Second Nature (When Seconds Count)

by D. L. Roan

  Nearly a year ago he’d taken a job as a favor to his mentor and friend, Daniel Gregory. For some reason it had left him feeling dead inside. Daniel’s daughter Natalie had been taken and sold into the sex slave industry, and Daniel had spent the last twelve years searching for her. The cockroach who ran the U.S. side of the human trafficking ring, Hector Morganti, was now behind bars thanks to Daniel’s relentless pursuit and to the testimony of Hector’s daughter, Gabby. Daniel, however, never found Hector’s diary of transactions he hoped would lead him to the monsters that bought his daughter. When Hector was put away, his second in command, Lucien Moretti, took over the business without a hitch, apparently using the ledger of sales as blackmail and to continue the steady supply of child slaves.

  Grant and Daniel had used Lucien’s obsession with Gabby to lure him in, hoping to get enough on him to find the ledger and put him away with Hector, or put a bullet in his brain. Putting a bullet between that bastard’s eyes had felt good, even if he’d deserved a far more painful death. However much he deserved it, killing Lucien didn’t get Daniel any closer to finding his daughter. They never found the ledger. The sophisticated slave ring fell apart after Lucien’s demise. It may have bought some time before some other piece of shit stepped in to fill the supply gap, but thanks to Grant, his friend may never find his daughter.

  Living with that shouldn’t have been a problem for Grant. Bad people did bad things to good people all the time. He was called to take out the trash and move on to the next job. No questions. No regrets. He didn’t get paid to care. He didn’t regret a single kill he’d made, but seeing the hopelessness in Daniels eyes and sweet Gabby’s reaction to the monster inside him had left him feeling cold. That’s when he knew he was done. For the first time in his life he hadn’t liked the emotionless tool he’d become.

  Setting himself up on a deserted scrub island in the middle of the Indian Ocean was supposed to give him some clarity; time to cleanse himself of the beast within and consider his next step. Ten months later, and the only thing he was sure of was that he wasn’t built to mingle with the human race.

  Grant banged his head against the ladder rung in front of him a few times before cursing his way back to the top. Apparently he wasn’t fit to cohabitate with monkeys either. “Fine. I’m sorry. Better?” he spat through his clenched teeth.

  Before he could see if his half-assed attempt at placating the bratty imp had worked, the singing sound of fishing line being ripped from his reel caught his attention. Grant turned just in time to see his fishing pole fly out of the holder onto the sand and inch its way toward the water. “Son of a….” Winston’s scolding screech had him choking back the curse as he slid down the ladder, skipping the last four rungs, and sprinting past his fire pit toward the surf. “Fish on, Winston! Fish on!”

  Two days earlier he’d seen a nice sized sailfish stalking his bait from the deep channel that ran west of the island. Deciding to take up the challenge, he’d changed out his gear and reset his bait. Two whole days and not so much as a nibble. He’d obviously lost his touch if a stupid fish could wait him out. Thanks to his newfound complacency, he was about to lose a thousand bucks worth of tackle and the damn fish!

  Waves splashed at his feet as he made one final push off the sand before diving into the surf. His palm wrapped around the familiar corked end of his pole just before another wave washed over his face, the cold salty spray stinging his eyes. Fuck all if he was going to lose this fish. Pulling the pole into his chest, his knees dug into the sand as the drag of the fish pulled him towards the deep. Digging in his heels, he set the hook, shaking the salty foam from his hair.

  Snap! “Fuck!” Grant fell back into the surf, what was left of the line flapping in the wind at the tip of his pole. “Fuck, fucking godda—” The rest of his rant was cut off at the sight of the sailfish as it flew through the air with his float hanging from its bill, landing with a splash Grant could only see as a taunt. His fist pounded through the surf as he glared out at the deep, green waters. Fucking war is what this is.

  Cold water sluiced down his face as he threaded a wet hand through his hair then pushed to his feet. He stomped through the surf toward the sandy beach, ignoring Winston’s screeching cackles echoing from further down the shoreline. The damn monkey was crazy if he thought he was going to sleep inside the cabin tonight. It was supposed to rain a foot before morning. We’ll see whose laughing later, you stupid ape!

