror. She no longer recognized herself and wondered if her mother would even know her now.

Lena pulled at the loose skin around her eyes and dabbed more concealer at the corners, the bruises from the last client almost hidden beneath the thick cream. These men didn’t seem to notice or care about the cigarette burns on her legs or whip marks on her back.

Her thin fingers ran down her neck, tracing the covered bruises from her last client’s fingers. She gasped when his face flashed before her. He giggled as he squeezed the life from her body. His rotten teeth and putrid breath stabbed her nostrils. Thick spittle dripped from the corners of his mouth and fell on her face as she slipped into darkness.

She didn’t fight. She let him do it.

The guard opened the door, grabbed the client, threw him out, then resuscitated her. Lena still found it difficult to swallow.

She had survived, but it left her dead inside. The nightmare continued. There were clients waiting.

Lena knew it was only a matter of time before she was no longer able to pass for a prepubescent girl. She tried not to think about what the owners would do with her next. Other girls told her she would be sold off to seedy strip clubs, peep shows, or brothels, forced to work in nude massage parlours, or passed off as a personal sex slave. She would be discarded, thrown out like garbage, and