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  “Wake up!” It was the driver, and soon, more light filled the truck. Bearable light, Gray guessed, in comparison to the sun. He wasn’t sure he could live through a sunrise at this point. His eyes only knew the flickering lights of garage bays and the sharp, white beams from flashlights. “Crate four and six,” the driver told someone. “Food for the others.”

  Two crates were lifted off the truck, and Gray prayed he could forget the heartbreaking sound of young men begging for their lives.

  How many weeks had passed now?

  Packets of rice and steamed vegetables were shoved in between the cracks of the crates—the same every night. Then they’d be back on the road for a few hours, only to make a final stop before a new day began. At that stop, they’d be hauled out of their boxes and hosed down. If anyone got mouthy, which Gray had learned the hard way, their one and only bathroom visit was taken away, and they got to experience waterboarding.

  He flinched at a certain memory but managed to shove it aside.

  “On your feet, slave.”

  Gray shuddered violently as someone guided him roughly out of the truck. There was a bag over his head again. The telltale beep to alert that the lift gate was in use, the low murmur of voices around, boys wondering what was going on, the lift gate lowering with him on it—Gray could anticipate all of it.

  He stood stock-still on the concrete ground and waited for the water. Every shuffle and noise registered, and then it hit him. The blast of cold water. He sucked in a breath and squeezed his eyes shut harder. One boy cried out. If the low-life scum were feeling extra sadistic, the first attack of the hose would hit the boys right in the face. Not even the burlap could shield them from the force of the frigid water.

  They were deemed clean when teeth were chattering and their bodies shaking.

  A quick bathroom break entailed being shoved into a porta-potty where the men got two minutes at best to relieve themselves. It was the only time their wrists weren’t shackled or bound. After which, they stumbled out and felt a gun pressing to their heads.

  Gray was beginning to take comfort from the burlap sack. He didn’t wanna see the hell he lived through.

  Soon enough, he was shoved back into his crate, another night drawing to a close.

  Like the doctor’s exam, a rare night here and there stood out. Tonight, Gray and the other young men were shuffled out of the truck and into another garage bay, bags thrown over their heads, but there was no hose waiting for them, nor had they been fed yet. Instead, they were all ordered on their knees with their heads bowed.

  Panic seized Gray’s chest. Is this it? Have they gone through all this to give me a bullet in the head? Just like that, his rational side kicked in. There wasn’t a chance in hell they were gonna kill him after everything. He’d been manhandled by countless men throughout this time, and they probably didn’t do it for free. An operation like this had to be costly.

  “Please don’t kill me,” one guy sobbed.

  He was new.

  “Disappointingly little money in selling corpses,” a man said impassively. “Start with him, Gregor.”

  Gray’s ears prickled. He strained to be alert, refusing to let the fatigue get the best of him. Boots scraped the cement. Wherever they stopped, it wasn’t near Gray. This time.

  “This the final eight for Joulter?” someone asked in a gravelly voice.

  “Yes. We’ll get the other six tomorrow.”

  The next thing that registered was a low, jagged buzz. The first words that flew into Gray’s head were tattoo gun. Confirmed by a boy whimpering in pain and a motherfucker telling him to be still. Gray tensed up and steeled himself. They’re gonna mark me. They’re gonna put a mark on me. Milo was next, and Gray listened to his shaky breaths as the boy tried to be brave. Each faint, choking sound was a stab in Gray’s chest.

  “One of them was reserved, right?” It was the gravelly voice again.

  “This one,” another replied, and it was followed by a pained sound. “He’s to be delivered with a chip already. Buyer ain’t takin’ any chances, I guess.”

  Gray’s mind was quick to draw conclusions. Chip. GPS or something else that would track the kid. Making it almost impossible to escape. On the other hand, Gray and the other six wouldn’t be chipped. He would only need a small window. If he saw a chance to run, he would. Saw, being the ironic keyword. With a bag over his head, he didn’t see a whole lot.

