Stolen: Hell's Overlords MC

by Zoey Parker

  Two men stand guard at the foot of the ramp that leads up to the lip of the boat’s deck. We approach and the man holding my leash hands it to one of them. They jabber for a moment, too quiet for me to hear, before the one who’d guided me from the ship turns and leaves. “Adios, princesa,” he says with a sarcastic waggle of his fingers before he disappears back between the boxes.

  I watch him go, but as I turn back to the new men, they tug a black bag over my head. The world goes dark. I stifle a scream. “Vamos,” says one gruffly. He yanks on the end of the leash. I stumble forward, catching myself on my hands. “Cuidado,” he adds obnoxiously. “It’s slippery out here.”

  I find the railing despite my blindness and hold onto it as I’m led up the ramp and onto the yacht. I hear quiet voices and the clanks and shushing of various chores being completed around me. The blast of air conditioning on my skin lets me know we’ve stepped inside.

  “Stairs,” barks the man. I carefully extend a toe downward to feel for the first step. Only once I’ve made solid contact do I trust the rest of my weight to it. We work our way down like that, one step at a time, the man impatiently tugging at the slack in the rope and urging me to go faster.

  Eventually, I reach the bottom. No light is coming through the bag over my head anymore. We must be in an unlit room within the boat. I hear a door slam open. Rough hands shove me to a seat, then the door shuts again behind me. “Stay here and wait,” comes a muffled voice on the other side of the door.

  I can only wonder what I’m waiting for.

  * * *

  The rumble of motors picks up as soon as I am locked inside this room. The stomach-turning tossing of the boat resumes as well. We must be going out to sea.

  I remove the hood and drop it to the floor, but the darkness is still too heavy for me to make out anything. I can’t even see my hand in front of my face. When I try it, the door handle jiggles but does not give. I’m not surprised. Even if I made it out, I wouldn’t know where to go. Running rogue on a yacht fifty miles away from shore doesn’t sound like a smart idea if I intend to survive.

  I stand unsteadily and start to wander around the room. It’s bigger than I originally thought. A low bench runs along one wall. I follow it with my hands on the cool plastic. When I come in contact with a warm, fleshy body, I recoil.

  “Who’s there?” I whisper. I hear only a groan in response. “Hello?” I try again.

  A shaky voice emerges from the pitch black. “I’m here,” it says fearfully.

  “Who are you? Do you know where we are?” I ask frantically. “Do you know what’s happening?”

  “No,” the person replies. It’s a female voice. She sounds every bit as terrified as I feel. All this waiting in the dark is as bad as violence. It’s horrifying not to know when something bad is about to happen. “I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.”

  “Where are you from?” I ask.

  “A little town in Mexico, near the border.”

  My heart thumps in my chest. I can almost hear it out loud, over the thrashing of the engine rotors at the back of the ship. “What’s the town called?”

  The girl stammers out, “El Cruce.”

  My mouth is dry. “Is that you, Lucila?” I say quietly.

  When she responds, her voice is run through with panic and surprise. “Who are you? How do you know my name?” I feel her nails seize on my thigh.

  Just as I open my mouth to respond, the door is yanked open. Two men invade, each grabbing one of us. We scream at the same time, but it does no good. They pull us to our feet. The light is stabbing my eyes painfully, and my wrists, wrenched behind my back by the large man holding me, cry out in pain.

  They steer us down a hall. A shut door lies at the other end. We stop just short of it. I look at Lucila. Her nostrils are flared in fear, hair mussed. She looks like she’s been through hell and back since I last saw her. I guess she probably has.

  “Lucila,” I start to say, but the man holding onto me pulls harshly on the leash to silence me.

  “Shut up,” he hisses.

  I bite my lip and try to say it with my eyes. We’ll be okay, Lucila. She looks at me and recognizes who I am, but it brings her no comfort. Even she knows I’m lying. In all likelihood, we are far from okay.

  Then the door swings open. Bright spotlights shine towards us. I have just enough time to make out a crowd of men seated around a white stage before Lucila’s captor shoves her through and slams the door closed again.

  Far, far from okay.

  * * *

  A clamor arises from the other side of the door. I hear male voices building to a crescendo, though I can’t make out any of their words. The volume climbs and climbs, peaks, and then stops suddenly. Silence resumes.

  My heart is propelling blood through my body at rocket speeds and I’m breathing as heavily as if I’d just run for miles. Adrenaline is taking me over, but there’s nowhere to go. I look at the guards standing on either side of me. They don’t look back. Both are tall and muscle-bound, with hands that look capable of inflicting irreparable damage. There’s not a chance in hell that I’d make it past them if I tried to run. Besides, where would I run to? Would I try to swim to shore? I’d drown long before I even got close. I have to face the truth: there’s only one way to go, and that’s through the door that just swallowed Lucila. I feel the acceptance settle into my stomach like lead. I might as well go in with my chin held high.

  The din of the assembled men has yet to resume. The eerie, static silence hangs heavy over me. I need something to react against, or else this quiet will drive me crazy. How long can a person survive being on edge like this? It’s maddening, unbearable. Give me release, or at least a captor I can start to despise. Give me a situation I can thrash back at.

