The Ninja's Blade

by Tori Eldridge

  “Where does it hurt?” I asked, stroking her arm carefully, in case it had been damaged in some unseen way.

  She slid out her feet until her bare legs rested on the asphalt. Then she brought a hand to her chest and, ever so carefully, pulled open the flap of her ripped shirt. Seared into her beautiful skin was an ugly message.

  M$B

  Manolo had branded Brianna like chattel and left his mark front and center for all to see—raw, ugly, huge. It wasn’t enough that he had tattooed “Manolo’s Bitch” on her left breast, the bastard had seared his ownership into her flesh in letters too large to cover with my hand. Even the slightest scoop or V-neck would reveal the horrible truth—Manolo’s Bitch could be had for a price.

  I placed a comforting hand on her leg as she sobbed and gasped from the pain those sobs caused to her damaged flesh. “I’m so sorry, Brianna.” I couldn’t bear to call her by her street name, not with a dollar sign burned into her skin.

  I focused on the wound.

  Although the brand covered a sizable portion of her breastplate, the burn didn’t seem to inhibit her breathing, so the main concern was infection and shock.

  I pulled out the blanket and draped it around her back and shoulders. “Are you thirsty?” When she shrugged, I opened a bottle of water and guided it to her mouth. Warmth and hydration—a solid start.

  “I’m going to wash the wound. It’s just water, but it might sting a bit.” When she nodded, I pressed a towel over her breasts and poured water over the brand.

  “Fuck!”

  “Almost done,” I said, blotting the area with the dry portion of the towel. “Want some more to drink?”

  She shook her head and gasped from the pain.

  I kept a bottle of Vicodin on hand for emergencies, but I didn’t know enough about Brianna to offer one. Did Manolo have her on drugs? Was she fighting an addiction? Would she have an allergic reaction? Too many unknowns. Even an over-the-counter analgesic like Tylenol held risks if she’d taken any drugs laced with acetaminophen. Would she tell me the truth if she had?

  “This is a serious burn. I should take you to the ER or, at least, to an urgent care.”

  “They’ll call the cops.”

  “Probably. But they’ll also have antibiotics and pain killers.”

  “No drugs. I can’t go through that again. Not ever.” The anguish of that memory hardened her voice and deadened her eyes. Whatever she’d endured had felt worse than this.

  I dressed the wound with antibiotic ointment and non-stick gauze, then took her hand and massaged the Spirit Gate point in the center of her wrist to calm her anxiety. When her breathing slowed, I questioned her in a low and gentle voice.

  “What happened?”

  “Sharelle told him.”

  “About RC?”

  “Yeah. She was trying to make points, you know? Earn his favor. Make him love her more than he loves me.”

  “Oh, Brianna. You know he doesn’t really love you, right?”

  She shrugged. “I know—most of the time. And don’t call me Brianna. Not here.”

  I adjusted the pressure point and moved up her hand to the valley between where her thumb and index finger met. After a few seconds of massage, her shoulders began to relax.

  “He was so mad, you know? I’m his bottom. I’m supposed to look out for him, not poach girls for another pimp. I was so stupid. I didn’t just leave him, I betrayed him.”

  “You betrayed him?”

  She yelped as my thumb drove deep into her hand.

  “Sorry.” I released the pressure and rubbed it gently. If not for the excruciating burn on her chest, I would have shaken some sense into her. “Manolo didn’t brand you because you did something wrong. He branded you because he’s a sadistic, sex trafficking pig.”

  She yanked her hand from mine. “He’s not a trafficker. He’s my pimp.”

  A lot of the women and girls at Aleisha’s Refuge made this distinction. Being trafficked implied they were victims while having a pimp implied they had a choice. This wasn’t necessarily true, but the perspective made them feel more empowered.

  “You were a kid when you met him, that makes him a trafficker.” I gestured to the bandage covering her chest. “And this is assault.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “I know he’s abused you for years, and he won’t stop until you’re dead.”