  Grant bent and scooped up the rod holder, determined to re-rig his pole and get it back into the water. Winston’s incessant screeching moved closer, and Grant looked over his shoulder to see the monkey loping towards him. When Winston saw that he’d gotten Grant’s attention, he immediately switched directions, hurrying back down the beach, calling for Grant to follow him.

  Waving him off, he shook his head and headed toward the pole-barn styled cabin he’d built just outside the tree line. It was only one room, but it had four walls, a roof, and a covered porch. With an added outdoor shower he’d rigged to the back, which was fed fresh, cold water by an old artesian well, it was all he needed.

  Ignoring Winston’s incessant protests, he leaned his pole against one of the front porch support beams and reached for his tackle box. He didn’t have time for monkey business if he was going to get his bait rigged and get his roof shored up before nightfall.

  A fresh spool of fishing line in hand, he turned back toward his pole and caught a glimpse of Winston from the corner of his eye. Grant paused as he watched his reluctant pet, jumping up and down and slapping at the surf as it rolled gently onshore. Shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun, he squinted toward the far end of the beach to see what had captured Winston’s attention. His tackle forgotten, his feet moved with increasing speed as the object came into focus and took on an ominous form.

  Grant’s pulse picked up as he sprinted closer. What the hell? A familiar, cold calm rushed over his skin as he pushed Winston back from the pale, limp body lying face down, still half in the water. A thick curtain of black hair covered the woman’s face, shielding all but a swatch of pale dead skin from his view.

  It wasn’t the first time he had seen a dead body. It surely wouldn’t be his last, but damn if he’d ever expected to see one here. Swiftly, Grant mentally inventoried his surroundings. He’d seen no boats milling around the island or the nearby cove lately. No one was on the island but he and Winston and a few stray vermin. Of that he was certain. Without his binoculars, he couldn’t see the other nearby scrub islands well enough to scout anything out. By the waterlogged skin, he judged the body must have washed up sometime overnight. Any threat would be long gone by now. If they had half a brain. Of course, there could have just been some sort of boating accident.

  Gently he gathered the long strands of ebony hair, revealing the feminine outline of the woman’s face. Preparing himself for the stench that usually came from rotting flesh, and the gore he might see from the meal the ocean’s parasites had probably made of her slender form, he gingerly rolled the woman over in the sand. Letting out a sigh when the body appeared to be intact, Grant took in a cautious breath. He was relieved again to only smell the earthy scents of sea water and sand. Knowing it was futile, he placed his finger over the vein in her neck. D.O.A. and definitely not a boating accident.

  Crouched on one knee, Grant rested his forearm across his other knee as he ran through his options. He could just dig a grave and call it a day. He studied the lifeless woman before him. Mid to late twenties. It was difficult to tell with the swollen skin around her injuries. Her tattered shirt did nothing to hide the one inch stab wound just below her left breast, or the modeled black and blue skin across her firm torso. He also recognized the bloodstains on her cargo pants as they clung to her thighs like a second skin. Someone had done a real number on her.

  She had strong bone lines and manicured nails at the tips of her long, slender fingers. He gently maneuvered her arms from her sides and inspected the thin, pale skin. No track mar
ks. She wore no rings or other notable jewelry. He fingered the single shock of neon blue that ran through her otherwise jet black hair as he studied her complexion. Other than the bruising and the stab wounds, she seemed too well cared for to be a homeless junkie. Fuck! He’d have to call it in. Surely someone was looking for her. He had a satellite phone, but he sure as hell didn’t want his tiny island crawling with local law enforcement idiots. He’d have to load her up in his boat and take her to the main island. Tell them he fished her out of the water twenty miles or so east of his island. But not today. There was no time to secure his place and make the trip before the storms rolled in.

  Resigned, Grant stood to his feet. Focused on his next task, he reached for the woman’s wrist, ready to haul her over his shoulder, when he found himself staring into the ice-blue eyes of a ghost.

