“Shut up. You’re property now. Get used to it.”
I zipped up. Washed my hands slowly. Thinking. The bathroom had one exit. Right past me. They’d have to walk by.
The door opened.
Three men walked out first. Mid-thirties to forties. Jeans. Baseball caps. Could’ve been anyone. Behind them, a teenage girl. Thin. Dirty clothes. Bruised face. Her hands were zip-tied in front of her.
She saw me. Made eye contact. Mouthed those two words: “Help me.”
One of the men noticed. “Keep walking.”
He shoved her toward the exit. They were heading to a white van in the parking lot. Windows tinted. No plates visible from where I stood.
I had seconds.
“Gentlemen,” I called out. “Got a minute?”
They turned. Looked at me. Six-foot-two biker covered in road dust and leather. One of them reached behind his back. Gun, probably.
“Funny. I was thinking the same thing.” I looked at the girl. “How much?”
Their expressions changed. Suspicion. But also interest.
“How much for what?”
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