  She leaned her head against the wall and stared up at the sky. The failing light of a nearby street lamp cast a yellow glow on her, adding a jaundiced appearance to her bruised and swollen face.

  “I won’t die,” she said, rolling her head back and forth against the wall. “No matter what he does to me. I gotta live for Angel.”

  If Manolo wanted her dead—or his violence escalated out of control—all the wishful thinking in the world wouldn’t keep Brianna alive. She needed to break free of the life. To do that, Manolo needed to be stopped.

  This wasn’t only about Brianna and Angel. Four days had passed since Manolo had taken Emma, and no one had heard from her. What if he’d sold her to another trafficker? She could be in another state or on her way to another country. I didn’t have time to waste. If Manolo had branded his best girl for double dealing with another pimp, how would he punish a deserter?

  “I won’t die either,” I said, grimacing as I echoed Brianna’s foolhardy words. “And I won’t give up on you or Emma.”

  A laugh bloomed and died as pain gripped Brianna’s chest. For a moment, I thought she’d pass out. Then she clenched her fists on her thighs and rasped, “You a stubborn bitch, you know that?”

  I thought of my mother and laughed.

  You’re stubborner than both of your grandfathers put together. I never should have given birth to you in the year of the rooster. You should have been born an ox.

  In my younger days, Ma had bemoaned my untiring rooster spirit and my impatience with those who moved slower than me. After Rose’s death, she hounded me to hurry up. I never moved fast enough to please her, and I spent my time on things she considered unimportant or out of my control. Would she feel differently if she knew about the women and children I helped and the dangers I incurred to protect them?

  I stood and slipped a hand under Brianna’s arm. “Let’s get you home. Tonight, you rest. Tomorrow, you take me to Manolo.”

  Chapter

  Forty-Two

  I found Lieutenant Francis Payns in the exact spot where I had met him three days ago: his back to the wall at the rear corner table of a greasy spoon in South Los Angeles.

  “Lily Wong,” he said, without bothering to meet my gaze. “Who in my office do I have to fire for disturbing my quiet morning?”

  “May I sit?”

  He glanced over his reading glasses and shrugged. “You’re going to anyway.” Then he scribbled something at the bottom of a page, closed the pad, and removed his glasses.

  “Nice haircut,” I said, taking a seat to his right so I could keep the entrance within sight. Although I had surprised him, I didn’t want anyone from his team to surprise me.

  “RC does a fair job.”

  “So you’ve been there before?”

  “A few times.”

  “And yet, you never busted him.”

  “Never had cause.”

  “And now?”

  He took another sip. “You mean after he landed in the hospital with a sliced hamstring and groin?”

  “Actually, I was referring to the police bust that revealed underage girls in a back room with beds and condoms.”

  “Ah. And you know this from reading a news report? Or witnessing firsthand?”

  “Reading. You?”

  “Got a call. Shortly after I left you.”

  “Oh. Good thing you were in the neighborhood.”

  He shoved his cup and plate out of the way and leaned forward on his hairy forearms. “Enough of this. What do you want?”

  “The same t
hing I wanted before—to stop the commercial sexual exploitation of children, one trafficker at a time.”

  “Who’d you have in mind this time?”

  “A pimp called Manolo.”

  Payns leaned back against his vinyl-padded chair and heaved an exasperated sigh. “Manuel ‘Manolo’ Rodriquez. I’ve written that bastard’s name so many times you’d think he bought real estate in my reports.”

  “Then why haven’t you pulled him in?”

  “I have. Numerous times. But nothing ever sticks. His girls won’t testify—no matter how long we keep them in protective custody.”

  “What do you mean by protective custody? You put them in safe houses?”

  He scoffed. “You think our department has that kind of money? No. But we keep them away from gang members and anyone else the trafficker sends to hurt or pressure them.”

  I frowned. “You mean solitary confinement. I thought you weren’t allowed to arrest minors for prostitution.”

