“Look, Agent—” she waited for him to fill in the blank.
“Hooper,” he said.
“Hooper. I have a witness to protect. Your operation here is jeopardizing him. You need to leave.”
He didn’t say anything. She almost lambasted him for being rude, then noticed that he was listening to his earpiece, his expression unreadable. Into his sleeve he said, “I’ll be right there.”
“Not without me.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. He was looking at her with … what? Pity?
Her stomach flipped with the all-too-familiar sensation of being watched, analyzed, and dissected. She didn’t know him, but he knew her. How much did he know? Her past wasn’t a deep, dark secret, but it certainly wasn’t something discussed around the watercooler.
He nodded. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to work with anyone else.”
His temper had deflated a fraction and some of her steam dissipated. Still, she felt like a bug, the antennae twitching on her head, picking up a danger signal.
“Brennan delivers with a clever homicidal duo who know how to make their victims wish for SUDDEN DEATH.”
—LISA GARDNER
Also by Allison Brennan
Sudden Death
Killing Fear
Tempting Evil
Playing Dead
Speak No Evil
See No Evil
Fear No Evil
The Prey
The Hunt
The Kill
Books published by The Random House Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, please call 1–800–733–3000.
Six years ago, a woman I’d never met before came up to me at my first RWA meeting and said, “You’re going to sell your book.” I thought she was insane. Instead, she was psychic.
This one’s for you, Anna Stewart.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank several people who were generous with their time and knowledge in helping me keep my facts straight. If I got it wrong, it’s my fault alone.
My gratitude and appreciation go out to Jim Battin, Igor Birman, Kalen Hughes, Karin Tabke (who is always willing to listen to me complain), and special agent Steve Dupre. If there wasn’t an FBI file on me before, I’m sure there’s one now!
Those who know me know that I can be forgetful, especially when on deadline. I’ll likely be writing future “corrections.” I neglected to acknowledge Sgt. Lorenzo Duarte of the Santa Barbara Police Department for answering many questions for my last book, Sudden Death—on his day off. Thank you!
Most of today’s heroes we’ll never see. My extra-special appreciation goes to someone I can’t mention by name. I am humbled by the dedication and commitment of so many of the agents in Immigration and Customs Enforcement, who are battling the evil of human trafficking against overwhelming odds.
On June 4, 2008, former Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice said, “Globally, human trafficking is a multidimensional threat: It deprives people of their human rights and dignity. It increases global health risks. It bankrolls the growth of organized crime, and it undermines the rule of law.”
According to a State Department report, approximately 800,000 people are trafficked across international borders each year. Eighty percent are women; half are minors. It is estimated that millions of people are trafficked for forced labor and sexual exploitation within national borders.
For more information about this worldwide tragedy, visit the “Major Publications” section of www.state.gov.
PROLOGUE
Twenty-one Years Ago
Sonia was thirteen the first time she killed a man.
She and Izzy were prisoners in a filthy basement, the sound of men stomping above making Sonia jump when dust rained on her. Izzy cowered in the far corner on a foul-smelling, stained mattress atop the hard-packed dirt floor. The older girl spoke with an odd Spanish dialect that Sonia barely understood—that is, when Izzy spoke at all. During the hours they’d been imprisoned together, Sonia had learned her name, but not much else.
Sonia’s father had taught her a variety of languages and dialects over the years. The importance of establishing a rapport with the villagers required being a quick study of both verbal and physical language. She’d eagerly participated in the lessons because she’d wanted to earn her father’s rare praise. If only she’d known the truth.
If you’d known the truth, you’d be dead.
For ten days, through fear and anger and guilt so foul-tasting she could barely eat even when allowed a stale meal, she mourned all she’d lost. Her innocence, her father—her very identity.
Sonia drew in a sharp breath, swallowing the tears she could no longer afford to shed. If she wanted to survive, the suffocating self-pity had to end. She would find a way out.
When they left Belize ten nights ago, there’d been more than thirty girls crammed into the back of the truck. Sonia could hardly breathe through the stench of fear, vomit, and urine. Some cried. Some screamed. Some fought back.
Those who fought were beaten or raped. One girl had been shot and left to die by the side of the blistering-hot dirt road. Sonia wanted to believe that it was all a nightmare and she’d soon awaken in a hut, one of hundreds she’d slept in over the years, alone and lonely, but safe.
You were never safe. It was an illusion.
What happened to the other girls from the village? Where had they been taken? Why had Sonia been separated from them and locked in this filthy underground room with Izzy?
From what she’d learned eavesdropping, Sonia had been sold to a powerful man who wanted a virgin bride. Her captors snickered when they said “bride,” and Sonia didn’t know what would happen after the man claimed her. Would he rape her? Kill her? Would he keep her prisoner? Would he share her with other disgusting perverts?
