Jenna’s Protector (Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists: CHARLIE Team #4)

15. Jenna

FIFTEEN

Jenna

Jenna, we’ve been partially briefed.” Ethan keeps his tone brisk yet empathetic. “If you don’t mind, could you tell us everything you know about Sentinel?”

“I…” My mouth goes dry, memories threatening to overwhelm me. Carter’s hand tightens around mine, anchoring me. “I never said they were Sentinel. I only recognized a tattoo.”

“Of course. Anything you can tell us could be invaluable.” Ethan nods, apologetic.

“It’s just when Blake drew the character for shàobīng, I recognized it as the one on—on that man’s wrist.” I absently stroke the inside of my wrist, where my tattoo resides.

The words come slowly at first, each one a struggle, but as I delve deeper, the floodgates open. I recount the training facility—a clinical place with endless corridors and locked doors—the grueling hours spent learning to walk in impossibly high heels, how to laugh at the right moment, to be seen and not heard, and how they taught us to be the perfect companion, molding us into living dolls for the wealthy and powerful.

I describe the opulent parties; my voice catching as I recall the crystal chandeliers, the champagne flowing like water, and the leering faces of men who saw us as nothing more than exquisite toys, and how the air hung thick with cigar smoke and expensive cologne, masking the stench of corruption and greed.

Then, I reach the night of the auction. My voice wavers as I describe the cold metal stage beneath my feet, the blinding lights that left me feeling exposed and vulnerable, and the cruel curl of the buyer’s lip as he raised his paddle, his eyes raking over me like I was a prized mare at a horse auction.

“He had a tattoo on his wrist,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Harsh lines and angles. Chinese characters. It caught my eye when he… When he touched me.”

Mitzy leans forward, her vibrant hair catching the light. “Was he the only man you saw with a tattoo like that?”

I pause, thinking back. “I-I’m not sure. They all wore suits to these events, with long sleeves and cufflinks. I didn’t pay attention to their wrists. It’s possible others had them, but I can’t say for certain.”

I pause, steeling myself for what comes next. “After he bought me, they—they held me down. Tattooed me with invisible ink.” I turn my wrist over, tracing the spot where the mark lies. “It’s the same symbol as his tattoo, but there’s also a number—the number nine.”

The room is silent, the weight of my words palpable. Carter’s grip on my hand tightens, his eyes blazing with a mix of anger and determination.

“Why do you think they used invisible ink on you when the man who purchased you had a visible tattoo?” Mitzy taps her fingers on the table. “That doesn’t make sense.”

I shake my head, feeling lost. “I don’t know. Maybe—maybe they didn’t want us visibly marked? Or perhaps it was a way to track us without others knowing. I’m sorry, I don’t understand their reasoning.”

The room falls silent as everyone processes this information. Minds turn, trying to piece together the puzzle of Sentinel and its operations.

I look up, meeting the pensive expressions of those around me .

“I don’t know if nine meant I was the ninth girl he bought or if it was some serial number. I just… I never understood what it meant.”

The silence stretches, broken only by the soft hum of computers and my ragged breathing. I’ve laid bare my darkest memories, and now I wait, hoping that somehow, this painful recollection might bring justice to others who have suffered.

When I describe the man’s wrist tattoo and the intricate lines that have haunted my dreams, Forest’s face flashes with a flicker of recognition. He and Skye exchange a look. The interaction between them is gone in an instant, but it’s enough to make me wonder what they know.

The room falls silent as I finish recounting my story. Carter squeezes my hand gently, then turns to address the group.

“Jenna has something else that might help us,” he says, his voice steady. “Jenna, would you mind showing them your sketchbook?”

I hesitate for a moment, my grip tightening on my bag. These sketches are deeply personal, a visual record of my trauma, but they could be crucial to the investigation. Slowly, I pull out the sketchbook and place it on the table.

“These are drawings of the men, the facilities, the auction house.” I open the book, my hands trembling slightly.

As I flip through the pages, the charcoal line sketches come to life—haunting images of my past. The team gathers around, their faces reflecting both curiosity and concern.

“This is the training facility.” I point to a detailed drawing of a building with high walls. “And here’s the auction house.”

Mitzy leans in, her eyes widening. “The level of detail here is incredible. Stitch, are you seeing this?”

Stitch nods, already snapping pictures with her phone. “We might be able to run these through our image recognition software and see if we can find any matches.”

Mitzy looks up, her vibrant hair catching the light. “Jenna, do you know where these places were located?”

I shake my head, a familiar sense of frustration washing over me. “No, I’m sorry. We were never allowed to see outside when we were traveling. The windows were always blacked out.”

“How long were you in the vehicles when you traveled between locations?” Stitch leans in, her dark eyes intense.

“It varied.” I try to recall, my brow furrowing. “Sometimes, it was as short as an hour. Other times, it could be five or six hours, but we were never flown anywhere, always driven.”

Mitzy’s eyes light up at this information. “That’s very helpful. If you were always driven, it narrows our search parameters significantly. It seems like everything might be located within California.”

As they flip through the pages, Ethan points to a sketch of a stern-faced man. “Is this Lucian? The one you mentioned earlier?”

“Yes,” I confirm, a chill running down my spine at the sight of his face. “He was the main trainer, the one who—who prepared us for the auctions. He was—cruel. Efficient.”

“Were there other trainers?” Skye asks gently.

I nod, flipping to another page. “This is Marcus. He was in charge of our physical training.” The sketch shows a muscular man with a cruel twist to his mouth. “And this,” I turn another page, “is Vivian. She taught us etiquette and how to—please the clients.”

As I speak, Carter’s hand tightens on mine, a silent show of support.

