My heart leaps in my throat as I reach out for the thick, knotted twine. I catch hold of it in the air, clutching onto it for life. Like a pendulum, I swing on it, racing through the air at full speed towards the immense hull of the rusted barge. The metal flies at me, and I brace myself for impact.
It is excruciatingly painful as I collide at full speed, the metal slamming into the side of my head, ribs, and shoulder. The pain and shock of impact is almost enough to make me drop the rope. I slip a few feet, but somehow manage to hang on.
I wrap my feet around the rope before I slip all the way down to the water. I cling to it, dangling there, as the barge continues to move, gaining speed. Logan has managed to catch his and hang on, too. He dangles a few feet away.
I look down at the rough waters a few feet below me, churning white as the barge cuts a path across the river. Those are big currents below, especially for a river, strong enough to lift this huge barge up and down.
To my right, the Statue of Liberty towers over us. Amazingly, it has survived intact. Seeing it, I feel inspired, feel as if maybe I can make it, too.
Luckily, Governors Island is close, barely a minute’s ride. I remember taking ferry rides there with Bree on hot summer days, and how amazed we were that it was so close. Now, I’m so grateful it is: if it were any farther, I don’t know if I’d be able to hang on. The wet rope digs into my freezing hands, making every second a struggle. I wonder how I will get out of this mess. There is no ladder on the side of the boat, and once we reach the island, there will be no way for me to get out except to drop down off the rope, into the water. Which would surely make me freeze to death.
I detect movement and look over and see that Logan is slowly climbing his way up the rope. He has devised an ingenious method of lifting his knees, clamping the insoles of his feet tightly against the thick rope, then using his legs to pull himself up.
I try it. I raise my knees and clamp my feet into the twine, and am happily surprised to see that my boot catches. I straighten my legs and pull myself up a notch. It works. I do it again and again, following Logan, and within a minute, the time it takes to reach the island, I’m at the top of the rope. Logan is there, waiting, hand outstretched. I reach up and grab it, and he pulls me quickly and silently over the edge.
We both crouch down behind a metal container and furtively survey the boat. Standing up front, their backs to us, are a group of guards holding machine guns. They herd a dozen young girls, directing them down a long ramp lowered from the boat. The sight makes me burn with indignation, and makes me want to attack them right now. But I force myself to wait, to stay disciplined. It would give me temporary satisfaction, but then I would never get Bree.
The group starts to move, chains rattling, until they are all off the ramp and on the island. When the boat is emptied, Logan and I nod to each other and silently make our way off the barge, running alongside the edge. We hurry down the ramp, a good deal behind everybody else. Luckily, no one is looking back for us.
In moments we are on land. We hurry through the snow and take shelter behind a small structure, hiding out of sight to watch where the girls are taken. The slaverunners head toward a large, circular brick structure which looks like a cross between an amphitheater and a prison. There are iron bars all around its perimeter.
We follow their trail, hiding behind a tree every twenty yards, running from tree to tree, careful not to be seen. I reach down and feel for my gun, in case I need to use it. Logan does the same. They might notice us at any moment, and we have to be ready. It would be a mistake to fire—it would draw too much attention, too soon. But if I need to, I will.
They herd the girls into the open doorway of the building and then disappear in the blackness.
We both break into action, running inside after them.
My eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness. To my right, around the bend, a group of slaverunners leads the girls, while to my left, a single slaverunner heads solo down a corridor. Logan and I exchange a knowing glance, and both wordlessly decide to go after the stray slaverunner.
We run silently down the corridor, just yards behind him, waiting for our chance. He reaches a large iron door, pulls out a set of keys, and begins to unlock it. The metal clangs, reverberating in the empty corridors. Before I can react, Logan pulls out a knife, charges the slaverunner, grabs him by the back of his head, and slices his throat in one quick motion. Blood spurts everywhere as he collapses, a lifeless heap on the ground below.
I grab his set of keys, still in the lock, turn it, and pull back the heavy iron door. I hold it open and Logan runs in, and I follow.
We are in a cell block, long, narrow, semi-circular, filled with small cells. I run down it, looking left and right, scanning the haunted, hollow faces of the young girls. They stare back at me, hopeless, desperate. It looks like they’ve been here forever.
My heart is thumping. I look desperately for any sign of my sister. I feel she is close. As I run through, the girls go to their cell doors and stick their hands through. They must realize we’re not slaverunners.
“PLEASE!” one cries. “Help me!”
“LET ME OUT OF HERE!” another cries.
Soon, a chorus of shouts and pleas rises up. It is drawing too much attention, and it worries me. I want to help each one of these girls, but there’s no way I can. Not now. I need to find Bree first.
“BREE!” I scream, desperate.
I increase my pace to a jog, running cell to cell.
“BREE? CAN YOU HEAR ME? IT’S ME! BROOKE! BREE? ARE YOU HERE!?”
As I race by a cell, a girl reaches out and grabs my arm, pulling me to her.
“I know where she is!” she says.
I stop and stare at her. Her face is as frantic as the others.
“Let me out of here, and I’ll tell you!” she says.
If I set her free, she might draw unwanted attention to us. Then again, she is my best bet.
I look at her cell number, then look down at the keys in my hand and find the number. I unlock it, and the girl comes running out.
“LET ME OUT, TOO!” another girl yells.
“ME TOO!”
All the girls start screaming.
I grab this girl by the shoulders.
“Where is she!?” I demand.
“She’s in the mansion. They took her this morning.”
“The mansion?” I ask.
“That’s where they take the new girls. To be broken in.”
“Broken in?” I ask, horrified.
“For sex,” she answers. “For the first time.”
My heart plummets at her words.
“Where?” I demand. “WHERE IS IT?”
“Follow me,” she says, and begins to run.
