by Pam Godwin
But if he had to guess, not even Vera knew how to find her way back to this corner of hell.
She opened the door.
The din of a television reached his ears, playing a commercial with a catchy jingle in Spanish. Otherwise, the room within lay quiet. The sort of eerie quiet that sent a chill along his scalp, at odds with that happy jingle.
He didn’t want to enter, but he forced his feet forward, grateful for Tomas at his back.
The space was vast and empty, except for an old couch in the corner and a hard-looking man perched upon it. A small flat-screen TV hung lopsided on the wall, holding the man’s attention.
He didn’t even spare a glance at Vera as she strode past and poked her head into a dark doorway.
“Marco?” She jumped back. “Oh! There you are.”
A tall man emerged from the shadowed depths, his brown eyes instantly locking onto Luke.
Splatters of blood stained his collared shirt. That would’ve been disturbing on its own, yet everything about Hector’s oldest son radiated violence, from his menacing stare and tense jaw to his hard-set shoulders and wordless greeting.
“This is John Smith and his assistant.” Vera gave them a nod. “He’s ready to make a purchase.”
“Are you leaving tonight?” Marco spoke around the cigarette dangling from his lips, his accent straight out of Mexico.
“Just looking.” Luke ambled forward, speaking confidently through the lie. “If you don’t have what I want, then yes. I’m leaving tonight.”
“You don’t enjoy the accommodations? Not having a good time?”
Oh, how he wanted to voice exactly what he thought about the disgusting operation. With Hector dead, he stood toe to toe with the new capo of La Rocha, a man who wore his authority in the harsh lines of his face. This was an opportunity the cartel’s enemies could only dream about.
But.
There was always a but.
Marco only needed to twitch a finger, and an army of guards would pour into the room. Luke had no power here. His next breath depended on the whim of this heartless slave trader.
He would be lying if he said he wasn’t on tenterhooks, waiting to be gunned down any moment. The tension strung so tightly in the air he didn’t dare move.
Mexican cartels were a distrusting lot, as they should be. They had more adversaries than allies, and as a result, they treated everyone like a threat. Including their guests.
“I’m a busy man, Mr. La Rocha.” Luke expelled a bored breath as if he weren’t sweating from neck to balls. “If you have something more interesting to sell than the mannequins you’re parading around up there, show me. Otherwise, I think we’re finished here.”
Marco choked on a sharp grunt of disbelief. His eyes flared, shooting his brows to his black hairline. He huffed again and looked around, maybe to see if anyone else shared his shock. But there was only Vera, and she gave no reaction.
“Mannequins?” Marco tugged at his rolled-up sleeves. “What does this mean?”
Whiskers darkened his jaw, making his forty-something face look harsher. His tailored black pants showed wet smudges. Probably blood. The stained shirt hung open at the collar, revealing tanned skin beneath. If he’d been wearing a jacket and tie, both were now gone. What remained of his attire had been loosened and adjusted to do whatever nefarious thing he’d been up to beyond that doorway.
“He wants a lively one.” Vera looked anywhere but at Luke. “One he can break himself.”
“Of course.” No smile from Marco. Not a hint of satisfaction or trust.
Not good.
“You want a struggle? A resistant niñita?” The capo stepped out of the doorway and motioned Luke through. “Have a look. Tell me which pussy you like, and we’ll discuss a price. Or choose more than one. We’ll work something out.”
A hot ember sat in Luke’s throat. He let it fester there. No swallowing. No twitchy movements. Expressionless, he strode past Marco and into the darkness.
The doorway led to a corridor that veered sharply around a corner. Another tunnel—this one lined with rooms. Eight chambers on each side. No doors or gates.
The overhead bulbs, spaced too far apart, provided little light. Some flickered erratically, sparking trepidation down his spine.
He knew what he would find in those rooms, and given the fresh blood on Marco’s clothing, it wouldn’t be easy. Even more difficult was the looming task of choosing a girl to purchase and rape.
