The night air clung to Lina's skin like a second layer of fear. She led the small procession through the olive grove, each step a negotiation with the crackling twigs and loose stones underfoot. The moon was a thin sickle, offering just enough silver light to navigate by but not enough to reveal them to the cameras that dotted the perimeter like blind, unblinking eyes. Ingrid had memorized their positions, and she whispered directions from behind—left, right, pause, crouch.
Maya carried the phone, wrapped in tinfoil, pressed against her chest like a holy relic. Sasha had found a heavy iron candlestick in the dining hall and now clutched it like a weapon. Priya followed last, her breathing shallow and rapid, her feet bare because her sandals had broken and she had refused to waste a single second to find another pair.
The service corridor door was still unlocked. Maya had not relatched it after their escape, and the guard's brief inspection had been cursory. They slipped inside, the metallic smell of the basement hitting them like a physical blow. This time, Lina led them past the archive shelves and deeper into the tunnel, following the faint sound of humming generators.
At the end of the corridor, a heavy steel door stood ajar. Beyond it, a room that had never been designed for beauty: concrete walls, a single flickering fluorescent light, and five metal-framed beds arranged in a cramped row. On each bed lay a woman, their wrists and ankles secured with soft but immovable fabric ties. Each wore a transparent mask connected to a thin plastic tube that snaked up to a central gas manifold. The masks hissed softly, delivering a steady flow of sedative.
Ana Petrescu was in the farthest bed. Her eyes were closed, but her lips moved, forming words Lina could not hear. Her belly was swollen, full-term, and her skin had a greyish pallor that spoke of weeks without sunlight. The other four women were in similar states—suspended, placid, reduced to biological vessels.
Lina rushed to Ana's side and gently touched her shoulder. Ana's eyes fluttered open. They were milky, unfocused, but they found Lina's face and clung to it like a drowning woman to a rope.
"You came," Ana breathed, her voice a dry rasp. "I thought I dreamed you."
"We're getting you out," Lina said, reaching for the fabric ties. But they were secured with a small magnetic lock, not a simple knot. She looked at Maya, who shook her head.
"I can't pick magnetic locks without a special tool. We'd need a decoder, or the master key."
Ingrid scanned the room. "There's a cabinet on the far wall. Maybe the key is in there."
Sasha crossed to the cabinet and smashed it open with the candlestick. Inside were syringes, vials of clear liquid, and a small leather pouch. She emptied the pouch onto the floor—a set of metal keys clattered out. One of them had a red tag marked "Restraint Master."
They freed Ana first. The moment her wrists were loose, she collapsed into Lina's arms, sobbing without tears. Her body was skeletal beneath the thin hospital gown. She had lost muscle mass, hair, almost all trace of the gap-toothed woman in the photograph.
"The babies," Ana gasped. "They took my baby two days ago. A boy. I heard him cry. They said he was going to a family in Singapore. They didn't even let me hold him."
Lina held her tighter. "We'll find him. I promise. But right now, we have to move. All of you." She looked at the other four women—two were barely conscious, their eyes rolling with sedation. One was awake but unresponsive, staring at the ceiling with a dead calm. The last, a young woman with a shaved head and tribal scars on her cheeks, was already trying to sit up, her wrists bleeding from where she had rubbed them raw against the ties.
Sasha and Maya worked quickly, unlocking each set of restraints. Ingrid helped Ana to her feet, steadying her as she swayed. Priya cradled the woman with the shaved head, whispering calming words in a language Lina didn't recognise—perhaps Somali, or Swahili.
"We have to get to the satellite phone first," Lina said. "Eleni's office is in the main building, ground floor, east wing. If we can get there before the 4am guard change, we have a chance."
But as they turned to leave the basement, a new sound cut through the hum of the generators—footsteps. Many footsteps. And voices, male voices, speaking in rapid Greek.
Dimitri and his backup. They had been discovered.
Lina's mind raced. The corridor had no other exits. The only way out was the way they had come. And the footsteps were already at the service door.
"Back," she hissed. "Into the beds. Pretend you're still sedated. Everyone—now."
The freed women scrambled back onto their cots, pulling the fabric ties loosely over their wrists. Lina and her group pressed themselves into the shadows behind the cabinet, holding their breath. The steel door swung open, and three guards burst in—Dimitri, the young buzz-cut man from earlier, and a third with a thick beard and a stun baton.
Dimitri swept the room with his torch. His beam passed over the beds, the women lying motionless. He grunted. "All quiet. Must have been a power surge tripped the alarm."
Buzz-cut shook his head. "I don't like it. The door was unlatched. Someone's been in here."
"Check the archive room," Dimitri ordered. "I'll stay here."
The other two left, and Dimitri stood by the door, his back to the cabinet. Lina could see the sweat on his neck, the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. He was tired, bored, and dangerously close to turning around.
She made a decision. She stepped out from behind the cabinet, her hands raised. "Please," she said, her voice trembling in a way that was only half-acted. "I got lost. I was sleepwalking. I didn't mean to—"
Dimitri spun around, his torch blinding her. "You. The English one. You're not supposed to be here." He reached for his radio, but Lina lunged forward and knocked it from his hand. It clattered to the concrete floor. He cursed and grabbed her arm, but Sasha was already behind him, the iron candlestick swinging in a vicious arc that connected with the back of his skull. He crumpled like a sack of grain.
Lina stared at Sasha, her heart pounding. "Is he…?"
"Just unconscious," Sasha said, her voice flat. "I know how to hit hard enough not to kill. I grew up with four brothers."
There was no time for relief. The other guards would return in minutes. They dragged Dimitri's body into the corner and covered him with a tarp. Lina grabbed his radio and smashed it against the wall.
"Now we run," she said.