Suddenly, Stitch leans in, her eyes fixed on a detail in the background of one of my sketches. “Wait, what’s that?” She points to a small brooch pinned to a man’s lapel.

I squint, trying to remember. “I… I’m not sure. I saw it a few times on some of the higher-ranking men. I didn’t think it was important at the time.”

“Do you have any sketches with a more detailed view of the brooch?” Stitch asks, her brow furrowed in concentration.

I shake my head. “Sorry, no. It was just a small detail I noticed in passing.”

Stitch taps her head, looking frustrated. “I’ve seen it before, I’m sure of it. But I can’t place where.” Stitch studies the sketch intently, her brow furrowed in concentration. “There’s something about this brooch… I can’t quite make out the details, but it seems significant. ”

Mitzy leans in, examining the drawing. “Jenna, your sketch is incredibly detailed. Is there any chance you might remember more about the brooch?”

I close my eyes, trying to focus on the memory. “I—I’m not sure. I have a good memory for visual details, but I didn’t pay much attention to the brooch then. It was just something I noticed in passing.”

“We might be able to use some advanced AI to extrapolate from what you’ve drawn and find similar designs or symbols.” Mitzy taps her chin, then looks to Stitch. “What do you think?”

“Definitely worth looking into.” Stitch interlaces her fingers and cracks her knuckles.

“We’ll run all this through our image recognition AI, cross-referencing with known symbols, corporate logos, and mythological imagery.” Mitzy pours over the sketches. “It’ll take some time and serious computing power, but it might give us a starting point.”

The room falls silent as Mitzy and Stitch get to work. The only sound is the soft hum of powerful computers processing the data. After what feels like an eternity, Mitzy’s screen lights up.

“Can you tell me a little bit more about Sentinel?” Carter clears his throat. “How does it tie into all of this?”

“Sentinel is a global criminal organization we’ve been tracking for some time.” Ethan steps forward, his expression grave. “We first encountered them when we took down a subsidiary of theirs called Citadel.”

Blake nods, picking up the thread. “More recently, we helped a biochemical engineer obtain asylum in the United States. She worked for a company called Red Phoenix Pharmaceuticals in Shanghai and discovered they were diverting heavy water for use in nuclear weapons. That’s when we first became aware of the Chinese character ‘哨兵’ being connected to Sentinel.”

“We’ve seen evidence of them all over the world. Involved in varying criminal activities. Montana, Shanghai, and now here in California. They’re incredibly well-organized and deeply embedded in various industries,” Mitzy chimes in, her fingers flying over her tablet while she talks .

“So, you think there’s a connection between what happened to me and this—this global organization?” I’m in awe of the scope of what we’re dealing with.

“We never like to jump to conclusions,” Skye says, “but with the tattoo on not just your wrist but the man who bought you, it’s looking more and more likely.”

Jeb leans in, studying the sketch of the auction house. He’s been quiet up until now. Gently, he clears his throat to speak.

“Jenna, you mentioned a bidding system. Paddles, you said, but did they use anything else?”

“Like what?”

“Electronics?”

I close my eyes, trying to recall. “The bidders all had these small devices, like tablets. I remember the glow of the screens in the darkened room. A large display at the front showed the current bid.”

“Interesting,” Mitzy murmurs, already tapping away at her tablet. “That kind of tech leaves traces. We might be able to track purchases or shipments.”

As they discuss possibilities, I feel a surge of hope. My painful memories might help bring down this organization.

“Jenna,” Blake says, his voice gentle. “I know this is difficult, but is there anything else you can remember? Any details about the people involved, the operations, anything at all?”

I take a deep breath, searching my memory. “There was… There was a man who visited often. He didn’t participate in the auctions, but the others deferred to him. I only saw him a few times, but he had this presence—like he was in charge of everything. Which was interesting considering how short he was.”

I flip to a sketch of a distinguished-looking man with piercing eyes. The room falls silent as they take in the image.

“This could be big,” Forest says, his voice low. “If we can identify this man, we might be able to unravel the whole operation.”

Ethan leans forward, his eyes intense. “Did he only appear at the auctions, or did you see him elsewhere?”

“He visited the training facility quite a few times.” A shudder runs through me at the memory. “It was a very uncomfortable feeling whenever his eyes landed on me.”

Gabe speaks up. “Did anything change after his visits?”

I nod slowly, a chill running down my spine. “Sometimes, after one of his visits, one of the girls would disappear. We never knew what happened to them. They didn’t seem to be taken to auction like the rest of us. They just—vanished.”

The room falls silent, the weight of this information settling heavily on everyone.

“Do you have any idea why certain girls were chosen?” Carter asks gently, his hand finding mine under the table.

I shake my head, frustration and fear mingling in my voice.

“No, I could never figure out a pattern. Some were the most beautiful, some the most obedient, others… It seemed random. But his presence always meant change, and rarely for the better.”

Forest exchanges a glance with Blake. “This man could be a key figure in Sentinel’s hierarchy. If we can identify him, it might lead us to the core of their operations.”

“Jenna,” Skye says softly, “can you tell us anything else about him? Any distinguishing features, the way he spoke, anything at all?”

I study the sketch I’ve drawn, trying to recall every detail. “He was short, dressed in expensive suits, but always looked a bit disheveled. His voice was—cultured, with a slight accent I couldn’t place. And he always wore one of those brooches we were discussing earlier.”

As I speak, Mitzy is typing, likely running my description through their databases. The room is tense with anticipation, everyone aware that we might be on the verge of a significant breakthrough.

“One more thing,” I add, the memory surfacing suddenly. “I overheard some of the handlers talking once. They referred to him as ‘The Curator’. I don’t know if that was a title or a codename, but that’s what they called him.”

“The Curator,” Ethan repeats, his brow furrowed. “That’s something we can work with.”