Charity clamped her lips together to keep a response from jumping out. She wasn’t sure what she would’ve said anyway. She couldn’t think straight. Her hands shook, and she hated herself for not being braver. None of this should be happening. Why hadn’t her father’s visions warned him about this?
Zia put her arm around Milo’s waist, worried he needed the support.
Both men from the truck joined the bearded man. The driver wore a red bandana wrapped across his forehead. Dried blood dotted his shirt. Probably someone else’s. A gold chain glittered at his neck. These men were rich and horrible.
Charity glanced at the tents, seeing them differently now. What had happened here? Had the government attacked the place for some reason, driving out the organizers and their security forces? Maybe the raiders had moved in then, not only to scavenge but to capture people who arrived with goods to trade. The raiders knew that news of the market’s shutdown would take a while to get out.
Four of the men who walked around the tents were definitely raiders, but most of the people loading things onto trucks were captives. They wore shock collars and worked under the watchful eye of armed men.
Zia and Charity seemed to be the only women. She felt so foolish for being here. How had they all forgotten how dangerous the world could be?
The bearded raider nudged her with his gun. “Follow them.”
Charity hadn’t heard him issue the command but Zia and Milo both trudged toward the market, hands raised. Blood dripped down Milo’s arm, streaking the sleeve of his shirt. Charity had given him that shirt last year for his birthday, a bright blue button-down in nearly new condition. Now it was stained red.
The gunmen marched them down a row and took them behind the last tent, the biggest one that market officials used. Through an open flap, Charity saw a few toppled chairs and scattered garbage. A computer perched on a table in the middle of the room, a bit of order among the chaos. Shock collars were stacked next to the computer.
One of those shock collars was meant for Charity. She gulped and dragged her attention away. She couldn’t look at them. Her mind flashed to her family, and she was glad Gregor hadn’t come today. Her parents would still have him.
Two trucks sat behind the tent, one probably too damaged to function. The front tire was a shredded mess, and bullet holes punctured the driver’s side door. A man unloaded boxes from its bed and put them into the back of the second truck. The whole place smelled of rotting things.
The bearded slaver gestured for them to stop by the tent. Not only he, but the other gunmen stayed to guard the group.
“Stand there,” the bearded slaver snapped. “Keep your hands up and don’t move.”
While the driver sauntered up to them, the bearded man waited nearby, gun at the ready. The other slaver went to the damaged truck, leaned against the side, and pointed his gun atthem from there. He was acting as a guard while the others did … whatever they were going to do next.
The driver lifted his phone to take a picture of Milo. “Smile. You want to look good for your buyers.”
Milo glared at him, his blue eyes seething.
“You’ve got to tend to his hand,” Charity said. “Right now. Or you’re not going to get much for a man who’s dying of blood poisoning.”
The driver stalked over to Charity. His eyes were narrow, hateful. He lifted his hand to hit her. “Didn’t we tell you not to talk?”
She pressed her lips together and waited for the blow.
He dropped his hand and took her picture. “You’re lucky I don’t want unnecessary bruising to lower your price.” He stepped over to Zia, took her picture as well, then tapped buttons on his phone.
All the while, Milo’s hand dripped.
The driver slipped his phone into his pocket and patted down Milo’s pants. “Nothing here.” He probably meant some innuendo by that because he smirked as he said it. His hands went to Milo’s shirt, and he pulled the key from around his neck. “You got something good locked up?”
“That’s the key to my house,” Milo said flatly.
“Score,” the man said. “I hope it’s nice.” He moved to Zia. Charity grimaced as he searched Zia, lingering on her curves.
Zia spat in his face and received a shove that sent her tumbling to the ground. She stood back up, anger burning in her eyes.
The driver turned to Charity and put his hands on her waist. He stood too close, and the scent of body odor and cigarettes made her want to gag. He grinned. He was enjoying this.
Charity couldn’t do anything but stand there while his hands traveled over her. They stopped on her jeans pockets, and hepulled out the matchbook and stubble of a candle. “What are these for?”
She didn’t answer. Nothing she said would make sense.It’s supposed to save my life.
He smiled an oily, mocking smile. “Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” He licked his lips meaningfully. “Pretty soon, cat might not be the only one.”
Nausea roiled her stomach. How could this be happening? Her father had let them come. It should’ve been a safe trip.