  A meaty hand clamped down on Gray’s neck through the scratchy fabric, and Gray clenched his jaw. This was it. He’d get some kind of mark—a permanent one. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t faze him more than the other abuse. He could survive a tattoo. Being kidnapped, maybe not.

  The buzz grew louder, and the bag over Gray’s head was pushed up enough to expose the back of his neck. What followed was a trail of fire that pierced his skin. He broke out in a sweat, the pain reverberating in his skull and locking his jaw into place. He gnashed his teeth so hard he thought he was gonna crush them.

  Something was different.

  “Be quiet, Milo.” Gray spoke the words under his breath, too caught up in the outside world to try consoling Milo again. “Please. Something’s—” Shit, he didn’t even know what to say. As the truck turned, so did Gray. He twisted his upper body inside the crate, as if he could suddenly see through walls just because he was facing the right direction.

  His neck strained, reminding him of the no doubt infected, two-day-old brand. Right now, he couldn’t bring himself to care. For the past hour or so, the truck had driven in a strange pattern. Bumpier roads, frequent turns. Hope was the last thing that died, Gray had read somewhere. And he couldn’t help but wonder if the sharp turns and detours meant that the driver was trying to shake someone. Someone following them, maybe.

  After a while, the truck slowed down.

  “Joulter cargo!” The voice of the driver was muffled through a wall but distinct nonetheless. Another voice replied, and this time, Gray couldn’t decipher the words. “No, the midnight departure with the queer boys.”

  Gray’s back straightened and became rigid, and he hit his head on the ceiling of the crate. Queer boys. Oh fuck. “Milo.” He rushed out the silently crying boy’s name. “Are you gay?”

  “I am,” someone else croaked.

  “Me too.”

  Milo sniffled. “Yeah?”

  “Damn,” Gray whispered.

  There was one guy Gray’s age—Cole—who’d traveled with them for maybe a week. He spoke up next. “Special requests from buyers.” His guess confirmed Gray’s fear. Every time they’d traveled with others, it’d been different legs of different journeys. Girls, boys, straight, gay; somehow, they were categorized, whether it was by sexuality, gender, body shape, or skin color.

  Gray thought back on the glimpses of the guys he was with. Sexuality established: gay. All of them athletic and cut but not bulky. All on the young side. Gray and Cole were the eldest, if he wasn’t mistaken. We’re the fucking twinks. He glared at nothing, vaguely offended. He didn’t look like a stereotypical bottom boy, goddammit.

  With a shake of his head, he thought further, mainly on how these people-harvesting criminals knew so much. They didn’t snatch victims at random, and Gray didn’t advertise his sexuality. Much. His friends knew and had zero problems; still, he was heavily involved in hockey, so he chose not to flaunt anything. He was also single—officially. Only one man would hopefully dispute that status. Regardless…no one would know he was gay unless they either knew him personally or…if they’d found his Facebook.

  It sent chills down his spine to realize they’d been watching him.

  It would explain how Bob had known his age. They’d fucking spied on Gray.

  “We have to run,” he said quickly. Panic rose at the thought of not getting any more chances. “If we’ve reached the destination where they’ll try to sell us, we gotta try to escape—by any means necessary.”

  “I’m in. We can’t afford to hesitate,” Cole said in his Southern acce
nt. “Charlie, you can’t even try. They’ll know where you are.” That was the boy with a GPS chip embedded under his skin. “The rest of us—soon as we get a chance, we run.”

  Gray nodded to himself. “Don’t wait for anyone. We have a bigger shot if one slips away and calls the police.”

  It was an unstable agreement among Cole, Gray, and six boys who were so afraid that their every breath was shaky or thick with emotion.

  If Gray had to choose between a life in captivity and death…

  Light exploded around them as the door was opened, and Gray snuck closer to the boards. Blinking rapidly past the burn, he searched for clues and escape routes. He needed to be alert, because if that tiny window of opportunity appeared, he wasn’t gonna waste a millisecond.

  His heart thundered in his chest as two men headed straight for his crate. Feet firmly planted on the floor, knees pulled up, he summoned all his strength. Which wasn’t much, but he had the element of surprise, and he could shoot up quickly in this position.

