He was arrested, and meant to be tried in a court of law for his crimes. But the criminal justice system didn’t always ensure justice for the victims—and it was for that reason that men like Reginald got off on technicalities and fled before minds could be changed. By the time anyone had realized he was gone, he was already far enough away that he couldn’t be found.
He had been a ghost in a matter of twenty-four hours.
But Kit was in the habit of finding ghosts—it was his specialty.
Kit snapped his fingers, setting his enforcers into movement, dragging the man further onto the tarp covered floor. It was only then that the Clarksons seemed to realize just who they were in the room with.
His enforcers wore masks that ensured their identities weren’t compromised, especially considering when they weren’t working for him, they robbed banks in their past time.
Had they not been as good as they were—and they only made it a habit to steal from those they knew wouldn’t report it—Kit might have been worried that they would compromise his operation.
Two held Reginald in place while the other duo guided the Clarksons forward, taking one of the guns from each of their belts to slap into their hands.
Mr. Clarkson stared down at the weapon as though he had never seen one before, his tremors visible. “Perhaps we should turn him into the police?”
Kit didn’t get upset by the man’s hesitation, he understood that the decision he’d made was not one that was easy.
Everyone had last minute doubts.
“We could, but he was acquitted once, no? I would hate for it to happen a second time.”
Their case was recent, within the last year, but Reginald hadn’t become a predator overnight. No, his predilections went years in the making.
Five years ago, he had been charged with the rape of an underage boy, but he had been found not guilty because the boy had been drunk and disoriented. Unfortunately for the rest of society, he was released and free to do as he pleased.
And years later, he had struck once more.
Except, this time, he hadn’t stopped at rape when it came to the Clarksons’ son.
No, in a bid to keep his victim silent, he killed him.
That was his mistake.
Because had he not taken the only thing that mattered to the Clarksons, they might not have set Kit onto him.
Reginald jerked his head back and forth, screaming behind the tape, turning pleading eyes to desperate parents.
But he would find no sympathy in the eyes of Mrs. Clarkson.
The second they made eye contact, his muffled pleas fell on deaf ears. She was thinking about her son, Kit knew—the boy who would never grow up and experience everything life had to offer.
She raised the gun, a single tear falling before she pulled the trigger, then again, and one final time until Reginald was slumped on the ground, no longer fighting, no longer pleading.
Kit barely blinked, though he did pull his vibrating phone from his pocket, checking the caller ID.
Unknown.
Which meant it could only be one person.
“My men will clean this up,” he said gesturing to the body, “and Aidra will walk you through what happens next.”
With a nod, Kit walked back out the way he came, accepting the call before he’d even made it out the door. “Uilleam.”
There was a smile in his brother’s voice as he said, “Must you always sound cross with me, brother?”
Though they shared the same DNA, Kit didn’t think they had much else in common besides their predilection for certain work. When Uilleam said, ‘brother,’ there was no affection in his tone, but rather a hint of wryness that always made Kit frown.
“Only when you call me while I’m working. What is it that you want?”
“I need a favor.”
Absolutely not.
The last time Uilleam had asked for a favor, an army of men had been taken off the grid and slaughtered—he was in no mood for whatever his brother was intending to do.
“You’re all out of those,” he settled on saying, watching the bird overhead swoop down before perching on a branch.
“I assure you it is nothing like the others,” Uilleam returned. “I’ve bought one of Emmett Kendall’s girls, but I’ll explain everything once I see you.”
Kit cast his gaze skyward, as though that might provide him answers. “You bought a whore, Uilleam? What on earth for?”
“Whore is such an ugly word, isn’t it? But, as I said, we’ll discuss when I see you next.”
For fuck’s— “My answer is no now, it’ll be no later. There’s nothing to talk about.”
“We touch down in four hours. I’ll see you then.”
Kit didn’t get a chance to say anything more before his brother had hung up. There was no point in calling back—Uilleam wouldn’t answer.
Tamping down his annoyance, Kit turned back to the cabin in time to see Aidra walking toward him with a curious expression on her face.
Already, he didn’t like the sight of it—he knew that expression spelled trouble. “What’s happened?”
“The Kingmaker,” Aidra said—she never called Uilleam by his name. “Apparently, he took out Emmett Kendall.”
Now more than before, Kit knew that whatever favor his brother would ask of him, he wouldn’t like.
Chapter Two
2009 October 31
1,038 … 1,039 … 1,040 …
Each of those seconds passed with excruciating slowness, but Luna Santiago counted each of them from the very first when she had been forced to her knees, to the very last—a moment before the bitter taste of semen spilled on her tongue. Even three years later, she still had to fight the urge to vomit as soon as the milky liquid hit her tongue.
She refused to swallow, letting it drip from her mouth instead as Lawrence Kendall—her captor and abuser— grunted his approval, eyes riveted to the disgusting sight she must have made. He breathed rather harshly as he jerked his pants up around muscled hips, carefully tucking his now flaccid penis away.