I am about to follow her out, but suddenly I stop.
“Wait,” I say, grabbing her wrist.
I know I shouldn’t do this. I know I should just run out of here, focus on saving Bree. I know there’s no time, and I know that helping the others can only cause unwanted attention and screw up my plans.
But something inside me, a deep sense of indignation, stirs. I just can’t bring myself to leave them all here like this.
So, against my better judgment, I stop and turn back, running cell to cell. As I reach each one, I find the key and unlock it. One by one, I free all of the girls. They all come running out, hysterical, running every which way. The noise is deafening.
I run back to the first one I freed. Luckily, she is still waiting with Logan.
She runs and we follow her, racing down corridor after corridor. Moments later, we burst out into the blinding light of day.
As we run, I can hear the chorus of girls screaming behind us, bursting out to freedom. It won’t be long until all the soldiers catch onto us. I run faster.
The girl stops and points across the courtyard.
“There!” she says. “That building! The big old house. On the water. The Governor’s Mansion. That’s it! Good luck!” she cries, and turns and runs off in the other direction.
I sprint for the building, Logan right beside me.
We run across the massive field, thigh-deep in snow, on the lookout for slaverunners. Luckily, they aren’t on to us yet.
The cold air burns my lungs. I think of Bree, being taken somewhere for sex, and I can’t possibly get there fast enough. I’m so close now. I can’t let her be hurt. Not now. Not after all this. Not when I’m only feet away.
I force myself forward, never stopping to catch a breath. I reach the front door and am not even cautious. I don’t stop to check, but just run into it and kick it open.
It bursts open and I continue running, right into the house. I don’t even know where I’m going, but I see a staircase and my instinct tells me to go up. I run right for it, sensing Logan right behind me.
As I reach the landing at the top of the steps, a slaverunner bursts out of a room, his mask off. He looks at me, eyes open wide in shock, and reaches for a gun.
I don’t hesitate. Mine is already drawn. I shoot him point blank in the head. He goes down, the gunshot deafening in this contained area.
I continue to charge down the hallway and pick a random room. I kick the door open and am horrified to find a man on top of a young girl, who is chained to a bed. It’s not Bree, but still, the sight sickens me. The man—a slaverunner without his mask—jumps up, looks at me in fear, and scrambles for his gun. I shoot him between the eyes. The little girl screams as his blood splats over her. At least he is dead.
I run back down the hall, kicking open doors as I go from room to room, each one containing another man having sex with a chained girl. I move on, searching frantically for Bree.
I reach the end of the hall and there is one final door. I kick it open, Logan behind me, and charge inside. I freeze.
A four-poster bed dominates the room. On it lies a large, fat, naked man having sex with a young girl, tied to his bed with rope. I can see that the girl is unconscious, and wonder if she’s been drugged. This man must be important, because beside him sits a slaverunner, standing guard.
I aim for the fat man, and as he turns I shoot him once in the stomach. He crashes to the ground, grunting, and I shoot him a second time—this time, in the head.
But I’m reckless. The guard aims his gun at me, and I can see out of the corner of my eye that he’s about to shoot. It was a stupid mistake. I should have taken him out first.
I hear a gunshot and flinch.
I am still alive. The guard is dead. Logan stands over him, gun drawn.
Across the room sit two young girls, both chained to their chairs. They sit fully clothed, shaking with fear, clearly next in line to be brought to the bed. My heart soars. One of them is Bree.
Bree sits there, chained, terrified, eyes open wide. But she’s safe. Untouched. I made it just in time. A few more minutes and I’m sure she would have been at the mercy of that fat man.
“Brooke!” she screams, hysterical, and bursts into tears.
I run to her, kneeling down and hugging her. She hugs me back as best she can with the chains on, crying over my shoulder.
Logan appears and, having grabbed the key from the dead slaverunner’s belt, unlocks them both. Bree jumps into my arms, giving me a hug, her whole body shaking. She clings to me as if she’ll never let go.
I feel the tears pour down my cheeks as I hug her back. I can’t believe it: it’s really her.
“I told you I’d come back for you,” I say.
I want to hold her forever, but I know we haven’t time. Soon this place will be overrun.
I pull her back and take her hand. “Let’s go,” I say, preparing to run.
“Wait!” Bree yells, stopping.
I stop and turn.
“We have to bring Rose, too!” Bree says.
The girl beside Bree looks up at us, so hopeless, so lost. It is odd, but she actually resembles Bree; with her long black hair and large brown eyes, the two of them could pass for sisters.
“Bree, I’m sorry, but we can’t. We don’t have time and—”
“Rose is my friend!” Bree yells. “We can’t just leave her. We can’t!”
I look at Rose, and my heart wells up at the sight. I look at Logan who looks back disapprovingly—but with a look that says it’s my call.
Bringing Rose will slow us down. And it will be another mouth to feed. But Bree, for the first time in her life, is insistent—and standing here will only slow us down. Not to mention, Rose seems so sweet, and reminds me so much of Bree, and I can see how close they already are. And it is the right thing to do.
Against my better judgment, I say, “Okay.”
I run over to the unconscious girl, still tied to the bed, and use my knife to cut all four pieces of rope. Her hands and feet relax, plop down on the bed. She is still unconscious, and I can’t tell if she’s sick, drugged or dead. But I can’t deal with that now. At least now, she’s free.
The four of us burst out of the room, only to meet two guards charging us, reaching for their guns. I react quickly, shooting one in the head, while Logan shoots the other. The girls scream at the gunshots.
I grab Bree’s hand and Logan grabs Rose’s and we sprint down the stairs, taking them two at a time. A moment later we burst out of the house, into the blinding snow. Guards charge us from across the yard, and I only hope we can find a way off this island before we are completely overrun.