Los Zetas Cartel Collection (3 book series)

by AJ Adams

  I could understand it. I don’t dream, not ever, but from her descriptions, she was reliving Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets Friday the Thirteenth every time she shut her eyes. She’d slept well with me; it must have been the Soma, the tequila and the workouts.

  The dreams she had recorded read like hardcore porn, the darkest kind there is, too, but her asides revealed an iron will tempered with humour.

  Dear God, one of the bints I’m shepherding turned up wearing a pussy pelmet and a boob tube! The dozy cow thought she was the dog’s bollocks - until every fucking camel jockey took it as an invitation to get up close and personal. By the time we got off the bus in Tangiers, she was shit scared of being raped. I got her across in one piece, but only because I told the crew she’s on her way to see her BF, a high ranking member of the Russian mafia in Paris. As if any of those red rods would fancy such a muppet.

  Mac talks like that. He’s a tough bastard, Special Air Services, one of the most elite outfits in the world, almost as good as the Corps. He’s been around the world, and he speaks perfectly good English, but when we were in Kabul, he enjoyed dropping into almost completely unintelligible dialect, complaining endlessly about ‘nutters’ and ‘ragheads’ and lamenting that there wasn’t a decent ‘bird’ in the place for a man to ‘shag’ unless he got ‘hammered’ first.

  I hadn’t seen him since Kabul, and when I counted how long that had been, I wondered if he was still alive. Probably. Even I’d hesitate before taking on Mac. The Taliban would be far too fucking scared of him to take him out. Mac was a weapon of mass destruction.

  Suddenly I became aware of the bonus. It was like that bit in Alice in Wonderland when the Cheshire Cat appears and disappears, stripes first and grin last. One moment I was sitting on the deck perfectly alone and the next she just faded into view.

  She was sitting on the edge of the deck, looking out over the water. Although she wasn’t looking at me, I knew she wanted to speak to me. She was also nervous. I soon found out why.

  “You feeling better?”

  I reached out my hand to her as I spoke, and she instantly came to my side, kneeling by my deck chair. Pure fuckbot.

  She nodded and smiled at me. “Please, may I speak?”

  Her voice was small and sweet, and she looked up at me through her lashes as she spoke. The sex kitten act should have been cute, but I could see this was another thing she’d learned from Rimjob.

  For a moment I wondered how much of everything she did came from her, and how much of it had been beaten into her. I was just going to tell her to cut it out when I saw the sweat rolling down the side of her face. She was afraid. I felt a stab of pity for her. Apart from waking me by tripping the kitchen door alarm that morning, she hadn’t given me any trouble, so I took her hands and got her to sit with me. My deck lounger was custom built to accommodate me, and as she’s a little thing, her head jut topping my collarbone, she fitted in comfortably.

  “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

  I could tell from the careful way she spoke that she’d rehearsed her speech carefully.

  “Maybe, and I might be wrong,” she faltered. “I don’t want to make you mad…”

  “You won’t,” I assured her. “Go on.”

  “Maybe, if you could possibly take me to the hotel, I could find the contact. He might have left a note, or they might know him. And then I could explain.”

  “Explain what?”

  “That I fucked up.” Immediately her breath hissed and she squirmed on my lap. “Sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

  I’d read about this. In her dream book she swore frequently and explicitly, but Rimjob had deemed swearing a punishable offence—along with speaking, moving and breathing without permission. I gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Repeat after me, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck!’”

  Amazingly, she giggled. “I love South Park,” she confessed.

  “Arturo has your phone, and I told him about the meet. Someone has collected your consignment.”

  And as I’d given orders, Quique, my lieutenant, had taken out the dealer afterwards, too. We always took out anyone doing business on our turf without permission, but there was always somebody somewhere who’d try their luck. Mostly they found their luck had run out.

  The bonus wasn’t too surprised. I could see it in her eyes.

  “You were expecting this.”

  She nodded. “He’ll think I set him up.” She shivered a little.

  “When you don’t show in London, he’ll call. He’ll hear what went down soon enough.”