  Chapter Three

  Howling wind whipped relentlessly against the bare walls of the cabin as Grant focused on the stitch he was making. It had been a long time since he’d had to tie one off. The amount of light that was cast by the two gas lamps aided little in his efforts to keep the sutures as small as possible. The entrance wound at her ribs hadn’t been as deep as he thought, and it was clean compared to the jagged edges of skin he was all but cobbling together on her thigh.

  Having been the recipient of a few himself, he knew a knife wound when he saw one. Someone had done a damn good job at slicing her up. In some ways it wouldn’t have been so bad if the fucker had kept a sharp blade. He wouldn’t be dealing with such a mess, but then she would most likely be dead. If the blade had an edge, it would have sliced right through her artery instead of just nicking it. Tying it off had surely saved her life. That and the cold ocean water.

  While removing her clothes, he’d also seen the scars on her back. Long, white lash marks baring the signature of a slave master’s whip marred her delicate flesh. She was a slave, or had been at some time in her life. The raised white lines on her ankles bore the proof of her shackles. It didn’t happen to all, but most slaves were tied or shackled until they were broken enough not to attempt to flee their captors. Some remained that way indefinitely. Others were caged like animals and only brought out when their owner had use for them. A select, expensive few were actually branded like cattle. Even if they were to escape their bonds, they would always bear their tormentor’s mark.

  It seemed odd to him at first, that he was again ensnared into the sick world of human trafficking. He shrugged it off. Slave trade was as common in this part of the world as fast food was in the States. While the powers that be sat on their thrones and passed sweeping, meaningless legislation, then congratulated themselves on being great humanitarians, women and children were being bought and sold like horses. He would bet his favorite HK .45 that most of the slimy cocksuckers owned a few. It was all about what looked good.

  Few people besides their families actually cared what happened to the thousands of women and children who were snatched from their lives and thrown into third world sex brothels every year. Hell, some mothers and fathers willingly sold their daughters into the sex trade to pay off debts, returning month after month to collect her earnings. It wouldn’t end any time soon. There seemed to be plenty of rich men lined up to pop a child virgin, believing it would cure them of AIDS or some sick shit. Twisted bastards.

  It was a sick mentality very few thought twice about. If they did, they’d focus more of their time and money on finding the assholes who ran the trafficking rings and cutting off their dicks, instead of spending billions of dollars on robotic squirrels and plans to control bovine flatulence. He was sure those things were important to some people, but when slapped up against this, it looked pretty damn ridiculous to him. Stupid fucking people. Again he was reminded of his reasons for leaving that shitty world behind. Obviously he hadn’t run far enough.

  “Dammit!” Missing the loop, he carefully laid the tweezers on a roll of gauze at his knee and wiped a sterile pad across the seeping wound. Thankfully he’d re-stocked his tactical first aid kit before he’d headed out to serve his self-imposed sentence of isolation. Unconscious or not, this would hurt like a sonofabitch if he hadn’t had the Lidocaine to give her.

  Picking up the tweezers, his hands remained rock-steady despite his frayed nerves. He’d nearly had a heart attack when he looked down and saw her glacial eyes staring back at him from the grave. Her pulse had been so weak it was undetectable. Given the amount of blood she must have lost from her wounds, he should be sleeping next to a corpse instead of trying to patch her up like a damn quilt.

  Nearly two hours later he snipped the last thread. Squeezing the tension from his aching neck, Grant leaned back and took a look at his work. He had to admit, she had a pair of legs on her. Perfectly toned, they seemed every inch of a mile long. Even in her injured state, the red blooded male in him couldn’t help but stand up and salute.

  He shook off his carnal thoughts. If she survived, he was going to send her as far away from him and his island as he could get her. Knowing his luck lately, she would probably sue him instead of thanking him for saving her damn life. Not that he would expect a roll in the sheets for doing so. He looked at the swollen five inches of jagged flesh and shook his head. God only knew how many stitches he’d sewn into her perfect alabaster skin. He’d stopped counting at thirty an hour ago.

  Ignoring the rivulets of water streaming in from the unfinished roof, Grant stepped around the nearly full bucket he’d placed to catch the runoff and then reached into a sack for a clean cloth. “The least you could do is empty the damn bucket,” he growled as he walked past Winston and crouched back down at the woman’s side. “It’s your fault we’re in this mess to begin with.” The indifferent monkey huddled in the corner of the small hut, perched on Grant’s cot, seemingly unfazed by his master’s ill temper as he preened his fur.

