plumnovel Chapter 1223: She Could Feel She Was About to Die
Chapter 1223: She Could Feel She Was About to Die
Griffith Squire’s face was dark and stern, his subordinates dared not breathe loudly. It’s been frustrating these few days, focused on investigating prestigious families in Brocade City and various black market forces, only to find out that it was these low-life scums who kidnapped the one he cherished.
Everyone was holding a fiery anger inside.
"Boss, we’ll arrive in five minutes. This place is too backward and isolated. The locals are ignorant; even if they know about human trafficking, they won’t speak up and will hide it in every way possible," Cornelius Turner looked at the GPS and said gravely, "It’s still early now; if we go, maybe we can catch them red-handed."
Griffith Squire’s face was cold and silent, so Cornelius Turner immediately shut his mouth.
A group of men ferociously kicked open a peasant’s brick and tile house, quickly controlling the entire village. Cornelius Turner dragged a couple in their fifties out of bed, kicked them twice, and then swiftly searched the entire house. The wig and props pretending to be an old lady were all found.
Griffith Squire ignored the wailing traffickers, coldly searched all the rooms, and seeing a backpack left in one of the rooms, his face instantly turned icy. It was Aurora Coldwell’s bag, a small European brand backpack, soft leather, quite expensive.
The man bent down to pick up the bag, the ID was still inside, but the wallet was gone, the sketchbook and pen were intact.
"Boss, they confessed. This couple said they kidnapped Miss Coldwell that night, drove to the village, didn’t alarm anyone. Initially planned to act sooner, but Brocade City’s martial law was too strict starting the next day, so they kept Miss Coldwell for five or six days, only acted yesterday, thus got caught," Cornelius Turner finished, dared not look at Griffith Squire’s face. That heinous couple got kicked several times by him, collapsed on the ground.
Griffith Squire held the sweltering feeling tightly with the bag, exited the room, saw the traffickers, approached and kicked the female in the chest, making her scream and vomit blood, fainting directly, while the male fell to the ground, trembling in fear.
"Where did you transfer the person to?" Griffith Squire bent down, coldly staring at the man’s chest, said frostily, "Dare to say a false word, and I’ll skin you alive and make a sky lantern."
"Boss, he probably doesn’t know what a sky lantern means; say skin him, crush up his flesh, break his bones, he should understand," Cornelius Turner threw a box of torturing tools on the ground.
The man instantly peed himself, screamed in terror: "Sold to the boat runners yesterday, the girl was about to die, sold for eight hundred bucks."
They’ve been in this business for a few years, mainly trafficking children, small kids, sold to remote villages. After completing a deal, hide for half a month, it’s fine; villagers even cover for them, after all, in the poor mountain area, the village head is bigger than the police.
That day, seeing that little girl looking pretty, those kind sold to mountain areas as wives fetch good money, moved the thought, and brought her over.
Who knew the little girl was weak, kept in a coma after being drugged for days, got so ill she nearly died, the couple panicked, sold her on a cart for eight hundred bucks to the boat runners.
"What kind of people are the boat runners, where are they?" Cornelius Turner approached, shouting angrily.
"The boat runners are smugglers, used to run boats, now went south to make riches," the man shakily said the names and addresses of the contacts.
Griffith Squire massaged his aching temple.
"Regardless if missing an arm or a leg, throw them to the police while they still breathe," Griffith Squire glanced at the torturing tools scattered around, said coldly, "And all the village folks, send them to the police too, if not dead, at least peel their skins."
Cornelius Turner responded, ordered his men to carry out tasks.
Half an hour later, both the Southwest Military Zone and the black market had information, the boat runners were members of a cross-border international trafficking syndicate, constantly in touch with the Golden Triangle, trafficking women and children to infamous local warlords.
Few years back when Griffith Squire was still in the Golden Triangle, he outlawed drugs and human trafficking, but other warlords used this for wealth and personnel. Over the years, Griffith Squire’s focus shifted to the European market, even his subordinates got reorganized into regular military, hardly aware of the confusion he left behind.
The man made two cold calls, one to the local government high-level officials, one to the Southwest Military Zone, then led his men down south, sealed the border, launched a three-way search for the whereabouts of these people.
In the deep mountains and forests, the international trafficking gang sealed at the border cursed bitterly.
"Damn, has the Southwest Military Zone just gotten a shot of adrenaline? No drills, no unrest, why block the area for no reason?" The man nicknamed Boat Runner cursed.
"This damned weather, mosquitoes are eating humans; if we wait longer, not just those women and children, we all would get played to death," another burly man cussed fiercely, "Boat Runner, go check how many are dead in the car?"
"Not looking, all cheap goods worth few hundred bucks, if dead, then dead. Go ask the boss when the block will lift, not much dry food left."
They set out last night, reached the border, planned to hide for half a day, cross by nightfall, unexpectedly the border fully blocked. Golden Triangle reportedly blocked too; even if they crossed, they’d get into trouble there, the group couldn’t stay calm, stuck in the mountains without food or drink, carrying a bunch of liabilities, by the time the border unblocks, most of the goods might be dead.
"Didn’t you collect a premium good yesterday, that one could sell for good stuff." The burly man spoke enviously, "You’ll get quite a share."
"Don’t mention it, that one’s cursed, didn’t notice due to the dark when buying. Today’s check shows she’s nearly dead, probably a loss on hand."
A crowd guarded the car with guns, stayed alert waiting for nightfall.
In the sealed carriage, Aurora Coldwell awoke from the heat.
"Sister, are you awake?" A teenage girl, wearing a school uniform, reached to touch her forehead, whispered, "You’ve been in a coma for a long time, you must not die, understand?"
The little girl spoke as a trace of fright crossed her face, whispered to her, "Dead, it’s not goods anymore; they dispose of bodies and violate corpses, these people are beasts; I heard all they said."
Aurora Coldwell’s head was feverish and muddled, but she still heard the girl’s words clearly, a trace of shock and fear flashed in her eyes.
She forced herself to cope, glancing at the not-so-large space filled with women and children, faces bleak and numb, with about a dozen or twenty crammed inside. She vaguely remembered being in a sealed room before, now switched places, instantly realizing she had been transferred again.
She struggled to move her fingers, grasping the girl’s warm fingers, sensed the stench in the car, the oppressive heat, the smell of sweat and other stinking odors. She hadn’t bathed in days, filthy all over, unsightly. Due to illness, a few short days, her face haggard, thin as bone, yet still unable to conceal the aura of features.
"Don’t be afraid." She held the girl’s finger, moved her chapped lips, hoarsely said. She was stunned as soon as she spoke.
Over the years, Griffith Squire took her to numerous doctors and psychologists. They all said her vocal cords had no damage, the speech obstacle was psychological, simply her unwillingness to speak. Now in dire life-or-death moments, she suddenly spoke.
But there wasn’t the slightest joy because she could feel herself nearing death.