Her job done, Luna waited until his back was turned before she grabbed the towel he allowed her to keep nearby, dragging the rough material over her face.
As he turned back to look at her, she saw the fine mist of sweat coating his brow, his eyes shining with a mixture of glee and dark amusement. Despite the last half-hour he’d spent in the room with her, he was ready to go again.
Once, that had been the most disgusting part about him—the casual way in which he went about preparing to leave as though he hadn’t violated her without care—but then she had learned to avert her gaze, pretending like he didn’t exist for as long as she could.
But then she had learned that it was nothing compared to the way he came toward her once they were finished and pat her head like a good little pet—or sweeping his fingers over her skin as though needing to remind her of what they had just done.
It wasn’t nearly as vomit worthy as the actual pain that came when she clutched at sheets to keep from screaming out in pain as he grunted in her ear, but it was a close second.
“Get yourself cleaned up,” Lawrence said running thick fingers through cropped blonde hair. “You’ll be with me today.”
Luna didn’t respond—she didn’t even blink.
She knew better.
Instead, she just waited for him to go before stumbling to her feet and going about her routine.
First she stripped the bed as she had been taught, dropping it all on the floor at the foot of it where someone would stop in to take it all away.
It didn’t matter that this time the bed had gone unused, Lawrence had sat on it, and that was enough for her.
It was a ritual at this point—something she no longer thought about.
She longed for the day when the routine broke.
Glancing at the door, she contemplated turning the lock, but knew better—it wouldn’t be worth the beating she took if she did. Instead, she started for the bat
hroom, the chain around her ankle rattling as she walked.
It had taken a solid two months to get used to the feel of the metal when she had first been given to Lawrence. The chain links were thick and sturdy, the anklet just as wide. No amount of tugging and pulling had loosened it—and even when she’d lost weight, it still wasn’t enough to get her ankle through.
The restraint was just long enough, allowing her to move through the space with ease, though she wished the weight wasn’t so familiar.
Turning the taps to the shower on, Luna went back to the sink to lean against, waiting for the water to heat. With her toothbrush in hand, and a healthy dollop of toothpaste, she scrubbed her mouth and tongue until she couldn’t taste anything but mint and cool air.
And only once steam billowed out from behind the glass door did she get in the stall.
The first lash of water across her bare skin was the worst—the scalding heat already reddening her naturally tan skin. It was almost unbearable, but she refused to move from the onslaught, letting it sink into her pores and purge everything out.
Under the spray of water, she washed it all away.
The filth.
The reminder that her life was no longer her own.
The evidence of what she had suffered.
Only when the bathroom was foggy with steam and her skin was sensitive to the touch did she finally step out and don the robe that hung from a hook on the back of the door, careful to avert her gaze.
Luna had never known shame the way she did when she saw her own naked reflection. If she were able, she avoided a mirror all together. The person she saw reflected in the glass wasn’t her. Not really.
There was no spark in her eye.
No lust for life.
Just emptiness.
Like she was a fucking ghost walking the earth.
Snagging a brush from a drawer, Luna worked it through her hair, tugging it through the long, tangled strands of her hair until all the kinks and knots were gone.
One of Lawrence’s goons awaited her when she walked out of the bathroom, and though he stared, she knew he wouldn’t touch her. There were other girls they could freely paw and maul, but Luna wasn’t one of them.
That didn’t mean Lawrence didn’t share her, he did, but it was only with men of his choosing, and usually because he wanted something from them.
Was that what this night was about?
Did he have another deal to make?
Once she was free of her restraints, Luna dressed in clothes left behind, frilly things that he insisted she wear.
What did whores need with anything other than lingerie?
At least, that was the question Lawrence had asked of her three years ago when she was dragged to this place against her will, not a single person moved by her tear-blotched face, or pleas for mercy.
It also hadn’t mattered that she had only been fourteen at the time, a mere child.
If anything, that had only made her more appealing to Lawrence.
Men—men like Lawrence—would pay more for the thrill of raping a minor.
They were sick that way.
Out in the hallway—or rather the breezeway since it opened to lush gardens, and the main house out front.
With a hand wrapped around her bicep, the guard led her out of the guest house and around to another building where the parties were held.
There was a den, of sorts, on one end of the building where she, and the other girls kept there, could congregate. A television was mounted on the wall, big enough that it was the first thing anyone could see when they entered the space. Scantily clad women were sprawled across the couch and chairs, some watching the program playing, others just staring at nothing.
But it was to the girl that was only a few years older than Luna that she directed her attention.
Cat was sitting alone in a corner, a bottle of nail polish resting on the floor beside her as she carefully painted her toenails a brilliant azure.
Despite the noise around her, and the constant movement of others, Cat’s concentration never broke. Everyone had their own thing, something that kept their minds from breaking in a place like this.
