KROSS

The warehouse sat on the edge of Lyon like a rotting tooth, half-hidden under broken streetlights and the stink of the Rhône at low tide. Container 47-B was due to leave at 02:20, with twenty-three girls inside, all under nineteen.

I had been watching for six nights from the back of a black panel van, windows cracked just enough for the cold to keep me sharp.

Tonight the pattern shifted.

At exactly 02:03, the container's side doors opened, three men stepping, laughing, lighting cigarettes. Then the girls came out forcefully, barefoot. Fifteen at my first count, then eight more. They had their hands zip-tied and their mouths taped. Some...