The group moved like a single organism, the freed women supported by the stronger ones. Ana clung to Ingrid, her bare feet bleeding on the rough concrete. The shaved-headed woman—who later introduced herself as Fatima—walked with a determined, unsteady gait, her eyes darting for threats. The two heavily sedated women were semi-conscious, leaning on Maya and Priya.
They reached the main building through a side entrance that Ingrid had identified from her earlier surveillance. The ground floor was dark, save for the blue emergency lights. Eleni's office was at the end of a long, carpeted hallway, its door marked with a brass plaque.
Maya picked the lock in under thirty seconds. Inside, the office was a study in minimalist luxury: a white desk, a leather chair, a single orchid in a crystal vase. And in the centre of the desk, a satellite phone, thick and black, its antenna gleaming.
Lina grabbed it, powered it on. The signal indicator flickered, then steadied—three bars. She punched in the number she had memorised from the cleaner's locker room, the number of the journalist she had worked for, a man named Everett Stone. The phone rang. Once. Twice. A third time.
"Hello?" A groggy voice, thick with sleep.
"Everett. It's Lina. Lina Marek. I used to clean your office at the Guardian. I need you to listen, and I need you to write this down."
"What the hell—Lina? It's 3am. Where are you? Are you in trouble?"
"Listen to me. I'm on a private island in the Ionian Sea. It's owned by Julian Cross. There are women here—surrogates—being held against their will. I have photographs, documents, everything. I'm sending them to your encrypted inbox right now. You have to publish. You have to send help."
She heard the rustle of sheets, the click of a lamp. "Julian Cross? The billionaire? Lina, do you know what you're saying?"
"Yes. I know exactly what I'm saying. And if you don't act, I will be dead by morning. Please. I have a son. His name is Toby. Tell him—" Her voice broke. "Tell him I love him."
She ended the call and began transmitting the photographs from Maya's phone via the satellite connection. The progress bar crawled. Fifteen percent. Thirty. Fifty. Sixty.
The door exploded open.
Eleni stood in the threshold, her eyes wild with fury. Behind her, Dr. Vasilis, his silver hair disheveled, and two security guards with stun batons raised. Eleni lunged for the phone, but Lina held it behind her back.
"Seventy percent," she said, her voice steady despite the roaring in her ears. "You're too late. The evidence is already in the cloud."
Eleni's face contorted. "You stupid, stupid woman. You have no idea what you've done. Cross Industries has legal teams, PR firms, government contacts. One little journalist won't—"
"Eighty percent," Lina interrupted. "You can't stop a story once it's out. You can only try to spin it. And right now, you're about to have a very bad PR day."
Dr. Vasilis stepped forward, his eyes cold. "Give us the phone, Ms. Marek. Or I'll make the remainder of your pregnancy very uncomfortable."
Lina laughed—a harsh, brittle laugh that surprised even her. "You're not going to hurt me. Because you need me. I'm the proof. If I disappear, your whole operation goes down. But if I walk out of here alive, healthy, and with my baby, then maybe—just maybe—you can claim a rogue agent or a clerical error."
The progress bar reached one hundred percent. Lina dropped the phone and crushed it under her heel.
"It's done," she said. "Now call your boss. Tell him the Pearl Programme has a very big crack in its shell."
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut. Eleni's face was a mask of barely contained rage. Dr. Vasilis had gone pale, his hands trembling at his sides. The guards looked at each other, uncertain.
Then, from the hallway, a slow, deliberate clap echoed. Julian Cross stepped into the room, wearing a silk robe and a smile that did not reach his eyes. He was taller than Lina had imagined, and thinner, his face sharp as a blade.
"Well, well," he said, his voice smooth as polished glass. "I was in the penthouse when I heard the commotion. And I must say, Ms. Marek—I underestimated you. That's a mistake I don't make often."
He walked towards her, his footsteps silent on the carpet. He stopped a foot away and studied her face with an almost clinical curiosity.
"Your journalist friend will receive the files," he said. "But do you really think one article can topple me? I have armies of lawyers. I have friends in every government from here to Washington. I can make that story disappear faster than you can say 'human rights.'"
Lina met his gaze, refusing to flinch. "Then why are you here? If you're so untouchable, you'd be back in your penthouse, pouring yourself a drink, and letting your lawyers handle it."
His smile flickered. "Because I like to see the face of my opposition. It's a habit. And I want you to understand something, Lina. You think you've won a victory tonight. But you haven't. You've only shown me which of my carriers need to be… transferred earlier than planned."
He turned to the guards. "Take them. All of them. Put them in the holding cells. And bring the other five—the ones they freed. I want them separated."
Lina felt hands grab her arms, pulling her back. She struggled, but the grip was iron. She saw Sasha swing the candlestick again, but a stun baton caught her in the ribs, and she collapsed with a scream. Maya was sobbing. Priya was frozen, her eyes wide with terror.
As they dragged Lina down the hallway, she twisted her head and saw Julian Cross pick up the shattered remains of the satellite phone. He examined it, then dropped the pieces into a waste bin.
"Delete the upload," he said to someone on a phone. "I don't care how. Do it."
But Lina smiled, even as the guard's grip threatened to break her arm. Because she had not told Everett everything. She had also sent a second file—a backup to a different address, one that she had memorised from a flyer in the clinic's waiting room: the address of a human rights lawyer in Geneva who specialised in reproductive trafficking cases.
The evidence was not gone. It was just scattered. And somewhere, in a small flat in London, a journalist was already opening his laptop, his eyes wide with disbelief.
In the holding cell, with five other terrified women, Lina pressed her forehead against the cold concrete wall and whispered a single name. Toby. She would see him again. She had to.
Outside, the Mediterranean dawn painted the sky in shades of blood and gold. The island woke to another day. But nothing would ever be the same again.
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