Sonia had to get out—before she was turned over to the man who wanted to buy her as if she were property. She hoped Izzy would go with her, but every time she illustrated her escape plan using hand signals and some words Izzy understood, Izzy shook her head and pointed to her threadbare mattress, as if this were something she was resigned to.
“Esclav,” she’d repeat, which made no sense to Sonia. The closest word it might mean was “slave.” The unspoken fear of slavery was as real as anything in her life; perhaps that was why she couldn’t accept it, couldn’t acknowledge that she’d been sold into slavery by her own father.
The door at the top of the basement stairs rattled as a key turned in the lock. Izzy jumped at the sound, and Sonia’s heart pounded. She crammed her skinny body tightly into the corner, glancing right and left like trapped prey, knowing there was no weapon, nothing to save her. She had searched the barren room many times in the last twelve hours.
A hulking man lumbered down the rickety wood stairs, clutching the solitary railing that seemed too thin and too old to hold his ample weight. His name was Carlton and he’d been there when Sonia had first been taken away. He’d watched with a half-grin as her father had shot the village elder when he tried to stop the caravan from taking their daughters.
It’s your fault, Sonia. Curiosity killed the cat, sweetheart, and you’ve been too damn feline for too long.
She forced her father’s last words to her deep into the back of her mind. If she thought too much about him she wouldn’t be able to find the strength to fight back. And she wasn’t going to die, not like this, not as a slave.
Carlton swaggered across the dirt floor, his head brushing against the naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling of the twelve-foot-square room. The dingy yellow glow against the windowless walls cast darker shadows in the corners, where spiders ate their silk-
covered meals. There was no way out except for the door at the top of the stairs.
He turned to where Sonia cowered. She tried to hold her chin up but her body trembled and her eyes darted away from the man dressed in black. He was younger than her father, overweight, and balding. He reeked of cigarettes and beer, and the butt of a handgun protruded from the waistband of his pants.
Carlton spoke in unbroken English. “You’re the one I want.”
Sonia’s burning gaze turned to his, startled. Was this an order? A demand to meet her fate? His dark eyes stared at her chest, his scowl revealing crooked yellow teeth. She glanced away, embarrassed and angry and more terrified than when she saw her father kill.
He reached over and pinched her nipple. She shrieked, then bit her tongue, her fear swallowing her bravery. She shrank against the cold cinder-block wall and silently prayed, not believing it would do any good. Not after what she’d seen. He grinned at her, jerked down the arm of her loose-fitting blouse, and slapped her shoulder. Pain flared from where his fingers had burned her skin, marking her as his property. She refused to cry out, instead biting her tongue again, this time so hard she tasted blood.
“This makes you chattel.” He pressed his thumb into her healing flesh until her tears spilled over and she barked out an agonized sob.
He laughed cruelly. “You think you’re something special, Sonia Martin. You’re just a woman. Don’t forget it. You’re pretty now, you’ll bring in good money, but your beauty is short-lived, and if you’re trouble, you’ll be dead.”
She spat blood-tinged saliva in his face and immediately knew she’d made a mistake. His lips curled and he backhanded her so hard her head hit the wall and her vision blurred. His fat diamond ring cut her cheek. He kicked her in the stomach and would have beaten her to death if a voice from the top of the stairs hadn’t stopped him.
“She’s not yours.” He sounded American. Had they traveled far enough to reach America? Possibly, but she didn’t think it would help. She was a stranger here, a foreigner. Illegal.
“She fuck—”
“I don’t care if she bit your dick off, you are not to touch her again or I will kill you. You’d better hope she heals quick, or the boss will take it out of your share of the profits. Take the whore and be quick, the others want a turn before the trucks arrive with the rest of the merchandise.”
The door slammed shut and Sonia scrambled to the far side, away from this horrible stranger who glared at her as if he would enjoy squeezing the life from her body.
“Puta,” he whispered. “You’re trouble, no one listens. Don’t even think about disrespecting me again, or I’ll beat the shit out of—” he stopped himself and turned his anger on Izzy. Sonia suddenly understood. The man upstairs wouldn’t let him touch Sonia, but the other girl was fair game.
He barked out a crude order in Spanish. Sonia didn’t believe she’d heard right until Izzy, tears streaming down her pretty brown face, began to unbutton her simple cotton dress.
“Watch, bitch. You’ll be doing the same thing as soon as your owner gets tired of your attitude. You’re only a virgin once. Once that’s gone, you’re just a whore.”
He slapped Izzy, and Sonia jerked as if she’d been hit. Izzy sobbed and took her dress off faster. She was naked underneath, her thin body scarred. Sonia’s fists clenched. Her head ached; her cheek dripped blood onto her torn, dirty dress. She hated feeling so helpless, but she didn’t know what to do.
