I walked back to the heavy door at the end of the corridor.

I swiped the plastic security badge through the reader.

The red light turned green, and the lock clicked open with a heavy metallic clunk.

I gripped the handle and pulled the door open slowly.

The room inside was large, spanning the width of the yacht’s lower hull.

It was not a luxury cabin.

The walls were bare steel, insulated with cheap foam panels.

Several low cots were lined up against the bulkheads.

A single halogen bulb hung from a wire in the center of the ceiling, casting harsh shadows across the room.

Sitting on one of the cots was a woman with dark hair, her hands tied to a metal pipe behind her head.

Her face was bruised, and her coat was torn at the shoulder.

It was Rachel Mercer.

Huddled on the floor around her were five children, none of them older than ten.

They were wrapped in thin gray blankets, their faces pale and streaked with dirt.

When the door opened, the children gasped and shrank back against the wall.