  “We don’t arrest them.”

  “You just hold them against their will until they do want you want.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Isn’t it? Because it sounds like you’re more concerned with them helping you than you helping them.”

  “Stop busting my chops. We’re doing the best we can with what we have. The system isn’t perfect, I’ll be the first one to admit it, but these girls have to help us help them.”

  “And then what? What happens after they testify and you send these guys away?”

  He shrugged. “We send them home or place them in foster care.”

  “And wash you hands until they show up on the street trafficked by some other pimp.”

  He smacked the table with his palm, making the plate rattle and the waitress jump. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to put Manolo away for good and let these girls find real help.”

  “With you?”

  “No. With Forsaken Children: City of Angels. Let them do what they do—help these girls on their own terms, at their own pace, with online tutoring and resources to help them turn their lives around. I don’t want these girls forced into solitary confinement or dumped into foster care against their wills. Many of them have already suffered that route to tragic ends.”

  “A nice fantasy. But we still need them to testify.”

  “Not with Manolo you don’t. Not if you have me.”

  “You?”

  “I have a way in as one of his girls.”

  “Have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea how dangerous that would be?”

  I thought of Brianna’s charred skin and the anguish she’d continue to suffer every day of her life—staring into the mirror, seeing the brand that marked her as goods for sale.

  “Yes,” I said. “I have a very good idea.”

  “No. You don’t. You see, the first thing that’s going to happen to you is rape. Manolo’s going to want to try out the goods, take you for a spin to make sure you’re worth his time. Not that your performance matters a whole helluva lot. No, he’s mostly interested in the condition of your body. You know, to make sure every part is in working order and will take the abuse he wants to give it. He might even invite some friends to join in on the fun. Next comes the iron—or, if you’re lucky, a tattoo—to mark you as his property, followed by a beating to preview what’ll happen if you hold out, don’t make quota, or recklessly eyeball another pimp.”

  I held up a hand to stop the litany.

  “Oh, no. There’s more. I haven’t mentioned the drugs he’ll shoot you with, or the cage he’ll keep you in, or any number of horrors he’ll subject you to all because you were stupid enough to waltz into his lair and play cop.”

  Payns huffed in fury and shoved his chair away from the table as if to rid himself of me. Then he slouched in his seat, crossed his arms, and fixated on a distant part of the floor. He’d said his piece and now waited for me to absorb the ugly truth.

  I bit my lip. He wasn’t wrong. He hadn’t said anything I didn’t already know. And yet, hearing him lay out the horrors so efficiently had rattled me to the core.

  Heat radiated up my neck. Sweat beaded between my breasts and down my back. Why didn’t they turn on the air? It was August, for God’s sake. And what was that smell? Gunpowder and grease? My stomach roiled as visions of blood swam before my eyes. The room turned a deep, sickening red—and peeking from beneath, the bloated white corpse of a tattooed woman, lovely flowered vines across a chest marred forever by a ragged bullet hole and blood.

  Although Tran had pulled the trigger, I had brought him to her door. Now, a foolish girl was dead. Is that what Payns feared would happen to me? Had someone like Manolo prostituted that woman to the gang? Or had she thought herself part of the family, the way young Josie had imagined herself to be before her gang had used her up and kicked her out?

  I shook off the vision and focused on the egg-crusted plate and coffee-stained mug on the bloodless table and not the bloodied driveway of the Norwalk Varrio 66.

  I looked at Payns. “I know what I’m getting into. But you said it yourself—you need evidence to arrest and convict.”

  He shook his head. “I need testimonies, and you’re too old to qualify as a CSEC victim.”

  “True. But if I gave you proof that Manolo was prostituting underage girls?”

  He shrugged. “That’d be a start. Throw in kidnapping and trafficking across state lines and you’d have my attention.”