  But the second the door is pulled open, beckoning for me, I take all of that back. The quasi-comfort of acknowledging that I had nowhere to go vanishes immediately. In its place is the same nausea and fear that has plagued me since the moment I was torn away from Vince. Sweat breaks out across my forehead. I feel like vomiting again.

  I don’t have time to think as I am shoved through the door. I stumble forward, nearly falling before I regain my balance. The door shuts behind me.

  I try to look around, but the stage lights focused on me are brutally bright. White glare blots out everything. I raise a hand to cover the beams and my eyes clear enough for me to make out the silhouettes of men strewn on all sides.

  “Walk forward,” booms a voice over an intercom system. Too stunned to do anything but obey, I walk down the skinny catwalk towards a circular dais in the middle of the crowd. I feel horribly unprotected in this tiny bikini. My entire body is on display for this gathering of dark strangers. It’s like that nightmare everyone has at one time or another, where the dreamer is naked and everyone else is clothed and mocking. Except this time, it’s real.

  “Bidding begins at ten thousand dollars,” the announcer proclaims. I’m still squinting against the bright spotlights, but slowly I can make out more and more details of the men in the crowd. At the announcer’s prompting, a forest of hands raises into the air. A low murmur breaks out amongst them.

  In spite of the fear racing through me, it doesn’t take much thinking to realize where I am. This is an auction. Not just any auction, either.

  The prize is me.

  “Fifteen thousand dollars,” he continues. A few hands drop, but most of them stay up. The bidding starts to rise every minute or two. At first, the increments are five thousand dollars, but as the bidders prove to be persistent, it jumps up to ten thousand dollar increases every time the announcer speaks up. Soon, the price crosses the one-hundred-thousand-dollar threshold.

  “Do I hear one hundred and five thousand dollars?” echoes the voice overhead. I’m sweating on the stage, as much from fear as from the heat of the glare. This is rock bottom. There is nothing lower than this, being sold like a fish at market, destined to be gutted by one lucky buyer. Once I
’m bought, I will be nothing more than property, to be used and discarded at will. I’m hardly human. I’m a thing.

  One hand has stayed up throughout the bidding. It belongs to a dark-faced man with a thick beard and sunglasses perched on his nose. He doesn’t waver or even seem to consider lowering his bid. Instead, his hand stays steady and firm in the air. “One hundred and five thousand, going once,” says the auctioneer. “Going twice.” No movement. “Sold, to the gentleman in front.”

  With those words, the last of my resistance goes. I don’t have anything left in me that I can use to fight back. I’m not even a person anymore. I don’t control myself or my fate. Vince can’t rescue me. Not again. Once was lucky, twice was a miracle. And I just don’t believe that the third time will be a charm.

  The man who opened the door comes up behind me, takes hold of the leash, and directs me offstage, to another hallway that leads back into the bowels of the boat. I don’t even think about struggling against him. After all, it won’t make a difference.

  I’m no longer my own. I’m someone else’s.

  Chapter 13

  Vince

  It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to get up from my seat and run to retrieve Rose right away. The men around me continue to bid on the few girls left to be purchased, but I don’t bother paying attention. I have what I came for.

  The fake beard I’m wearing is itchy as hell. It’s a struggle not to rip it off, but I focus all my energy on ignoring the sensation. I have to stay calm and blend in. One foot out of line and this whole charade will come tumbling down. If that happens, both Rose and I will end up dead.

  Of course, that could be the outcome anyway. Stepping into the lion’s den was a risky proposition to begin with. But I didn’t leave myself a choice. If there was any chance that Rose would be one of the girls on display, I had to be here. Something deep and irresistible inside me said that I couldn’t let her go. There was nothing else to do but dive in.

  Which is how I ended up disguising myself as a rich drug dealer and sneaking onto the yacht under an assumed identity. The truth was that we needed every scrap of information we could get. Too many weeks spent blundering around in confusion, waiting for something to happen, was bound to lead to mistakes. This was an opportunity we could not afford to relinquish. I’d made that argument at the diner as persuasively I knew how, and Mortar and Steezy had eventually admitted I was right. But they weren’t happy about it. I’d sworn to them that this was all about gathering intel and that I had nothing personal invested in it. They’d made me repeat that vow a dozen times before finally giving in. I hoped to God I wouldn’t regret breaking it.

  The last girl is trotted off stage. I see a fat Middle Eastern man rubbing his fingertips together greedily at the sight of his newly purchased toy. I wish I could plug that bastard in his face right now. This whole affair is sickening. To see girls—daughters, mothers, sisters—paraded in front of us like cuts of beef makes my stomach churn. Under other circumstances, I’d throw every sick pig in here off the boat and watch them drown. But right now, I’m at their mercy.

  “The auction has concluded,” announces the voice over the sound system. “Please file out to the upper deck and enjoy refreshments while we process your purchases. An attendant will be by shortly to provide instructions on how you may finalize your transactions.” The men stand as one and we file out of the same door we’d entered.