Any compassion he would’ve felt was stifled. Fucking a girl was part of the plan, a necessary evil to maintain his cover. So he would pick a strong one, drag her upstairs—by a collar and leash if necessary—and use her to fuck with Vera.
Glancing over his shoulder, he expected to find his cartel escort. But only Tomas had followed him into the corridor. Didn’t mean he could let his guard down. Cameras were everywhere.
No more delaying, he made his way to the first doorway.
Inside the cement cell, a dark-haired girl curled up on the grimy floor. She jumped at the sight of him, rattling the chains that connected to hooks in the wall.
“What do you want?” A sob erupted past her trembling lips. “Why am I here? I just want to go home. Please, take me back!”
“How old are you?”
“F-f-fourteen. Are you here to help me? Please!”
“Too young.” He said it for the cameras and ordered his feet to move to the next doorway.
Same story. Same torment.
Room after room, girls cried in shackles, pleading, spitting, and demanding to be freed. Some answered his questions. Others angrily refused to acknowledge him. Many didn’t speak English.
All of them wore street clothes—jeans, shorts, tattered dresses, whatever they’d had on when they’d been abducted. Ages ranging from thirteen to eighteen, they’d come from Mexico, South America, the United States, and several parts of Asia.
Sixteen girls in all.
None appeared to have life-threatening injuries. Bruises and cuts marred their skin from rough handling. But no visible blood.
He backed out of the last room and stood in the dim corridor, listening to their screams. His presence had stirred every chamber into a frenzy of keening sobs and gutting pleas.
His rage stretched on the brink of snapping, but he kept it bottled.
“Might I suggest the one in there?” Tomas pointed at the room two doors down. “She seems the best fit for you.”
The pretty black American girl with blazing eyes and a fuming temper.
At eighteen, she was the oldest. She also appeared to be the strongest, physically and mentally. Even now, her voice rang out above the rest.
“Motherfucker!” she shouted. “Bring your sorry ass back here and let me go! Swear to God, I will find you and cut you for chaining up girls!”
Yeah, she was the best choice. If she held onto that fire, she had the best chance of emotionally surviving what he would do to her.
At least, that had been his own experience. Van had broken his body, repeatedly violating him in ways he’d never imagined or wanted a man to touch him. But, week after week in that attic, he never stopped fighting. Never let his mind surrender or give up.
If he could survive Van Quiso, that girl could survive him.
“Yes, I agree she’s…” He went still, certain he’d heard something in the distance. “Do you hear that?”
Tomas cocked his head, eyes narrowed at the unlit bend in the corridor, where they hadn’t ventured. “Are there more rooms?”
There were no lights beyond where they stood. But there was definitely something…or someone down there.
“Help.” The voice trickled into a weak moan, coming from nowhere and everywhere. “Help me.”
Tomas straightened. “Another girl?”
Luke held up a finger as a frail cry whispered around them, so soft, so fucking strained with pain. His stomach hardened. His heart pounded, and every muscle turned to stone.
He followed the sou
nd.
The whimpers rose in volume, growing closer as he reached the bend in the pitch black. Tomas touched his back, guiding, pushing him forward. With every step, his legs felt heavier, laden with dread.
As his vision adjusted to the absence of light, the stench of rot and fear invaded. The tunnel opened to a room, the shadows so dense he couldn’t breathe.
His head filled with sounds of slapping flesh, his lips cracked and crusted with blood. He heard Van’s voice. Demanding. Lustful. Chains clanked. A haunting nightmare.
An omen.
He saw it now. Watching as an outsider, he saw his silhouette hanging in a cage without sunlight. Except the dangling dark shape wasn’t him. Not this time. It was something else. Someone was there, only a few feet away. It moved.
And cried.
“Please.” The pale whisper dissolved into mewling murmurs too weak to vibrate vocal cords.
He blinked, the thud of his heart hot and viscid. Urgency moved him toward the wall, his fingers sliding over gritty concrete, searching. “Where’s the fucking light?”
