Badass: Jungle Fever (Complete): A Billionaire Military Romance

by Leslie Johnson

  Chapter Eight – Camille

  Pain lives inside my hand. Pulsing. Breathing fire up my arm.

  It speaks to me, not allowing my mind to rest. “Hello, Camille,” it seems to say. “Hello, I’m here with you. I’ll never leave you. You’re mine forever. And I’m yours.”

  I stare at the new bandage Janine is rolling in place. The first one had already soaked through.

  “Should we give her some pain killer?” Josiah asks, as he tears off another strip of medical tape and hands it to Janine.

  She slaps the tape on the end of my finger, so hard I feel dizzy with the assault. My throat hurts as the scream tears itself from deep in my chest. Raw. Everything is raw. And I can’t remember why.

  I try to focus on what I can recall, but everything is such a blur. A mystery that feels impossible to solve. I do know one thing. Janine hates me with an intensity that seems to seep through her skin.

  Josiah tears off another strip, but Janine shakes her head. “This is fine. Save it. We’ll need more when we take the next knuckle off.”

  “How soon do you think her old man will come through?” Josiah asks as he stores the medical supplies away.

  Janine grabs me by the hair and pulls my head back so violently a vertebrae pops. “What do you think, Princess Camille? Do you think Daddy will wait until your entire pinky is gone?” She pauses for a beat. “No? How about that wedding ring finger? Of course, you won’t need that one, will you? Because nobody’s going to want you when we’re through.”

  She pulls a knife from her back pocket and opens it to reveal a wicked looking blade. I close my eyes, but she orders me to open them.

  I do.

  She glides the flat side of the blade down my cheek.

  “Do you know what I’ll cut off after I’m finished with your fingers and toes?” She stares down at me, but I can’t respond. “Your pretty little shell ears would be a good place to start next, don’t you think? I could cut them off a piece at a time, and Daddy could fit them back together like a puzzle, when he receives them in the mail.”

  The blade moves down my nose and over my lips. Cold then warm from the heat of my body. It snakes down my throat until the tip is circling my breast. “Nipples will be fun. Too bad there’s only two.” The knife continues its journey down my body. “Do you think Daddy would recognize your clit, Princess Camille?” She laughs. “Stuffy rich bastard probably won’t.”

  Abruptly, she pulls away and closes the knife, sticking it back in her pocket. “I guess the real question is, will Daddy care enough to ransom you? Or maybe he sees this as an easy way to get rid of the embarrassment of the family. The taco munching, dick sucking, confused little black sheep — sorry, rainbow sheep — can simply disappear.”

  She lifts a shoulder. “Guess we’ll find out. Lucky for us, we have all night. See you in…” she looks at her watch, “twenty-three minutes.”

  Turning on her heel, she walks out of the room, her boyfriend tagging along right behind her. The door slams and I sag into my chair as far as my bonds will allow. I’m burning up and freezing cold at the same time.

  Daddy.

  She mentioned my father and a ransom. I’ve been kidnapped I realize now, but I’m not sure how long I’ve been here. I stare at the camera in front of me, into the lens that resembles my short-term memory. Cold and dark.

  I’ve not seen my mother or father since Christmas, and that hadn’t gone particularly well. Janine is right. I am the black sheep. Something I’ve been kind of proud of, until now.

  In front of me is a table with two chunks of bloody flesh lying on top. I look down at my hand and it seems to throb extra hard with the attention. The same pink polish that I’m wearing is on the nail of one of the chunks. I’m being disassembled. For money.

  To distract myself from the pain, I dig back into my memory, trying to piece what is happening to me together. I know I came to Medellin. Janine was with me. We were robbed. Link and Tate came and took me shopping.

  A scrape of metal on metal distracts me and I turn my head, trying to recognize the sound. I listen, but there’s nothing else. I look back into the camera lens.

  I remember that Link had to leave and — oh no — Grace’s papaw had a heart attack.

  Another scrape punches into my awareness. The same sound as before.

  Tate stayed with me. Dinner with the crew. The club. Tate dancing for me. Dancing with me. Making love with me, over and over.