Izzy laid down on the mattress. Carlton unzipped his pants and took out his penis; Sonia turned her face into the wall, eyes tightly shut. Izzy wasn’t fighting him, but she was crying. How many times had men forced her?
Sonia wasn’t naïve—she knew enough about what happened when young girls were lured by promises of jobs and money. They were forced into labor or prostitution. Izzy had been part of this life for a long time, ashamed and broken. Sonia wanted to help her, but she couldn’t even save herself from the fate that awaited her.
Sonia hadn’t been lured. She’d been sold because she’d discovered her father’s true mission. Mission!
You have been blind for a long time. Blind until it was too late to save anyone, even yourself.
“Look!” Carlton demanded.
Sonia trembled, her arms wrapped around her head. Izzy cried out and Sonia screamed.
“I told you to watch,” Carlton sneered as he raped Izzy. “Watch or I’ll hurt her. Or maybe you like that.”
Sonia reluctantly dropped her arms. Carlton had Izzy on her face and was raping her from behind. He was a giant compared to the teen. Tears of rage and fear escaped and Sonia wiped them away. She would not let him see her cry again. Could not let him know that he’d gotten to her. She choked on a sob.
His hands were on Izzy’s neck and he pushed her into the mattress as he worked himself up into a frenetic release. Izzy’s face … something was wrong. She was in distress, a different pain than before.
“Stop!” Sonia cried. “You’re hurting her!” She jumped up, stumbled toward the rapist, and pushed him with all the strength she found. He didn’t budge. She hit him on the head, her hand burning with pain. He groaned.
“I’ll get you, bitch.”
“You’re killing her!”
He didn’t understand, or didn’t care. Sonia screamed for help, then kicked him as hard as she could in the testicles.
Carlton’s voice reached a high note and he collapsed next to Izzy. His face was contorted and red as he cupped his balls.
His expression told her he would kill her.
“Izzy,” Sonia squatted, turned her over. “Izzy—”
She was dead. Sonia had seen dead people before; she knew Izzy was gone. Blood oozed from her mouth. Her chest wasn’t moving.
Carlton groaned, pulling himself up into a crawling position. “You’re dead,” he rasped.
She started toward the stairs for help, but then she saw the gun. It had slipped out of his loosened pants and fallen silently to the mattress next to Izzy’s broken body.
Sonia dove across the floor and grabbed the gun before Carlton realized he’d lost it. She didn’t know much about handguns, she was only familiar with rifles used for hunting. But rifles had safeties, and she glanced down. Saw a similar switch and pressed it down with a shaky thumb.
He came at her and she pulled the trigger hard. The recoil surprised her and the bullet went high—
—right into the rapist’s face.
She heard shouts from upstairs, the sound of boots running across the basement ceiling.
They’re going to kill you. Oh God, Sonia, what have you done?
She dropped the gun, then picked it up again. She might have a few seconds. That was all she needed to run.
Sonia ran to the top of the stairs and pounded on the door. “Help! Please! He killed her! Help!”
The shouts on the other side of the door took on a frantic urgency, and she heard voices all around, inside and outside the house.
Breaking glass made Sonia cry out, and she ran back down the stairs, tripping over her own feet and falling face-first onto the dirt floor. The air rushed from her lungs and she couldn’t move. What was happening? With no windows, she’d lost all sense of day and night. She was lost, alone with two dead bodies, and a few bullets were not going to save her. There was gunfire above her head and she jumped, her chest hot and struggling for a breath.
She crawled over to the far wall, where she could see the shadows at the top of the stairs. Hands shaking, she pointed the gun at the door.
Stop shaking. Stop it or you’ll miss. You can’t miss. You have to kill them or you’ll die.
Sonia didn’t want to die. She didn’t know where her steel will to survive came from, but it fully emerged there in the basement, gun in hand, and her hands steadied. She braced her fists on her knees; she tried to swallow but her mouth was so dry there was nothing but the taste of copper and dirt.
More breaking glass, and smoke came from under the door. Oh, God, no! T
hey were burning her alive, a prisoner. She screamed.
Amid the shouts she heard a word she thought was only in her head.
“Police!” More shouts. Thumping and crashing and a scream. How long did it last? A minute? Ten? An hour? Sonia didn’t know. But there was no sound of fire, no smell of burning wood. She watched the top of the stairs and waited. She didn’t dare go up there, not now. What would they do to her?
The door opened and a bright light blasted into the room. She shielded her eyes and bit her lip.
“This is the police! Policia! Put down your weapon! Now!”
Could she believe them? There were so many people, so much noise her ears rang. She dropped the gun and expected to feel the pain of bullets hitting her chest. She closed her eyes and made herself as small as possible.
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