  Although Brianna hadn’t wanted to talk the night before, I’d managed to finagle a little information about Manolo’s operation as Kansas and I took her home. According to Brianna—or, as I’d have to go back to calling her, Dolla—Manolo, AKA Manuel Rodriguez, had a house a mile from The Blade where several of the girls lived.

  I smirked at Payns. “You want kidnapping and trafficking across state lines? Manolo has a fourteen-year-old girl living in his house, and he bought another girl from a trafficker in Phoenix. Does that grab your attention?”

  “And you know this…how?”

  “Through his recruiter.”

  “A prostitute?”

  “A prostituted girl, yes.”

  Payns’ brushy brows raised. “How young?”

  “Eighteen.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Not a girl anymore. If she’s a recruiter, she could be tried as a trafficker.”

  “Even if she was a minor when Manolo first prostituted her?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Then forget it. I’ll do this without you.”

  “Wait,” he said, as I shoved back my chair to leave. “If you can provide evidence of kidnapping, false imprisonment, and trafficking across state lines against Manuel Rodriguez, we won’t need her testimony.”

  “What about your reports?”

  “I don’t know who this girl is or what she does for Manolo. All I know about is you and what you’re telling me. As long as I don’t see or hear any evidence about this girl recruiting or coercing under-age girls into prostitution, I won’t write it up. But if one of those girls—or Manolo—points a finger at her, then it’s out of my hands. I’ll arrest her for trafficking and her lawyer can plead for a deal.”

  I thought of Angel. What would happen if Brianna went to prison? Would Eddie worm his way back into Angel’s life? I couldn’t let that happen. Regardless of what Payns did or did not do, or whether or not Brianna was convicted of trafficking, I’d make it my personal business to see that Eddie Wilson never harmed another child. And when all of this was said and done, I’d also make sure he paid.

  Of course, before I could do any of that, I needed to infiltrate Manolo’s lair, find Emma, collect evidence, and—well—not die.

  “One more thing,” Payns said. “If I find Manolo gutted like a pig, I’m coming for you.”

  “Me?”

  “You think I don’t know who knifed RC?”

  I slowed my
breathing and waited, face relaxed, and wide-eyed. If Payns wanted to catch me, he’d have to work harder than that.

  He snorted his amusement. “Don’t worry. RC’s not talking. But just because you got away with it this time doesn’t mean I’ll let you do it again.”

  We smiled at each other without an ounce of goodwill.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lieutenant. I’m the one with insider information, a plan to infiltrate Manolo’s operation, and an opportunity to provide you with enough evidence to stop Manolo from prostituting children and selling them across state lines. But, hey, you’re right. I’m not a cop. I’m just a do-gooding watchdog with my teeth stuck in a bone. If you don’t want to work with me, fine. Say it, and we’re done.”

  Nerves tensed throughout my body as I prepared to fight or flee—or, in this case, bitch out a cop and have my butt hauled off to jail. I didn’t make a habit of talking back to law enforcement, but I’d grown testy with Payns’ lack of appreciation. I didn’t want to do this alone, but I couldn’t depend on someone who thought of me as a criminal. I couldn’t trust Payns to watch my back today if he was going to stab me in the back tomorrow.

  Payns signaled the waitress for coffee—a refill for him and a fresh cup for me—then leaned back in his chair. He studied me as the waitress set our mugs on the table and continued studying for another half minute after that. Did he expect me to break into tears or a nervous confession? If so, he’d best get comfortable because I had slipped into a meditative state. It took practice, but with regulated breathing and focused attention, I could meditate as deeply with my eyes opened as I could with them closed. I could also drop my blood pressure and reset my mood. I could do this all day if he wanted.

  Payns grunted with irritation and reached for his coffee.

  “So here’s the deal,” he said, abandoning the silent treatment. “As long as no one points the finger at your girl, I won’t arrest her for trafficking. And as long as you don’t kill Manuel Rodriguez, I won’t arrest you for murder.” He held out his hands. “That’s the best I can offer.”