There Are No Cameras In The Bathroom

Lois Lane held the business card the barmaid had handed her in the palm of her hand. The reporter tried to play cool as she skirted the dance floor, with all the young, tight bodies moving to the frenetic beat, the dancers in their cages shaking their breasts and asses to excite the crowd...and headed straight for the restrooms.

Unseen, behind her, Cheetah slipped into the crowd. A borrowed jacket broke up her profile, made her less conspicuous. Like a lioness stalking an antelope, she kept her distance from her prey, moving parallel through the crowd, not wanting to spook Lois Lane...whose own attention was focused on what was ahead.

It makes sense, Lois thought. No cameras in there.

The reporter licked her lips, wondering how much this was going to cost her...she wasn't even sure if this was a lead yet. It could just be voluntary sex workers, it might not have anything to do with the missing women. Yet a part of Lois felt otherwise; the gut instinct that often led her into the midst of danger, because that's where the truth was. Prostitution rings were often hung up with **** and human trafficking, after all...easy enough for a few young women to go missing...

The restroom was crowded—women in the stalls, women at the sinks, checking makeup—but the light bulb was out at the far end of the room, the last stall had an "Out of Order" sign next to it...and in the darkness, what looked like a utility closet door.

Lois walked up to this, remembering the bartender's directions. The reporter knelt down and slipped the card under the door...then stood up. Waited. Pulse pounding in her veins, palms sweaty...and then there was a clunk as a bolt was thrown, and the door opened from within.

The reporter's eyes went wide. Of all the things she had expected, she hadn't expected this...