The Missionary (27 page)

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
.
 

“Slavery didn’t end when Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation. Slavery still happens. Right now, today, this very second, there’s someone in chains, locked away until the next time someone pays to have involuntary sex with them. They’re drugged, starving, naked, and alone. No one is going to rescue them. This event, as incredible as it is, as many people are here donating their time and their money and their talent, isn’t even a drop in the bucket. It doesn’t even begin to touch the problem. But it’s a start.”

She closed her eyes, blinking away tears, swiping under her eyes with a finger. “There’s someone else here that’s going to tell you her story.” Wren stepped away, turned to take the arm of thin, fragile-looking blond girl with frightened eyes.
 

Lisa stepped up to the podium, visibly terrified and shaking. She had a piece of paper crumpled in her fist, and she unfolded it, smoothed it against the podium and read from it without looking out at the audience. “My name is Lisa Johnson. I grew up privileged. My father was a politician, a successful and important senator. I lived in a big house, drove a nice car, went on fancy vacations. I went skiing in the Alps, had dinner beneath the Eiffel Tower, and drank wine in Tuscany. When I finished my second year of college, I spent the summer backpacking around Europe and Asia. We went to Germany and France and the UK, Italy, Greece, Egypt, Spain, Thailand. And the Philippines. Manila. And just like Wren, I was kidnapped in broad daylight. I never even saw them. I was jerked from behind into an alley. A cloth bag was put over my head and a needle poked into my arm. When I woke up, I was in a locked room with no window. I was naked. I hurt, all over. I’d been…raped…while I was unconscious. Hours and hours went by, without a sound, without light or water or food. And then the door opened, and a man came in. He left the door open, and another man came in. The second man unbuckled his belt, took it off. He hit me across the face with it. I cried and screamed and begged him to stop, but he didn’t. When I was too hurt to move, he raped me. And then another man came in, and he raped me too. This…this went on so long I stopped counting how many times I was raped. They left me there, bleeding. I passed out, and when I woke there was a bowl of water and a bowl of dog food on the ground. Actual dog food. I was so hungry that I—I ate it.
 

“Some version of this happened every day. Really, there wasn’t day or night. Just…the time between.” Lisa paused to compose herself, and it took visible effort. “I have no way of knowing from my own personal experience how long I was in that room, but my family says I was missing for four months. No contraceptive was ever used. I got pregnant, and it was…rip-ripped from me. With a coat hanger. There in the room, just…dug out of me. I was raped again within hours. No one cared how loud I screamed.
 

“I’ll never be able to look at a man again, not the same way. I’m terrified of…of everything. I still sleep on the floor sometimes. I go to sleep in my bed, and wake up on the floor, in the corner, crying.”

She broke, then, crumpled. Wren caught her and helped her from the stage. Lisa’s father, Senator Johnson, took the podium, his face grave.
 

“What happened to my daughter…it can happen to anyone. It
does
happen, all the time. It’s probably happening to someone right now. I’ve helmed a lot of projects in my career. I’ve served on numerous committees and oversight panels. I’ve campaigned based on any number of social and economic and political issues. I still stand by all those things. But this? This is personal. This isn’t about my career as a senator. I’m not using this to get votes, or to get into the Oval Office. This is purely about stopping this evil from occurring any longer. It’s about making sure that what happened to…to Lisa—” his voice broke, and he paused for a long minute, breathing hard and blinking, before he could continue, “—that what happened to Lisa doesn’t happen to anyone else. It’s about helping those who have been through it and survived. Lisa was hospitalized for two months when we got her back. She went through dozens of rounds of surgeries to repair the damage done inside her. She’ll never have children. And psychologically? I can’t touch her. She freaks out if I try to hug her. My own—my own daughter, and I can’t even comfort her when she’s upset. It’s been more than two years, and she’s been in therapy twice a week ever since. The medical bills from all this are staggering. For someone less economically secure than I, the bills would be ruinous.
 

“To this end, I’m proud to announce the formation of the International Abolition Coalition. This is a multi-government cooperative. It spans forty countries all around the world, with more signing on every day. It encompasses police forces and national military forces, investigative agencies, aid relief organizations, the Red Cross, hospitals, halfway-houses, insurance agencies…the list goes on. The singular goal of the IAC is to halt human trafficking in its steps, to prosecute on an international level anyone found engaging in this vile practice, and to provide free, professional aid to victims of trafficking and sexual slavery.
 

“Miss Wren Morgan was absolutely instrumental in getting this Coalition off the ground. Her passion, her willingness to use her story, her personal engagement and tireless working has made this possible. She’s been one of the few people outside of my wife Annette and I that Lisa has opened up to.
 

“And as for Lieutenant Pressfield? I’ve already thanked him in person. He received a Silver Star for his part in rescuing my daughter, which he and his men accomplished at great personal cost. Four men died saving her. But a mere thank you, even a military medal…it’s not anywhere near enough.” Senator Johnson met Stone’s eyes, and the message Stone saw there was clear.
 

After a moment, the senator continued. “Ladies, gentlemen. Don’t just write a check and go about your lives. This affects us all. I know for a fact that there is a person in this room whose teenaged daughter is a victim of domestic human trafficking. This person…I won’t name them or provide any identifying information, but…this person’s daughter suffered from depression. She turned to drugs, and through a tragic concatenation of events, she ended up on the streets of Los Angeles, homeless and addicted to heroin, starving to death. She was forced into sexual slavery in return for food and drugs. This was in suburban
Los Angeles
, people. LA. Not Thailand or the Philippines. She was arrested for solicitation by the LAPD, and her story came out. She was returned to her home, to her parents, and now she’s living in a halfway house in Delaware, with seven others like her. This is our nation, ladies and gentlemen. It’s the country we’ve fought and died for. We’re supposed to stand for freedom and opportunity. But things like this are happening, just down the street from where we stand. People you know, their kids, their friends.

“Don’t ignore this. Don’t bury your heads and go back to your lives and your iPhones and Facebook updates. Make a difference. Every dollar donated, every second spent volunteering at any one of the IAC shelters that will be opening all across the nation in the coming months…it all helps.”