  When he spotted one of the men gripping a shotgun tightly, his heart plummeted, though he remained determined. Childhood memories flashed by, and he swallowed hard. Life wasn’t supposed to end here. Not like this. It wasn’t fucking fair.

  “Rise and shine, fuckboy.” A guard turned the key in the three locks that held the crate shut, then lifted the lid just enough to shove in the barrel of a shotgun. Opening the lid farther, the guard flashed a wide smirk. A scar slashed across his cheek and created a deep crease whenever his mouth twisted. “Turn around.”

  “Why the fuck would I?” Gray spat out. Rage engulfed him, and he balled his hands into fists. His lungs squeezed.

  He chuckled. “I think you’re smart enough to know we won’t kill you, but there are other ways to use a shotgun. Would you like it shoved up your ass?”

  Gray swallowed, and against everything he wanted, he shuffled around inside the crate so he had his back to them. This wasn’t how he was gonna find his escape.

  “See? Obedient already. Your owner will like you.” Next, there was a hand on his neck, and then a sharp sting. Gray’s eyes widened. It dawned on him as quickly as the sedative kicked in. They were putting him down like a goddamn dog in order to move…him…

  “Fucking…bastards,” Gray groaned. The hatred blazed inside of him, even as his limbs grew heavy and his mind sluggish.

  Two

  “Wake up! All yours, sir.” A bucket of cold water was thrown over Gray’s lifeless body, and he jolted awake. His head swam, shock held him in invisible bondage, and he was so disoriented that his eyes crossed and rolled back. There was no scratchy bag to shield his face, or rather, his eyes. Light exploded. A moan of pain slipped through his lips. He was rocking, or swaying—either way, the ground was unsolid.

  The sound of calm waves registered.

  The smell of the ocean, much stronger than last time.

  Sea gulls. The sun.

  “Ow…” He whimpered and shut his eyes. Even behind closed lids, the light was brilliant and white.

  Before he knew it, someone was scrubbing him clean with gentle strokes. The sponge was soft and smelled of sandalwood and fresh soap. He couldn’t move an inch, no matter how hard he tried. Instead, he rolled with the movements and pushes of the person washing him and what he presumed was a boat.

  The air was fresh. He couldn’t decide if it was crisp or humid. Maybe it was morning.

  Definitely not in Washington.

  No, this was the heat of summer in November. Or December now, he guessed.

  The person who cleaned him spoke, his voice impossibly angelic. “Welcome to Miami.”

  “I—” Gray couldn’t speak. He could barely form a coherent thought, but he managed to crack one eye open and squint. “Are…” you here to save us? The man couldn’t be more than twenty, and he looked so sweet, so innocent, and so pretty. His hair was the blackest black, his skin paler than snow, and Gray had never seen eyes that light blue before.

  “Don’t speak, sweetling.” The guy cupped Gray’s cheek briefly, then returned to dragging the sponge over his body. “Everything will be fine. My name is Vanya, and I’ll take care of you.”

  It was too much for Gray to process. He didn’t know if this was good or bad, so he sort of checked out.

  Sometime later, he knew it was bad. The guy named Vanya had merely cleaned him up, given him a pair of white briefs, shaved his scruff, and put some shit in his hair to make it look shiny. A guard had taken over from there, and he’d brought Gray to the other guys, who’d undergone the same pre-auction makeover. Bruises had been covered, a few cuts had been cleaned, and the cabin they were locked inside smelled of disinfectants.

  Along the walls of the otherwise completely empty cabin, all eight guys were shackled to metal hooks.

  Their hope of escape had been shot straight to hell before they could even try.

  The defeat crushed Gray. When the other guys made an effort to gather information on their new whereabouts, he stayed silent. They were on an opulent yacht, he learned. At least four decks. They were surrounded by water. Tight security with big men patrolling heavily armed. Milo had heard whispers about “buyers boarding at midnight,” and another guy had heard they were anticipating a bidding war for two of the boys.