  I could see she’d considered that possibility, too. I liked that. Any idiot can swallow a dozen condoms of product before crossing a border. A courier with brains was rare and worth a lot more.

  “Arturo will also tell him that you’re with us now.”

  All the colour instantly drained from her face. She shivered again. A real, rippling, to-the-bone shudder of fear.

  “You’re not to think of him,” I told her sharply. “I’ll deal with it.”

  “Yes, Master.” She swallowed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  I cut her off in mid-apology. “Never mind. You’ll lose that habit soon enough.” I settled her against me and stroked her hair. “Now, I have some questions.”

  I grilled her for two hours. It was a job interview really.

  First I examined her experience as a courier. It was pretty extensive. She’d started on her eighteenth birthday, the same day her “Master” had given her her “freedom”. Apparently he liked them young, so when they turned legal they were put to work. Some were sent to whorehouses, but Chloe was trained to be a mule. That made sense. Any idiot can be a hooker, but it takes brains to be a courier.

  She started with city drops and gradually learned the skills needed for international operations. When she was let loose abroad, she was a swallower, smuggling product out of the Golden Triangle in her belly and delivering it to customers all over Europe. For bigger consignments where there was too much product to swallow, she concealed it in hollowed out statues or bags with false linings and conned others into carrying it for her. Later, when her face had become too familiar to airport customs officers, she transported suitcases and boxes of it over obscure land routes, taking buses, trains or ferries or making arrangements for more private transfers with caravan traders and captains for hire.

  In eight years she’d been caught twice. The first time was in Lisbon. They’d found five kilos of coke in the lining of her backpack, but as the cops hadn’t filed the right paperwork, they couldn’t make a case. She spent four months in jail, but in the end they just deported her. The second time she was double-crossed, sacrificed by her contact. That was in Battambang, Cambodia. It took her a year to get out, and they only let her go because she’d buried the other half of her consignment, ten ki’s of prime smack, in a temple garden before being caught. She traded the information for her freedom. Both times she’d returned home to a punishment beating.

  As mules go, her story was pretty standard stuff. And as I wasn’t asking for details, only technique, she talked easily enough.

  The second part of our conversation was more difficult. I’d figured out from the dream book that Rimjob had taken her from a foster home when she was sixteen. He’d then put her through two years of hell, subjecting her to every known perversion known to man, and then some more. Some of it was so gross that it turned even my stomach, and I’m pretty tough. What I couldn’t figure out is why she’d want to write that shit down.

  When I asked her, she was a bit reluctant to talk, but the Soma and a few sips of my Corona soon worked their magic. If you use a big dose of both, the effect is like a Roofie. I was giving her small doses, just enough to calm her but not so much that she’d pass out. She was nicely mellow, and it took just a nudge to get her talking.

  As it turned out, she’d gotten the idea from a book, which was a problem, because reading was also forbidden.

  “I’m reading self-help books about recovering f
rom abusive relationships,” she finally explained. “He’d be incandescent if he knew. I’m allowed to have travel guides and dictionaries, but that’s it. He has access to my phone, so I can’t download ebooks or look at web sites. And when I’m in London, he runs spot checks on my stuff.”

  “But you managed it anyway.”

  She nodded nervously. Her arms were sweaty just thinking about what Rimjob would do if he knew.

  “How?”

  “I go to public libraries whenever I can,” she whispered. “And when I’m travelling, I buy paperbacks. I ditch them before I come home.”

  “Read whatever you like,” I told her. “My books are mostly fiction but you can Google whatever you want on my laptop.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “R-r-really?” she stammered.

  “Sure.” Such a little thing and it set her beaming. I decided it was time for another workout.

  Instead of heading back for some more rack time, we sat on the deck, with me looking out over the river and her going down on me. It was fantastic, sitting in the evening sun and feeling that delicate tongue lap, nibble and suck. I was stroking her hair, sipping my Corona, turned on as hell and trying not to shove myself into her face like I had the day before, when I suddenly became aware that she was humming.

