Jack Wilder - The Missionary

Wren had campaigned tirelessly over the last six months, organizing a fundraising dinner to benefit the victims of sexual slavery and human trafficking. She’d pulled in organizations from all over the world, non-profits, charities, political groups from both sides of the aisle. Stone had used his few connections into the political world to get more people involved. Senator Johnson had been the first person to donate money, and he’d also used his enormous amount of political clout to bring attention to Wren’s efforts. His daughter Lisa—whom Stone and his men had rescued from Cervantes’ operation—was a keynote speaker, along with Wren and several others. There were senators and congressmen, ambassadors from all over the world, lobbyists, mayors, governors, movie stars, sports stars, and a host of ordinary citizens.

Stone had worked alongside her to get this event off the ground, and to make it as visible as possible, but Wren had been the driving force. She’d continued her classes at the university, but her life had become focused on this event, on raising awareness and gathering funds to benefit those who had survived experiences like hers and Lisa’s.

It was astonishing what she had accomplished, really. Even before the fundraising dinner, she’d raised tens of thousands of dollars. She was planning on using the money this event raised to establish her own non-profit organization, which would work hand in hand with governments all over the world to crack down on human trafficking and sexual slavery, as well as providing aftercare to survivors.

Now, it was all coming to fruition. Wren was in another room, having her hair and makeup attended to by a team of professionals, a service contributed by a high profile film actress. In just a few minutes, she would enter the ballroom and make her presentation, beginning the dinner event and sharing her story.

Stone was nervous for her, although she claimed to be more excited than nervous.

A knock sounded at the door and Stone spun on his heel. Wren stood in the doorway, clothed in a custom-made gown contributed by some designer Stone had never heard of. When the event was over, the gown would be auctioned. She was also wearing earrings which would be auctioned as well.

Stone couldn’t breathe as he stared at her. The gown was sapphirine, made of some kind of silky, slinky material that hugged her every curve. The neckline was high, circling the base of her throat, but the back was open to just above her waist, and the hemline brushed the floor. She held a clutch purse in both hands and her ears sparkled with tear-drop sapphire earrings.

Wren ducked her head. “Say something. Do I look okay?”

Stone took three long steps to cross the room. “I—I’m speechless. You’re so beautiful I don’t even know what to say.”

She grinned, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. “I feel…silly. I don’t know. I’ve never worn anything like this.”

Stone took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “I know what you’re saying. I hate wearing this uniform too. But you honestly look stunning. That’s not even a good enough word.” He pulled her flush against him. “You’re beyond beautiful. Just…breathtaking.”

“Really?” She took a deep breath, and Stone couldn’t keep his eyes from the swell of her breasts stretching the material of her dress.

“Really.” He grinned. “If we weren’t supposed to be out there in a few minutes, I’d lock this door and show you how beautiful you are.”

Wren grinned wickedly. “We have time, don’t we?”

Stone was instantly hard. “Don’t tempt me. There’s no way I can do what I want to you without effing up your hair and makeup.”

Wren’s mouth twisted into a dissatisfied moue. “I hate that you’re right. You look delicious in that uniform. Keeping my hands to myself tonight will be difficult.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Stone lifting her face to his, touched his lips to hers. “Now, let’s go raise some money.”

Wren nodded and took his hand, threading their fingers together. They strode through a pair of double doors and out into the ballroom. As they entered, the gathered crowd took notice and parted, clapping as Wren and Stone made their way to the dais at one end of the ballroom.

Wren took her place behind a podium, adjusted the microphone, and smiled at the crowd. Stone stood behind her and to the left, automatically assuming the “at ease” stance.

“Hi everybody,” Wren began. “I’m Wren Morgan. Six months ago, I was kidnapped by a sex slaver. His name was Cervantes. He wore green flip flops. He had rotten teeth and a scar on his face. He clapped his hand over my mouth and dragged me into the back of van, shoved a needle full of heroin into my arm, and drove away with me. It was broad daylight, half a block from my hotel. He—Cervantes—locked me in a hole in the ground that was pitch black. Bugs and rats crawled all over me. Bit me. He fed me food with worms in it. He brought men down into the hole and showed me off like I was a cow at market. They touched me, ripped my clothes off…

“Cervantes wouldn’t let them rape me, though. He wanted me…intact, I think. So he could get a better price. He beat me. Hit me. Kicked me. Shot me full of heroin several times a day so I wouldn’t try to escape. When I was high, I couldn’t remember who I was, or where I was, or why I was alone. All I knew was that I was alone in the darkness, with insects crawling on me.”

Wren paused, her voice shaking. She closed her eyes and gathered herself. The room was silent.

“They brought me to a hotel room. Somewhere far away from where they kept me. Men stood around in the room, haggling over me. I was being sold. I was being bartered away to a man who would use my body for sex, to make a profit off of me. I saw…I saw girls no more than ten, twelve, sixteen years old, naked and bruised and beaten, half-starved, being forced to perform sexual acts. Sometimes at gun or knife-point. Their eyes, those girls…they knew they’d never be free again. They knew they would be forced to…to be fucked …like animals, worse than animals—all day, every day, until they died. Excuse my language, but there’s just no other word for it. For what those girls endured. There was no one to save them. No one cared. Some of them had been sold into that by their own parents. Others were kidnapped like me. Stolen. Lied to. Coerced. There were so many of them. Not just local Filipina girls either. Americans like me. Germans. French, Italian. Girls on vacation, kidnapped. I was lucky.” She blinked hard and glanced adoringly back at Stone, then returned her gaze to the rapt audience. “So, so lucky. I was never forced to have to sex. Because I—I had—I was rescued. By a courageous, selfless man named Lieutenant Stone Pressfield. When I went missing, he came after me. He…he shed blood to save me. By himself, he got me out and brought me home.

“Thousands… millions of other girls all over the world aren’t anywhere near so fortunate. So blessed.” She paused again, gathering her thoughts, then continued. “This isn’t just in Manila. It’s not just Thailand and Taiwan and Russia. It’s here . In America. As I arranged this event, sought out donors and contributors and speakers, I met so many girls, and some boys too, who grew up just like me, going to school and church and playing kickball, average suburban American kids, who through one way or another, ended up sex slaves. No one talks about it. You hear about cyber-bullying, and suicide. You hear about hashtags and YOLO and Facebook and Twitter and hipsters and who got a boob job and who’s breaking up with whom…you hear about all that. There have been gay rights marches and elections and political campaigns…and there’s nothing inherently wrong with any of that. Some of that is important, things we should be talking about. But it’s time someone spoke up about this .