  Cole was an attractive guy who looked like a quarterback, complete with rich, brown hair and matching eye color. He was a realist too, and he guessed the two youngest boys—Milo and Jackie—would be popular.

  That frightened Milo. “What makes you say that? I’m nothing special.” Maybe he wasn’t. He was scrawnier and fair-skinned, though his green eyes and dark, shaggy hair would probably draw a crowd. However, it was his age. He was sixteen.

  “You’re jailbait on a boat that’ll be full of perverts,” Cole replied grimly.

  Jackie bit his lip and turned to the wall, shivering in fear. Unlike Milo, Jackie was tall, blond, and blue-eyed. But he shared the same innocence, and he was only seventeen.

  The door suddenly swung open, and all the guys whipped their heads around to see a voluptuous woman enter the cabin. Her presence was immense, and somehow she came off as more dangerous than the two men flanking her. Blood-red hair, matching her lipstick and long nails. A leather dress with a corset pushed her big breasts together. Yet, it was her eyes Gray got stuck on. Pale blue and shaped like almonds, like that Vanya guy. They had to be related.

  She didn’t speak. Taking measured steps, she went from guy to guy to inspect them from head to toe and back up. Gray tensed his jaw as she paused in front of him. Her full lips twisted in amusement.

  “Lower him to two hundred,” she murmured absently. “Maybe a shooter will want him.”

  What the fuck did that mean?

  She cocked her head. “My son has taken a liking to you. I don’t see it.” Vanya. Jesus Christ, they were mother and son. “You won’t be easy to handle.” With a dismissive wave, she continued to the next guy, and Gray let out a breath.

  The word shooter went on repeat. It sure as hell didn’t sound like a good thing.

  The entire day was a mindfuck. Absolutely nothing happened. They remained shackled to the wall in the empty cabin, and after Red had left with her security, no one else came in. They weren't fed. No bathroom visits. No nothing.

  A few of the boys had slid down along the wall to sit on the floor. Every now and then, Cole or Gray would tell them to stand up in order to get the circulation back in their elevated hands. Gray stood stoically for the most part, just looking out one of the two small windows as the sun dipped lower and lower.

  It was disappearing from the horizon when the engine started, causing a rush of nervousness to surge through the guys. Eyes more vigilant, muscles tensing up.

  “Is this it?” Milo’s eyes welled up. “Are we gonna be slaves?”

  No one answered.

  They shared a heavy silence for another couple hours until they reached a marina. Or they guessed it was a marina. Those who were closest to the window
s could spot a handful of boats, and more than that, land. It made sense they docked at the edge of the marina, though. Easier to escape if it came to that.

  “I can see the dock,” Jackie said eagerly. “Can we scream for help?”

  Gray doubted their voices would carry, but there was a way to test it out and stay somewhat safe. Fingers crossed. “We can ask if they’re gonna give us food,” he suggested. “If anyone out there hears us shouting, maybe we have a shot.”

  “Wait till you see someone who doesn’t look like a guard,” Cole told Jackie. “Then we’ll try.”

  “Okay.” Jackie nodded.

  So they waited. Above them, they heard the clicking of heels and heavy footfalls of security. There was an air of anticipation that Gray feared. He hated not knowing how badly this was gonna go. The hell did he know of trafficking? Fucking squat. Should he expect people to die? How hurt was he gonna get? Was he gonna be taken to another country?

  What was it going to take to make Gray agreeable to someone else? Nothing short of death and being permanently locked up in a dungeon would keep him in a place against his will.

  That’s not entirely true.

  He flinched at the memory of what Bob had done to him. No, Gray had a limit. It wasn’t just death that made him obey, and he hated himself for it.

  “I only see those fucking guards.” Jackie sounded like he was as close to tears as he was to a fit of rage.

  The waiting was getting to them. Exhaustion, malnourishment, and thirst played a part, and the combination was breaking them down. One boy started crying, begging for his mom and dad to come get him. I just want my mom, I just want my mom. No one was unaffected because everyone could relate, and none of them did anything for the same reason.