The Price of a Child
1138 Words
Elena Torres leaned back in her leather chair, eyes flicking from the open box of cash to Miranda’s small, trembling form in the corner. The girl’s face was pale, eyes wide with terror, staring at the huge man like he was a monster from a nightmare.
Elena exhaled slowly.
“Fine,” she said, voice flat. “Take her. The money’s good.”
Miranda’s breath hitched, a tiny, broken sound.
Elena looked at her one last time. The girl’s lower lip quivered, tears shining on her cheeks.
“Poor child,” Elena murmured, almost to herself. “It appears you were born into this world to suffer like the rest of your kind. I can’t choose you over this money sitting in front of me. If you survive… maybe someday you’ll learn that money always comes first.”
The big man by name Victor “Vic” Salazar, gave a short nod. His gold rings glinted as he flicked two fingers toward his men.
“Get her.”
Two of them stepped forward, their rough hands grabbing Miranda’s arms. She screamed, kicking, twisting.
“No! Let me go! Mommy! Daddy!”
Vic turned toward the exit. Elena’s voice cut through the room.
“Vic.”
He paused, half-turned, one eyebrow raised.
“Don’t make me regret this,” she said quietly.
Vic’s lips curled into a cold, untrustworthy smile. His eyes said everything: *You already did.*
He walked out without another word.
.
The two black bulletproof SUVs rolled out of the nightclub’s back lot, tires hissing on wet asphalt. Miranda was shoved into the back seat of the lead car, wrists zip-tied, a rag stuffed in her mouth to muffle her sobs. Vic rode shotgun up front, smoking a cigar, window cracked.
“After them. Retrieve the girl. I just needed the money. But I need that little girl too.” Elena commanded her men with her.
Behind Vic and his crew, three more cars that were Elena’s crew, followed at a distance, and their head lights were off.
The highway stretched dark and empty. Then headlights flared.
Elena’s lead car (a modified black Tahoe) surged forward, engine roaring. The passenger window rolled down. A man with a short beard leaned out, AK-47 already up.
Gunfire erupted.
Bullets punched into the rear of Vic’s SUV. Glass spiderwebbed. The driver swerved and increased the speed to get away.
Miranda screamed behind the gag, her pitch was high, terrified, her body slamming against the door as the car fishtailed.
Vic twisted in his seat. “Floor it!”
The driver stomped the gas. The SUV lurched forward the more.
Elena’s Tahoe pulled alongside. More gunfire: automatic bursts lighting up the night. The rear window of Vic’s car exploded inward. Shards rained on Miranda; she curled into a ball, sobbing.
Vic returned fire, his pistol barking out the window. One of Elena’s men slumped, blood spraying the dashboard.
The chase turned brutal.
Cars weaved across lanes. Bullets sparked off armored panels. A tire blew on Vic’s second SUV, rubber shredded, rim screaming on concrete. The vehicle spun, clipped the guardrail, flipped more than once, metal tearing, glass flying. It landed on its roof, sliding in sparks and smoke.
Miranda’s car accelerated harder.
Behind them, Elena’s second car rammed Vic’s lead SUV from the side. Metal screamed. Both vehicles spun.
Vic’s driver lost control, and the car veered, smashed through the median, plowed into a concrete divider.
The impact was deafening.
Miranda’s head snapped forward. Pain exploded behind her eyes when she heat the seat, the world tilted followed by silence and then fire.
Elena’s men pulled up fast. Doors flew open.
The leader, Rico Valdez, lean, scarred, always calm, jogged to the wreckage.
“Check survivors.”
They yanked open the crumpled rear door.
Miranda was still breathing shallow but fast. Her blood trickling from a cut on her forehead.
Rico cut the zip ties. Lifted her gently.
“Boss, we’ve got the girl,” he said into his phone. “Vic’s dead. Car’s burning.”
Elena’s voice crackled back. “Good. Bring her home.”
Rico carried Miranda to their Tahoe. She whimpered, too weak to fight.
Inside, Rico sat her in the back. His second, by name Marco, climbed in beside her.
Marco pulled out his phone on speaker.
“Elena, we’re clear. But listen: the buyer was talking codes in the car before we hit them.”
He glanced at Miranda. She was shaking, eyes wide.
“Repeat what you heard,” Rico said softly.
Marco leaned toward the phone.
“He said: ‘Package 47-Alpha, drop at waypoint 19. Payment wired on confirmation. Use sequence Tango-Echo-9 for the clean. No traces after 0300.’ Then something about ‘stitch count per run. I think max six, heal time forty-eight.’”
Elena’s voice sharpened. “He said all that in front of her?”
“Yeah. Kid heard everything.”
Rico looked at Miranda. She stared back looking terrified, but listening. Remembering, every word and every number all burned into her small, brilliant head.
.
David sat on the edge of the bed in the safe house the FBI had given him, (a quiet two-bedroom in Coconut Grove, blinds drawn, security cameras active.)
Micah sat across from him on a chair, sleeve rolled up. A shallow cut on her left arm still seeped a little blood. The cut was from a glass during the club fight.
David worked carefully, using antiseptic wipe, butterfly bandage, gauze. His hands were steady, calloused, gentle in a way that surprised her.
Micah watched him. The way his brow furrowed in concentration. The faint scar along his jaw. The way his shoulders moved under his shirt, strong, controlled, like he carried the weight of the world and didn’t complain.
She swallowed. He finished taping the bandage, then looked up. Their eyes met. The room went quiet.
David cleared his throat,
“You should… go take a shower. Get cleaned up.”
Micah nodded slowly. Stood.
When the bathroom door clicked shut, David exhaled hard.
“s**t…”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
He hadn’t looked at a woman like this since Carolina. Not since the day he buried what was left of his heart in Iran.
And now? Micah.
A stripper. A sister to the man who took his daughter. A woman who should have run from him the second she saw what he was capable of.
But she hadn’t. And the way she looked at him… the way her breath caught when he touched her arm…
He was falling. And he hated himself for it.
A knock at the door came sharp, and official.
David’s hand moved instantly for his gun, the short-barreled Glock drawn, chamber checked with a quiet click.
He rose slowly, and silently, he approached the door.
- Writer