  It sounded familiar but it took me a second to place it: it was that theme from ‘Apocalypse Now’, where they’re in the helicopters, flying over the sea, ready to firebomb the shit out of that Viet Cong village. By the time she had finished, I was almost ready to blow. Then she switched to something else, something menacing that was also familiar. As her moans reached a crescendo, I had abandoned my beer and was pumping into her mouth, blowing my load and realising it was the theme tune of the Pittsburgh Pirates. They play it at every home game; it’s some sort of opera tune.

  She made a convincing job of letting me know that she loved going down on me, but I felt this was taking a hum job to extremes.

  I pulled her up and sat her next to me as I buttoned my jeans. “What the hell were you singing?” If I’d slapped her face she couldn’t have looked more frightened. Before she could crawl or do something crazy, I smiled at her. “Pitufa, I’m not angry.”

  Instantly she curled up against me in that cute way that I was pretty sure she’d learned from Rimjob. I didn’t mind, though. I’m always in a good mood after a good blowjob, and the bonus had just given me some of the best head I’d ever had.

  “I didn’t know I was doing it out loud,” she confessed guiltily.

  “What were you singing?”

  “’Ride of the Valkyries’ from Wagner’s ‘Ring’ and Orff’s ‘O Fortuna’ from ‘Carmina Burana’.”

  And there was me thinking she was a movie buff and a baseball fan. “You’re into opera?”

  She shook her head. “Not exactly. Well, sort of.”

  I got it at once. “Like the music but not the memories?”

  “Hmmm.”

  I was getting a good idea of what Rimjob was like. A culture vulture with a liking for the whip – doling it out, not taking it. It reminded me of something. “Your dream book mentions making Chicken Cordon Bleu and Coq Au Vin. Does that mean you cook?”

  She nodded, beaming at me.

  That decided it for me. She was easy to have around, a dream in the rack, and she could cook. I was definitely keeping her.

  When I put my arms around her, she cuddled up to me, another learned move that had become an instinct, but the smile she gave me was one hundred percent guaranteed for real. She looked up at me through her lashes and asked sweetly, “Please, what should I call you?”

  “Huh?” As my little head had just exploded, the big one was in an intelligence-free zone.

  She gave me a huge smile. “In all the excitement yesterday when you swept me off my feet, nobody thought to introduce us.”

  That English sense of humour. You gotta love it.

  Chapter 6: Chloe

  “It’s Suarez. Francisco Kyle McCabe Perez Suarez. Call me Kyle.”

  He was smiling at me, totally mellow after a good suck off. I was feeling pretty good too, all things considered. Those pills he was giving me were magic, especially when boosted with tequila. I was feeling no pain.

  Kyle was running a hand over my hips, not squeezing or anything, just stroking me in a friendly way. He patted my bum and without even thinking about it, I moved closer, snuggling up against his chest. It wasn’t something I wanted to do; it’s something He likes.

  I should explain at this point that I am perfectly normal 99% of the time, but when it comes to the last percent, I am barmy. That’s a technical term. It means I am totally Looney Tunes, bats in the belfry, nuts, and one short of a six pack.

  The 99% is the outside. That’s the seasoned courier who can smuggle anything, anywhere, anytime. Want to shift a kilo of coke from Chiang Mai to Edinburgh? I’ll Easter egg it for you. And box it up for you when it comes out at the other end (that’s another pun – get it?) so it’s nice, shiny, and fresh smelling when I hand it over. Need to slip some emeralds out of Myanmar? I have a pink velvet sausage wallet that’s perfect.

  I do large jobs, too. If you want a gold temple artefact moved out of Myanmar to New York, I will dip it in plaster of Paris, give it a coat of paint, applied badly so it looks like a cheap, touristy copy and brazenly walk it through customs. Or shove it into someone else’s bag and steal it back once we’re free and clear of suspicious, prying eyes.

