Page 116 of The Enemy Protector
What I see makes my blood run cold.
There are six hospital beds now, not two like Nelson told me about. Four of them are occupied. I can’t tell if the people are unconscious or dead. Medical equipment surrounds each bed. IV lines. Monitors. A man in surgical scrubs moves between the beds.
Two other men stand guard. They’re armed. One of them is checking his phone.
“How much longer?” the guard asks in Russian.
“Another hour for this batch,” the surgeon replies. “Then we prep the next group.”
Next group.
I scan the room and see them. A second area I didn’t notice at first. Six people in cages. Actual fucking cages. Young. Most of them look drugged. One woman is crying silently.
My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood.
This isn’t just organ trafficking. This is systematic harvesting. The donors aren’t dead—yet.
This shit has been running under my nose in my city for years.
I step into the room with my gun raised. “Nobody move.”
The guards react instantly. One reaches for his weapon. I put a bullet in his head before he can draw. He drops with a loud thud.
The second guard is smarter. He drops his weapon and raises his hands.
The surgeon freezes, scalpel still in hand.
“How many?” I ask him.
He says nothing.
I point the gun at his head. “How many people have you butchered in this warehouse?”
He swallows hard. “I just do what I’m told.”
“How. Many.”
“I don’t keep count.”
I shoot him in the leg. He collapses, howling.
“Next answer better be honest or the next bullet goes in your head.”
“Hundreds!” he gasps. “Maybe more. I don’t know. They bring them in, I do the procedure, they take them out. I don’t ask questions.”
Hundreds.
I move to the cages. Glassy eyes. The young woman sobbing stares at me. It’s clear these people are down on their luck. Drug addicts. An elderly man. Homeless. Throw aways.
“You’re safe,” I tell them in Russian, then repeat it in English. “I’m getting you out.”
I turn back to Kirill, give him a slight nod. He shoots the two men in rapid succession.
I shoot the locks off the cages. The sound is deafening in the enclosed space.
I pull out my phone and dial a number I’ve used before when I’ve interrupted a trafficking operation. She’s a former Russian prostitute that got trafficked here twenty years ago. She runs a shelter in Queens. Legitimate operation but she doesn’t ask questions when I need her not to.
“I need immediate transport,” I say when she answers. “Six people. Maybe more. Trauma cases. I’ll pay.”