  Scrape.

  Louder this time, a breeze follows and the curtains on the window flutter in response. Then the bulk of a man is climbing through, as if conjured from a dream.

  My heart hammers. He looks up at me and a flash of white teeth are revealed in a face painted with mud. But I know those eyes. Golden eyes. I open my mouth to say his name and he lunges at me, his mud caked hand covering most of my face.

  “Shhhh,” he whispers directly into my ear. “I need you to be quiet, baby. Can you do that?”

  Can I?

  He searches my eyes and there’s a click of metal as he lays two guns on the floor beside him. “Be quiet, Camille.”

  I nod.

  Kissing my forehead, he begins working at my bonds, slicing a knife through the zip ties digging into my wrists and ankles. He softly curses when he gets to my left hand, then looks around and finds the gauze. He stuffs it in his pocket. The tape too. Then he lifts me from the chair, standing me on my feet.

  “Can you walk?” His voice is low, almost a hiss as he retrieves the weapons.

  Can I?

  “Camille, I need you to walk.”

  I swallow and take a step.

  “Good girl. We’re going back out that window. When we run, I need you to run fast. Stay with me.” He places a hand on my shoulder, the hard metal of the gun digging into my flesh, and gives me a little shake. I look up at him. “Camille, when we get out that window, run when I tell you. Don’t stop running until I say stop.”

  I nod and he kisses my forehead again.

  At the window, he holds up a finger and looks out. Waits. Then pulls his head back in. He sets down the guns and lifts me through, leaning out until my feet touch the ground, his hands circling my upper arms. He holds up a finger again, then climbs through, landing with a soft thud beside me.

  He waits again, and looks around, listening. I try to listen too, but it feels like there are mosquitoes buzzing in my ears. My heart is beating too hard in my chest and sweat burns into my eyes. And my hand. Oh God, my hand.

  “Let’s go. Run.”

  The unforgiving metal of his gun is at my back and he steers me in the direction he wants us to go. “Hurry.” I run faster, heading toward a wall of bushes and trees.

  Someone yells behind us. “Get her! Alive! We need them alive!”

  “Go!” Tate roars at me, shoving me forward and I pump my arms with the effort, ignoring the pain. Go. I must go. I must go. I must—

  I’m tackled from the side and scream when I fall on my hands. The pain steals my breath, then it’s robbed further as someone crashes on top of me and we roll across the grass. Then an arm is beneath my chin, lifting me to my feet, cutting off my breath and the sobs that so desperately need release.

  I’m whipped around and see Tate charging toward me, two men lying on the ground just behind him. He raises his gun and shoots off to my right. More gunshot explodes and Tate falls to a knee, pushes up and heads toward me again.

  A gun presses against my temple.

  Tate stops in his tracks, and the look on his face tells me I’m about to die.

  So is he.

  There’s more shouting. Chaos all around me as five men walk toward him, guns raised, saying something I can’t understand.

  His eyes don’t leave mine as he drops the guns and someone kicks them away.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. I want to tell him it’s not his fault, but the butt of a rifle crashes down on his skull and he crumples to the ground before I can say anything at all.

  C
hapter Nine – Tate

  “Will someone listen to me? We have to kill him!”

  The shrill voice of a woman punches into my brain. I don’t move. I don’t even allow my breathing to change. They need to think I’m still out.

  Fuck me. I just about am.

  It takes a damn lot to knock me out. My father always said I had a thick skull. He would know. He’d tested it often enough. A couple years in the boxing ring tested it too.

  “No!” I try to place the voice of the man yelling back at her. Northwest accent. Maybe Seattle. Same as Janine. “We need to find out what he knows!”

  “Don’t yell at her.” A new voice steps into the conversation, just as a large bag hits the floor close to where I lay. I memorize the slight, very slight, Texas drawl. “Just pack everything you can. We’ll figure it out when we get to the new place.”

  “But Josiah—”

  Josiah interrupts Janine. “You saw his phone. He was able to locate us. We could have his entire security firm on our ass at any second. Don’t pack any of the electronics. Nothing but my laptop. I know for sure there’re no tracking devices on it.”