“Here.” Tomas bumped his hand, locating a switch.
An overhead bulb buzzed to life, casting the room in filmy yellow. He squinted through the glow, and his eyes came into focus.
He stopped breathing.
A young blonde girl hung from the rafters by one leg.
By a fucking meat hook.
“Sweet mother of God,” Tomas whispered behind him.
The S-shaped hook went through her thigh and suspended her several feet above the floor. Her other leg had been broken in multiple places, the skin flayed, exposing white splintered bones.
His fist flew to his mouth as he cataloged countless stab wounds, purple contusions, and missing appendages. Fucking Christ, this girl was missing fingers, parts of her ears, and a goddamn foot.
The leg impaled by the hook had been sawed off at the ankle. Not a clean amputation. No tourniquet. Nothing to slow the flow of blood except gravity.
“Please.” Her mouth moved, coughing on a dry gasp. “Kill me.”
No.
Fuck no.
He couldn’t.
But he couldn’t leave her like this, either. She wouldn’t survive the wounds unless she saw the inside of an emergency room soon. That wouldn’t happen. Not in the next few minutes. Not ever.
She didn’t even try to move, her body too weak and wracked with pain. She could barely cry, and even then, it wasn’t enough to produce tears.
“Sir.” Tomas touched his elbow, guiding his attention to the wall where they entered.
Another girl.
She sat on the floor, legs stretched out before her. No crying from this one. No tears of anguish. But she wasn’t without injuries.
Tangled black hair framed her bloodied, bruised face. More blood soaked her shirt and denim cutoffs.
Lifting her head, dark brown eyes collided with his.
Ferocious, familiar eyes.
The fighter.
“You.” Luke opened his mouth to say more, but all that came out was a scathing exhale.
His first thought? She did this. The vicious scrapper tortured this young girl and hung her by a hook.
But no, that didn’t make sense at all.
The blood on Marco’s shirt, the shackles on the fighter’s arms and legs, and the fact that she couldn’t stand after the fight… She was as much a victim as the others. Perhaps more so. She’d been thrown into the dark with a dying girl, forced to listen to her shallow cries for help.
“End this.” The blonde’s fractured voice pulled him back. “Kill…me.”
His blood shivered, and denial banged in his skull. Again, he took inventory of her injuries, searching for a sign of hope, anything that might save her.
Rust and dirt coated the hook through her leg. Infection would set in soon. The amount of blood on the floor beneath her was more than a human could lose. She wouldn’t survive this, and every minute she lived was a cruelty she didn’t deserve.
“Why is she in here with you?” He glanced at the fighter.
She glared back, a hostile, rancorous glare that promised death to him and everyone if she broke free.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She slowly raised a hand, dragging the chain across her lap, and extended her middle finger.
The blonde moaned, choking out another plea for death. Her cries thickened with distress, producing a change in the fighter’s expression.
For a fleeting moment, those savage eyes softened. Grief, compassion, whatever it was sank into the grooves of her battered, swollen face, blurring her gaze in a sheen of moisture.
Then she blinked, and the tenderness vanished, replaced with red-hot fury.
Do it. Her eyes demanded.
A camera hung in the doorway. Would they try to stop him? Shoot him for interfering?
Fuck it.
Fuck the cartel. Fuck his dead parents. Fuck Van Quiso. Fuck every injustice he’d ever gone up against. None of it owned him.
But this? This he couldn’t walk away from.
As the blonde continued to cry, he blocked everything out—Tomas, the fighter, the mission. He put one foot before the other and did the only thing he could do.
He stood behind her inverted body, wrapped a large hand over her nose and mouth, and smothered her air.
She struggled, an involuntary reaction as her mutilated body fought to breathe. His other hand held the crown of her head, his fingers hidden by her crusty hair, discreetly massaging, stroking her scalp. The only comfort he could offer.
