Jack Wilder - The Missionary

She didn’t respond right away. “Why not?”

“Why do you want to know what happened so bad?”

“It’s not about that. I just…I’m curious. About you.” She ducked her head. “I like you. I want to know what makes you…you.”

“Well, like I said. I’m not sure I’m—”

“Isn’t that my decision?”

“It’s a two-way thing, I’m pretty sure.”

“So do you like me?”

Stone laughed. “Should I check yes or no, too?”

Wren blushed, and then her expression tightened into anger. “I’m not a little girl, Stone. Excuse me for putting my feelings out there.” She shoved open the door, slid out, and slammed it behind her.

Stone watched her walk away, feeling bad for having hurt her feelings, and mixed up about what he should have done differently. He wasn’t right for her. Maybe it was for the best that she got mad and left. Maybe she’d shift her interest to someone more appropriate.

But, as he drove home, he couldn’t help the disappointment from bubbling up. He did like her. He just didn’t think that was a good thing for her.

He ended up back in the gym, lifting free weights until his arms trembled, and then running on the treadmill until his legs were jelly and his scarred thigh was throbbing with hot aching agony. And still, despite the physical exhaustion, Stone couldn’t fall asleep for the longest time.

Dark eyes and bright smiles and thick black hair haunted his dreams when he did finally fall asleep. It was a damn sight better than the recurring nightmares he usually experienced, dreamed memories of the mission that went bad.

3

~ Now ~

She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She woke instantly, and this time the pain was what woke her. She was on her back, hog-tied. Voices spoke above her in rapid Filipino. His voice, and three others.

Her jaw hurt, and she realized she was gagged.

She couldn’t see, and she realized she was blindfolded.

She was dizzy, disoriented, sludgy. The drug was in her system, muddling her brain.

The four voices were arguing, angry. She tried not to let them know she was awake. Whenever they knew she was awake, they shot her full of that awful drug, and they hit her. Sometimes they fed her, gave her water. Never enough, though. And sometimes, the food had things in it that wriggled as she chewed. It was something in her belly, though, and that was better than nothing. She was so hungry. All the time. And so thirsty.

She hurt.

My name is Wren Morgan . She focused on that. Held on to it. It was all she had. All she knew.

A hand slapped her face, but she refused to give in to the pain, refused to give away the fact that she was awake.

The hand slapped her hard, again and again. “Up, American girl. Up.” The gag was removed.

“Okay! Stop hitting me, please…I’m awake.” Her jaw ached and her throat was raw, vocal chords scraping. Even her voice hurt.

“I tink you play games. You awake, play like you not. Stupid American. I know when you lie.” His voice. Dark and evil and slithering like serpents in tall grass.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. Let me go.”

He just laughed. “Oh no. I tink no. You make me bery rich.”

“My parents, they’ll pay ransom. Please.”

“I got petter idea.” He slapped her again, but perfunctorily. “I sell you.”

“Sell? Sell me? To…to who?”

“Dat we find out. Pretty American girl? You wort a lot of money.”

She felt something cold against her breastbone. She fought to remember what it was, that cold metal thing between her breasts. Her cross. Her little silver cross. Her mom had given it to her as an adoption-day present four years ago, and it was her most prized possession.

A hand grabbed her chin, pushed her face from one side to another. Fingers pried her mouth open, dirty fingers tasting foul. She twisted her face away, and a closed-fist blow rocked her to one side. Her cheek throbbed, and she fought tears. Hands groped her, poked her arms, felt her biceps, rubbed a strand of her hair. Squeezed her breasts cruelly, pinching, lifting, weighing. She fought this violation as best she could, fought, fought. Until a fist bashed her into stillness, and the hands continued to grope and pinch. Her shirt was lifted, her bra jerked down to bare her skin. Her breasts were examined. That was what this was: an examination. A perusal of goods. When the examination ended, hinges squealed and the voices moved away, discussing her in low, quick Filipino. She was left alone, tied up, clothes rucked and her chest exposed. Her cheek throbbed, her skin ached. A tooth was loose in her mouth.

But they hadn’t drugged her again.

And they hadn’t raped her, yet.

Yet.

It was coming, and Wren Morgan knew it.

She refused to cry.

4

~ Three weeks earlier~

Stone sat at the long conference table, second from the end, next to Nick. He held his tongue, and his temper. So far. But he wouldn’t be able to hold on to either much longer.

“…a great opportunity to do some real good,” Nick was saying. “This is an area with a huge need. And I think this particular focus will go a long way to showing the people of Manila that we’re serious about making a difference in their community.”

Len, the executive pastor, nodded. He was a slim, fit, older man with silver hair, steel-gray eyes, and a closely-trimmed Van Dyke beard. “I agree. I think, though, due to the nature of our mission, we should keep it to high school seniors and the college ministry.”

Nick nodded. “Absolutely.”

Len shuffled through the papers in front of him—Nick’s proposal. “Tell me more. I know I have it here on paper, but I want to hear it from you, Nick.”

Nick nodded slowly, staring down at his notes before answering. “I’ve really thought about this, Len. I’ve spent the last week in prayer over it, and I really believe this is the best way to touch lives. I think we’re all aware of how huge a problem sex trafficking is, especially in places like the Philippines and Thailand, as well as Russia. My plan is to go to Manila and set up a kind of safe house outside Manila itself. We’d identify problem areas in the city, where trafficking seems to be focused. Older members of the trip would be in charge of finding those at risk, the young girls and boys who have been sold into prostitution, and we’d bring them to the safe house. We would feed them, and help them understand that we can get them out. That they don’t have to keep doing that. We’d help them turn their lives around. And this would be the first short foray into the area. My hope is to turn this into an ongoing effort, so there will eventually be a constant presence working against the evils of sex trafficking.”

Stone couldn’t keep silent any longer. “I’m sorry, but this is…it won’t work. You’re not going to accomplish anything like this. Worse, it’s actively dangerous. You can’t just…go in there and yank those kids away and think that’s solving anything. You’re just going to stir up trouble.”

Len, who had never been Stone’s biggest fan, narrowed his eyes. “What makes you say this?”

“I’ve worked in that area, sir. In my previous career. I agree that sex trafficking is a problem, and I agree that the issue needs to be addressed, but…a group of high school and college kids? Not smart. I’m sorry, Nick, I know you mean well, but this is a really, really bad idea. You need a team of trained specialists. Psychologist, security, social workers. People who know how to deal with the particular problems that will come up. The victims of sex trafficking…they’re not just forced into prostitution, okay? They’re drugged and brainwashed. They’re made dependent on the drugs, and they’re taught to fear their pimps. For good reason. You really don’t know what you’re trying to tackle. This isn’t just isolated thugs. It’s criminal organizations.”