  “How did this happen?” Janine’s cry is more like a wail, an ice pick piercing my aching head. She stomps her foot, the temper tantrum of a child who isn’t getting her way. Good. Let me see how many new ways I can fuck with them. Very slowly and carefully, I test the ties holding my wrists behind my back.

  No one answers her question. I only hear the sounds of many feet running around on the wood floor. Doors slam, and there’s a great deal of muttering and cursing. I count the different voices. In addition to the three in this room, there’s another three in another part of the house and two more somewhere outside. All, except these three, are Spanish.

  I killed six outside before breaching the house. Two more went down during our failed escape. I initially counted eleven along the perimeter, but have no clue how many were inside.

  A couple hundred yards away, a vehicle roars to life. Sounds like the big Expedition I saw earlier. One, two … then three doors close before the engine revs and the sound of gravel being slung cracks the air. A few minutes later, the familiar sound of a motorcycle comes up the lane.

  I was out long enough for them to find my bike. My heart drops as hope of escaping this situation dims.

  I force myself not to flinch when I’m kicked in the back by a narrow toed shoe that could only belong to Janine. The sound of her foot stomping the floor next to my head, in another temper tantrum, confirms the little bitch is responsible for my throbbing kidney.

  “Stop it, Janine,” says the one I believe is Antonio, her brother. “Go get the big guy to help carry him out.” The click of her shoes is followed by the slam of the door.

  “This is out of hand, man,” Josiah says to Antonio, his voice a low, angry rasp. “This was supposed to be a snatch and dump. Not cutting off fingers and shit. Your sister is losing it.”

  Antonio turns on Josiah. “I still say we should have snatched her that first day. We didn’t need that drug. We had her computer and could have forced her to wire the money. But no… you,” he draws out the word, “and my sister wanted to get fancy. Gotta use the drug. Big elaborate plan. You’ve fucked us. You—”

  “I told you a million times why your plan wouldn’t work. No way could—”

  He cuts his words off as the door in the back opens and shoes click their way back in.

  What sounds like a T-Rex is right behind her. A few seconds later, I’m hauled up from the floor and slung over a shoulder. Dizziness brings bile to my throat and I swallow it down as the blood drains into my head.

  “Come with me, you filthy cunt,” Janine hisses, and Camille cries out in pain.

  I force myself to stay loose. Keep my eyes closed. Force my breath to remain even and calm.

  It’s difficult, because I really, really, really look forward to killing that woman.

  An hour later, Camille is throwing up from being tossed around on her seat. Janine is screaming at her to stop. The Hummer we were shoved inside is beating down a brutal trail. Josiah and Antonio are fighting. And the huge Colombian, who is my current babysitter, is growling under his breath.

  These people are about to implode, do something irreversible. I have no choice but to “wake up.” The tactical necessity of playing dead has passed. Except for my arms. They’re dead wood behind my back. They may never wake up again.

  A huge hand clamps down on my thigh as I pretend to wake. I look around, trying to appear confused, while attempting to get an idea of our surroundings. We’re deeper in the jungle now. How big is this man’s farm? Maybe he has multiple locations. Or maybe we’re simply fucking lost.

  Even as I think the words, the headlights break through to a small clearing. The Colombian beside me tightens his grip. It’s another coke field, similar to the ones I’d walked past earlier. This may mean the place they are taking us is close.

  The Hummer lurches to the side, tossing us sideways and I nearly end up in the huge man’s lap. My teeth click together as the Hummer rights itself, and the driver stomps on the gas to give us enough power to get up a steep incline.

  In the seat directly in front of me, Camille groans and bends forward, retching again. Even though there’s nothing left in her stomach to bring up, Janine goes crazy, scrambling to the far side of the vehicle, shrieking at her to quit.

  The Colombian growls low in his throat.

  “I’ll give you a million dollars if you let me kill her, my way,” I mutter in Spanish beneath my breath. The Colombian chuckles and claps me on the thigh, before giving me an elbow in the face.