  The breeze on the top of the yacht is lazy and warm. The night sky stretches from horizon to horizon, unbroken by smog. I see the skyline of Galveston dwindling in the distance. A waiter bearing a tray loaded with flutes of champagne steps in front of me. “A drink, sir?” he asks, offering one to me. I look around. All the other men have one. I take the glass in his hand and tilt my head in thanks.

  Strolling over to one side of the boat, I lean against the railing and look out over the water. It is dark and impenetrable, black waves sloshing against the hull. Looking nonchalant is getting harder and harder as I think of Rose waiting for me in the bottom of the boat.

  A few yards down the railing, two men are conversing with each other. I recognize one as a small-time arms dealer the Inked Angels have pushed out of town once or twice before. He wasn’t happy about it then, and I can’t imagine he gets the warm fuzzies when he thinks about my brothers and me. It doesn’t surprise me to see him out here, where he can meet similarly-minded bastards. The Diablos must be thrilled to have crooks like him on their side.

  The man he’s talking to has his back to me, so I can only make out a few words of what he’s saying. “Our…benefactors tonight…” He waves a hand, gesturing towards the boat as if to indicate the Diablos. “Not big fans…”

  The arms dealer nods furiously, looking pleased as hell with whatever his friend is telling him. They pivot to face over the railing like I am. I am quick to turn my head so they don’t think I’m eavesdropping. Out of the corner of my eye, I see them glance at me, but I take a casual sip of my drink to make it seem like I’m ignoring them. They shrug and continue their conversation. I can hear both of them now, although I don’t dare to look at their faces. As they talk, my heart seizes, then drops lower and lower into my stomach. My balls feel like they’re tucking up inside me.

  War. Betrayal. Bloodshed. Something horrible is about to happen.

  A tap on the shoulder interrupts me. I wrench my attention from the conversation, ashen-faced from what I’ve overheard, and direct it to the brawny man standing behind me. “It is your turn to provide payment downstairs, sir,” he says in a guarded voice, careful to be polite, although I can tell it is not his preferred mode of communication. “If you’ll follow me.” He extends an arm towards the back of the boat. I follow him, cursing inwardly at being torn away from what I’d overheard. The few details I’d gleaned will have to be enough. Now, I need to get off this ship and convey the information to Mortar. I pray silently that this part goes smoothly. The last thing I need is unnecessary attention.

  We move to the back of the ship and down a staircase to the middle level. A prim woman in a floor-length black dress sits behind a desk with piles of cash in front of her. Her lipstick is a dark, bloody red, and her nails are the same grim tone. The man who’d led me here shuts the door behind me and disappears.

  “Your bid is one hundred and five thousand dollars, sir,” she says firmly. The point of her foot traces tiny, frenzied circles in the air beneath the tabletop. “Please provide me with your bank account wire information and your token.”

  I pause, startled. “Token? What token?”

  She looks impatient. “You were provided with a token upon your arrival to the ship this evening, sir. This is to verify that we do not have any cases of mistaken identity at tonight’s affair. It would be very…tragic…if we were to discover that someone had conned their way into our little market.” The way she says ‘tragic’ makes my scalp tingle. Her voice is laced with violence.

  I have to bluff my way out of this. I look around. This level of the ship is wrapped with glass windows. Outside, I can see the city lights twinkling distantly on the horizon.

  “Your token, sir?” she repeats. Her eyes begin to squint in suspicion.

  “I want to see my purchase before I give anyone a damn cent,” I growl, casting my voice an octave lower than usual.

  The woman sighs. “Very well.” She looks up at the light fixture suspended from the ceiling above. There must be a hidden camera nestled among the metal frame. “Bring out purchase number four,” she orders to whoever is listening on the other side of the video feed. She folds her hands and waits.

  After a moment, a door at the rear of the room opens. A man steps out, dressed exactly like the Diablos were in El Cruce: all black from boots to shirt and a pair of black leather gloves. Held in his hand is a leash. He whispers something viciously to the person on the other end of the leash and gives it a sharp tug.

  My heart writhes when I see Rose walk through the doorframe. The outfit they’ve no do
ubt forced her into is ridiculously small, but my cock leaps up at the sight of her nonetheless. My dreams of her haven’t been exaggerating the memory of her body at all. On the contrary, she’s even finer than I remember. She looks scared and bruised, but that skin and those curves still make me hard in an instant. I look up at her face. Blue eyes peer out from under the sweep of her hair.

  And they’re staring at me with such hate that it’s almost tangible.

  For a second, I wonder why. Then I realize she doesn’t know it’s me. I’m still wearing a jacket with the collar turned up and this full beard covering my face, not to mention the dark sunglasses in spite of the fact that it’s near midnight. I couldn’t risk being recognized. Funnily enough, this celebrity-at-a-strip-club getup doesn’t draw nearly as much attention as I would if I were walking around looking like myself. The men here are loath to be recognized in any situation, lest law enforcement or enemies be snooping around, looking for an opportunity to strike, and that paranoia only gets heightened when dealing with a delicate event like a human auction. Plenty of the other men have on similar articles of clothing.