As interminable seconds passed, he felt chunks of his soul rip away. He was breaking inside. Battling hardwired convictions. Roaring on his knees. Dying with this girl.
Dying.
Dying.
Make it end. God almighty, I can’t do this.
But he did. He finished it, holding her against him as she fell limp.
Lifeless.
Gone.
Fucking God, help me. What have I done?
He’d killed men before. Vile men. But never with his bare hands. Never a woman.
Never an innocent.
His chest squeezed so tightly he thought his heart stopped working. But no, it was still beating, pulsing strenuously, yet… Altered. Twisted into something nastier. Stiffer. Thorny. No longer human.
Raising his head, his gaze caught on the fighter. She watched him, motionless, her expression iced over with suspicion and horror, but deeper, closer, he glimpsed gratitude.
He hadn’t done it for her. He hadn’t done it for himself, either, and he would live with the cold, stricken guilt for the rest of his life.
She and Tomas hadn’t been the only witnesses to his heinous crime. Marco and Vera stood in the doorway, clotting the room with displeasure.
Pure scum of the earth. Neither of them deserved to breathe, let alone stand there in a snit of condemnation. Marco had butchered a young girl, strung her up like slaughtered meat, and left her to die.
Luke’s vision turned red. Adrenaline charged, and wrath fired on all cylinders.
Kill him.
Gut him.
Make him pay.
He would. Goddammit, he would exterminate all of them. But to do that, he had to become a man that no one fucked with.
Make them cower.
Earn their horror and respect.
Beat them at their own game.
With his hands still wrapped around the dead girl’s head, he showed them a monster that all monsters feared.
“Look what you made me do.” He hauled the corpse upward so that he could stare into the dead eyes. “Sniveling little cunt. We could’ve played so well together, but you just…wouldn’t…shut up.” He shook the body, punctuating every word before shoving it away. “What a waste.”
His stomach cramped. Saliva gathered around his gums. He was going to puke.
“This is unexpected.” Marco lumbered into the room, head tilted. “You killed her… Because sh
e was crying? That will cost you—”
“She was half-dead.” He wiped off his hands on a clean scrap of her shirt. “I’m not paying for broken goods. Besides, I know which one I want.”
He prowled a circuit around Marco and paused before the fighter, staring down at her with a malicious smile.
Realization burst behind her eyes, and she went wild, spitting a string of Spanish and bucking in her restraints.
Across the room, Tomas shot him a look that said he didn’t agree with the turn of events.
Too bad. Luke refused to leave the girl chained in the dark with a corpse.
“This one,” he announced to the room.
“No.” Marco folded his arms over his chest. “She belongs to me.”
“And your brothers.” Vera scowled.
“I see. And those hypercars out front?” Luke clasped his hands behind him, head down, with his back to Marco. “They belong to you, too?”
“Of course.”
“Of course.” He glanced over his shoulder. “When I arrived, Vera promised I could test drive one of your toys around the property.”
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t promise—”
“Shh.” Marco’s hand slashed through the air, and he held Luke’s gaze, deadly captivated. “Is that right?”
“Yes. Perhaps you can appease me another way.” Luke straightened his suit jacket and turned to face the capo. “Sell me the Pagani Huayra.”
Marco laughed, a shocked sound, and sobered abruptly. “Not in a million lifetimes.”
“What’s her name?”
“The Huayra?”
“The whore.” Luke met her livid stare.
“Who cares?” Marco grunted. “She’s a whore.”
“Which do you value more? The Huayra or the whore?”
“There are only a few hundred Huayras in existence.”
“I’m aware. Yet I’m only asking to test drive a common whore.”
“Ah.” A humorless grin underscored Marco’s wagging finger. “I see what you’re doing.” Then he went still, thoughtful. “Just a test drive?”
“Give me a week with her. I’ll keep her in working, fighting condition. At the end of the week, if she still holds my attention, we’ll discuss a more permanent arrangement. If not, I’ll pay for the mileage I put on her and make another selection.”