  Bastard.

  Shifting in the seat to wipe my bloody nose against my shoulder, I recon available weapons in the Hummer. The big dude has a small Uzi and a knife strapped to his belt. A pack of cigarettes in his front breast pocket, along with a lighter. I can’t see in the seats in front of me, but I imagine they’re carrying the same.

  Leaning forward to take weight off my arms, I flex my fingers, trying to bring them back to life. These people aren’t as clever as they think. Zip ties as handcuffs are easy to break out of, even when they’re tied behind your back. I’ll just need to time it right.

  We’re all thrown to the side again when the Hummer lurches over a downed log. I can’t stop the grin from appearing momentarily on my face as Janine slams into the door, knocking her head against the glass.

  The big man chuckles and earns a glare from Janine, who is now rubbing her head. When her dark eyes shift to mine they narrow, before she licks her lips very slowly with the very tip of her pink tongue.

  Terrific. She wants to play this game?

  I’ll play back. Her eyes widen as I lick my lips in return.

  Something inside her shifts. I see the moment it happens. Just like a woman, she’s thinking of ways to play me. Play games. I don’t take my eyes off of her when she attempts to look insulted, then embarrassed. I notice the tremble in her fingers as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

  This is useful.

  Janine is broken, psychologically damaged in significant ways, but I can’t classify it as purely psychotic. There’s ego there, sure. Lack of empathy in large degrees. But there’s something else beneath all that, something that’s driving her. She needs something. Desperately. I need to discover what that is.

  Quick.

  The Hummer powers up another hill and Janine is thrown into her seat, almost coming face to face with me. I lean forward until we’re only inches apart, and her breathing hitches. Yes, this is useful. I need to get her alone.

  The Columbian pulls me back, and the spell is broken. Janine turns and slides back into her seat by Camille. Antonio and Josiah continue to argue. But Janine doesn’t say another word.

  Twenty minutes later, I spot a glow of lights in the distance. As we get closer, I see various shapes of buildings dotting the area. A much larger house. A barn. Two metal warehouse type buildings. We’ve come to a distributio
n center.

  As our tires move from grass to gravel, the rocking motion of the Hummer eases, and Camille leans her head back against the seat. I want to lean forward and touch her. Reassure her. I don’t.

  I can’t.

  One of the warehouse doors rolls open, spilling additional light into the darkness. A forklift drives out, two bales of drugs strapped to its front. I watch it closely as it crosses the yard, heading to the barn. When it’s a few yards away, the barn door opens and I catch the front end of a small plane. A Cessna maybe, based on the propeller. Older model. Cheap and easy to replace. These planes are often shot down. Drug lords need a fleet of them on hand.

  My day has officially been made.

  I just need to get to it.

  We roll to a stop and the engine of the Hummer cuts off while I memorize the layout and gauge the distance between buildings. Car doors open and we’re hauled out, the Colombian double checking the tightness of my bound hands. He zips the ties tighter. Good. Makes it easier to break out, I remind myself. Even as my circulation is decreased significantly.

  The Expedition I’d seen earlier is here, as well as a number of all-terrain vehicles. Four armed guards surround the immediate perimeter of the house. There’re two watch towers, the shadow of a guard in each one. Probably another dozen hidden in the darkness of the woods. Damn. You’d think this was Ft. Knox.

  The warehouse door opens to allow the forklift back in. Twenty people, at least, are inside that one building. Bales of drugs stacked against a wall. Hell, it is Ft. Knox, the Colombian version. Millions of dollars are sitting inside that metal structure.

  Once inside the house, Camille and I are shoved into a room with bars on the windows and layers of plastic on the floor. Doesn’t take a genius to know what this room is used for.

  There’s a cot with a dirty mattress and Camille is lowered onto it, her hands secured to the metal frame with additional plastic ties.

  “Put her on her side,” I tell Antonio, the one strapping her down. He glares over his shoulder at me. “If she pukes and aspirates, you don’t get your big pay day.” He stiffens and I wait for him to make his decision.