  The severe wounds tended to, Grant soaked the cloth with sterilized water and began cleaning the sand and debris from the cuts on her face. Despite looking as if she’d been hit with a battering ram, he couldn’t help but notice how unusual her features were. She certainly wasn’t Indian or of Middle Eastern descent. American or maybe Russian? She had high cheekbones like a runway model, accentuating her almond-shaped eyes. Deep black eyelashes feathered across her cheeks, flirting with one small freckle sitting just below the corner of her right eye. Her sassy little nose looked a bit small for her face, but appeared to have escaped any damage. The slight swelling of her upper lip drew his attention. Dabbing at the crusted blood, he was careful not to pull at the seams of the cut. Damn, what a mess.

  His eyes roamed over her delicate chin and followed the line of her long neck to the V of her bare collarbone. His hand followed the path his eyes were gazing over, swabbing her fevered skin with the cool damp cloth. Crimson streams of water ran between his fingers as he wrung out the cloth and began again, taking notice of a few more cuts and an unusual scar at the top of her arm.

  It didn’t take long for him to feel his shorts tighten against his rapidly swelling cock as his gaze followed the path of her long, slender arms and then lingered on her bare breasts. He was a bastard for even thinking about her that way, but any male with blood flow to his dick would have a hell of a time keeping his mind from wandering down that path. Despite her injuries, she was strikingly beautiful.

  Cursing the ache in his groin, Grant set the cloth aside and then carefully cradled her battered body against his chest. He stood and paced to his cot, laying her gently on the thin mattress, wishing he had somewhere more comfortable for her to rest. Winston scurried off to the other side of the room as Grant pulled the sheet over her naked form, careful not to snag it against her stitches.

  He turned to take in the disheveled state of his once comfortable living quarters. After dumping the now overflowing bucket of rainwater, it was going to be a long night. Shrugging, he picked up the bucket and paced to the door. It had been a while since he’d slept on a hard wet floor, but it beat a hard wet rock any day.r />
  Chapter Four

  A suffocating weight pressed against Thalia’s chest as she fought against the sinking feeling in her stomach. Something was terribly wrong. Sucking in a strangled breath, a hot, aching pain tore through her leg as she twisted against whatever was holding her down. Sheer panic laced her veins when she felt the bindings around her wrists tighten. No! She pulled at the ropes above her head, unable to escape the torture that was being inflicted. She could smell her burning flesh as the embers seared through her skin. Her screams were trapped in her chest, compressing the air from her lungs as she was torn in two by the demon monster that hovered above her.

  Sudden silence filled her mind as blinding light eclipsed the darkness of her nightmares. Heaving in gulps of air, the room around her slowly came into focus. Thalia froze, her gaze centering in on a pair of beady, black eyes that floated in front of her face, studying her like a puzzle. Where the hell am I?

  Afraid to move, she dragged in another labored breath as she assessed her surroundings. A shabby, palm ceiling hovered a good ten feet above her, rough cut timbers interwoven with aged two by fours. Dried frond leaves hung broken and half-hazard, a slender shaft of light beaming down from a bare spot near the center. One window, which was shuttered, and one door. Two possible escape routes, three if she could pull herself through the hole in the roof.

  Pain sliced through her chest as the monkey shifted its weight. Oh shit! Her hands were tied above her head. She didn’t know much about monkeys, but she was sure her face would be toast if she pissed it off or scared it. God only knew what or who would come through that door if it started making noise. “Nice monkey,” she whispered.

  As if the thing had read her thoughts, the monkey let out a cackling screech and reached to touch her face. Ohhhh! Thalia drew her head back as far as the pillow would allow, her chin disappearing into her neck as the monkey fingered her bottom lip. Shit, shit, and double shit. This is not good. She could feel her scream clawing its way from her lungs. Just as she’d reached her panic threshold, willing to face her captor’s wrath instead of this crazy wild animal, the door opened and the monkey jerked its hand from her face.