  I’ve smuggled art, currency (real and counterfeit), jewellery, and every kind of drug across borders in every continent. I’m not just good; I’m the best. I once couriered a kidney out of China and into India – while keeping it in tiptop condition! As far as I know, nobody else has ever done that. So the courier part of me is pretty proud.

  Then there’s that little tiny bit of me that’s hidden deep on the inside. The one percent. That’s what He created. It’s the petrified sixteen year-old who knows that she’s going to be punished. The one who knows that begging and pleading won’t help but who can’t help weeping. It’s a perfectly natural consequence of being beaten, raped and tortured for two years by a pervert.

  The reason that I’m 99% normal is because I haven’t been with Him since I turned eighteen. On that amazingly wonderful, fantastic day, He kicked me out of his Hyde Park mansion. I thought I was free. Of course I wasn’t.

  He handed me over to Wanee, a Thai mama-san who taught me the basics of my trade. When I’d learned all my lessons and passed my tests, He put me to work. I still work for Him. I probably always will, but we don’t meet much. It doesn’t matter. He knows that it just takes a text to put the fear of God into me. One word, and the 99% melts away, leaving... me, I guess.

  I’m a total jelly when it comes to Him, and something about the hulk set me off the same way. All the things I’d forgotten about came back to me: the sweet kittenish ways, the snuggles, the humble desperation to please; all those mannerisms, beaten into me so long ago, were once again present and correct.

  Except that the hulk didn’t appreciate it. “No more Master and slave shit!” he’d growled at me that first morning. I should have been grateful, but for some reason I just couldn’t get a grip on myself. Every time I saw those expressionless grey eyes, my knees went all weak, and not in that way people talk about in romance novels.

  Now I’d had time to look him over properly. I’d spotted a blood group tattoo on the inside of his forearm, and I had a good idea of what he was. This was a gun for hire. I’ve met plenty of mercenaries on my travels, and the best come from the elite forces. Ex Marines, SAS, Spetsnaz – whatever Kyle had been, he fitted right into that category.

  Some mercenaries are evil fuckers – mad, bad and dangerous to know. They see rape as a permanent perk of the job and would skin puppies alive just for the fun of hearing the squeals. I’d knifed one in a back alley in Kuala Lumpur a year ago when he’d decided that he’d try and have me after I’d dropped off ten ki’s of smack to his boss. I never
carry a weapon, but he had a knife, so I took it from him, stuck it in him and then legged it. As the delivery had been made, and nobody mentioned it after, I guess he survived. Or maybe he didn’t, and they thought one of his friends had seen him off. I don’t care, except I kind of hope he snuffed it. I didn’t like him one little bit.

  I was happy that Francisco Kyle McCabe Perez Suarez was the other kind of mercenary. Just as tough, but one of those strong silent types who thinks it beneath himself to hurt women and children. Unless the mission demands it, and then he would set a match to an orphanage stuffed with puppies and watch without a qualm as it went up in flames. His gentle ways didn’t fool me for a second. I remembered how he’d looked at me yesterday, when I’d been swinging from a rope. This was one dangerous bugger, but I knew I was safe as long as nobody he worked for wanted me otherwise. Oh, and in case you’re curious, he’s type O, Rh negative.

  Knowing what he was centred me. If I made him happy, he would be easy to handle. He might be a bit rough if he got excited, but he wouldn’t bash me about. Probably. Unless he was a nasty drunk. That was always a possibility. Then I remembered he’d packed away half a bottle of tequila the night before, and it hadn’t made a scrap of difference to him, so I was probably all right. Probably.

  Thinking it over, I thought that I would do my best to keep him entertained. Maybe if he really liked me, he’d explain that it hadn’t been my fault... I was kidding myself again. The consignment had been paid for in advance, so whoever had picked it up in my place was now five ki’s of coke richer. And as I’d lost the product, I was toast.

  The knowledge sent a shiver of fear shooting down my spine. No matter what Kyle said about me working for him now, I knew He would send someone for me. And once I was back in London, He was going to beat the hell out of me. He’s very, very good at that. An expert. I’d be lucky to end up in hospital for just a fortnight.