For Cat, it was nail polish. It was the only thing she hoarded. At this point, though she couldn’t be sure, Luna thought her collection was up to fifty-six bottles—one for each month she had been in this place—bottles she got to keep because she didn’t complain or fight against them.
For Luna, it wasn’t just the moments she got to spend alone, but also when she got to be with Cat, and the sea of information she possessed. Of course, there was no way for her to know if what Cat told her was true, but she still wanted to hear it all, no matter how far fetched.
There was also a bookcase in the corner of the room, the shelves lined with mostly fiction books missing a number of pages, but there were a few textbooks as well, though Luna still didn’t know how they had come to be there.
Those were her favorite though.
It was always funny when she thought back to when she had been home, how much she had hated school. The work hadn’t been terribly difficult, but she had never fully enjoyed it.
Now? She wished she was stuck at a desk in a classroom for seven hours.
Luna also took advantage because it wasn’t often that she was allowed to even leave the room where she was kept. Usually, Lawrence kept her chained until he came to entertain himself—one too many times of her trying to run away. But she had learned her lesson the last time when he had shown her the error of her ways over the course of several hours.
There were some women here that embraced their fate, refusing to wallow in the shit hand they’d been dealt in life. Their compliance allowed them the opportunity to venture into this room and others like it.
And what had surprised Luna the most was the fact that no one had tried to run once they were granted this tiny bit of freedom.
No.
There had been one.
Jessica, her name had been.
She had played the part, pretending to go along with what Emmett—the real boss of this organization—had wanted of her, and she was given the chance to work for freedom that would never come.
Jessica had been one of the first girls Luna had befriended during one of the short bouts when Lawrence had let her be free. They had been close in age, and it was easy to bond over that and more.
The girl hadn’t made it more than a week once her slice of freedom before she had attempted to escape, and for one very long hour, Luna had thought she’d made it—until Lawrence and Emmett returned with images of her mutilated corpse, warning anyone else that had thought to run.
Luna hadn’t tried again after that day.
But she wasn’t broken.
She hadn’t submitted.
She hadn’t lost hope that she would one day make it out of this place—start over somewhere far, far away and try to find her family.
It was hope that both kept her going everyday, and weighed heavily on her.
“Remy brought me this,” Cat said as Luna dropped down beside her after grabbing the Anatomy textbook from the bookcase, gesturing to the bottle she was using while careful not to mess up her work.
“I like this one better than the yellow,” Luna said with a smile, flipping the book open to the page she had dog-eared the last time she’d been in this room.
Had that been a week ago? More?
“You know when I was in school, I hated this fucking subject,” Cat said with a shake of her head. “How you enjoy that is beyond me.”
Cat was only twenty-two, but she had a habit of making herself sound older, as though they were decades apart as opposed to a few years.
Every other Wednesday, Jason, a regular customer of hers, brought gifts and whatever else she asked for that Emmett allowed, showering her with affection that most of the men that frequented this place didn’t possess. He was one of those older, lonely men that sought the company of women that could pretend to care when he talked.
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Cat was very good at pretending.
Luna didn’t know much about the man, or Cat even considering the amount of time she spent separate from everyone else, but they had become instant friends one night when Cat had found her sobbing on the floor of the bathroom trying to scrub herself clean.
That night haunted her the most.
Instead of telling her to suck it up as someone else had, Cat helped her as best she could, then dressed her and offered a shoulder to cry on until the tears stopped. They had talked for hours that night, Luna telling her stories about her home so that she could remember that there was something else out there besides pain and misery.
That night, she had also told Cat how much she missed school. The next morning, it had been Cat that told her about the textbooks, helping her learn from them as best she could.
“But you hated most of your classes, right?” Luna asked, recalling Cat having said something of that nature. “Was this worse than chemistry?”
If anything, her frown grew more pronounced. “Nope, chemistry is still at the top of the list.”
As she finished her last toe, Cat sat back and admired her work, then looked at Luna and whispered, “Did you hear about tonight?”
“What about tonight?” Luna expected something, but maybe Cat knew more than she did. “Lawrence is coming back for me at some point, I think.”
“Emmett cancelled all the appointments for tonight.”
Not only hadn’t she heard that, she could hardly believe it was true.
There was never a time that she could remember where Emmett had closed the doors to his estate.
Not since she had been there at least.
“Why?” Luna asked.
“Somebody’s coming. Don’t know who, but it’s supposed to be a business dinner, and—”
“Luna!”
Cat fell silent at the booming voice, as well as the rest of the room—Lawrence Kendall had that kind of reaction when he entered.
As Emmett’s son, he felt entitled to the women here—often doing what he wished without consequence. Luna wasn’t the only girl to be brutalized by him, though hers occurred more regularly. She couldn’t count the number of times he had left one of the girls bloody and broken after spending a night with them.
Nix. (Den of Mercenaries Book 3) Page 2