These Monstrous Deeds

by T. J. Hamel

  For oft, when on my couch I lie

  In vacant or in pensive mood,

  They flash upon that inward eye

  Which is the bliss of solitude;

  And then my heart with pleasure fills,

  And dances with the daffodils.

  It doesn’t work.

  Since he has nothing better to do, Carter tries again.

  I wandered lonely as a cloud…

  ◆◆◆

  Carter thinks about Elliot. He makes up a story for him. A happy one.

  Happier, at least.

  The man who bought Elliot is married to a kind woman. They can’t get pregnant. They’ve been trying for years. The adoption agency turned them down.

  Wait, no, two men married to each other. They live somewhere that doesn’t allow same-sex adoption. They’re desperate for a family. They know it’s wrong, of course they do, but they’ll be good to him. They’ll make it up to him somehow.

  Elliot has a huge bedroom overlooking a river. The river isn’t too deep. A safe place to swim. To fish. To ice skate when it freezes over.

  His new parents buy him video games. One dad plays with him all the time. The other rolls his eyes and says things about frying brain cells, but they eventually lure him to the dark side and get him hooked too. On Sundays, they have Mario Kart tournaments and cook homemade pizza together.

  Elliot loves them. He’s happy with them. Sometimes he misses his mom, but it gets easier. Maybe one day he’ll be able to find her again. For now, he’s content where he is. Safe. Untouched. Loved.

  ◆◆◆

  Muscles aching when he awakes, Carter rolls to his side and stretches his arms and legs as far as they can go. His toes brush something. Liquid splashes against the cold concrete. Carter holds perfectly still, unsure if he imagined it. He slowly, carefully, pulls his feet up as he pushes himself into a sitting position. He touches his foot with a finger and gasps.

  It’s wet.

  Tentative fingers crawl along the concrete, one inch at a time, until he finds what feels like a metal dog bowl. He doesn’t risk lifting the thing. Instead, he brings his face down to it. The water is warm. Slightly gritty.

  It tastes like heaven.

  Carter cries.

  Make it last, he tells himself. Be smart. Make it last.

  Carter puts the bowl in the corner where his two walls meet, then crawls as far away from it as his chain will allow.

  Feeling confident he won’t accidentally spill it, he lays back down and closes his eyes.

  ◆◆◆

  Carter dreams of a field of daffodils. Bright yellow against lush green. There’s wind in his hair. He can smell the salt from the sea. The sun is setting. The stars will be coming out soon. Carter lifts his chin, wanting to look up at the sky so he can catch the exact moment the night takes over. But something stops him, jerking his neck painfully. He gasps.

  Just as Carter grabs what seems to be a metal dog collar around his throat, not understanding why it’s there, the world goes black. It’s not an instant thing, though. It’s slow. Torturous. Color bleeds out of the sunset first. Then out of the trees. The grass. The daffodils. The world goes black and white. Then black and grays. Then, black, black, black.

  When Carter wakes up, he doubts if he’s truly awake. How could he tell, when his reality and the nightmare are the same?

  ◆◆◆

  Carter licks up the last of the water. He cries, but only for thirty seconds. That’s all he gives himself. Thirty seconds. Then he forces himself to stop. This isn’t a time where he can be wasting water. Tears are a luxury he cannot afford.

  ◆◆◆

  Carter dreams of the daffodils again. They’re all dying. He stands in the field of them, slowly turning in a circle to take the sight in. The bright flowers are wilting. Turning to ash. They melt into the grass, and then that’s ash too. There’s no flame. No cause. It all just crumbles into blackened dust right before Carter’s eyes. When Carter looks at his hands, he finds his body beginning to follow.

  ◆◆◆

  Carter’s throat is bleeding.

  ◆◆◆

  The water bowl is filled again. Beside it is a piece of food the size of Carter’s palm. It tastes like stale bread. He prays that’s what it is. He eats it either way.

  ◆◆◆

  He dreams of the daffodils again.

  Casey’s dead body rests among them.

  Carter carefully lies down beside his friend, taking Casey’s freezing cold hand in his own.

  “It’s okay,” he whispers to Casey, closing his eyes and holding on tight. “I’m here now.”

  Chapter Two

  “How may I serve you, Master?” a slave asks in that same low, subdued voice they all use. He’s kneeling in the proper resting position, his chin lowered, his eyes on the floor. The sight of him makes Nathan sick.

  Nathan hadn’t summoned him, having just been lounging in one of the leather chairs in the entertainment room, sipping a glass of his favorite scotch while listening to his men talk amongst themselves. This particular slave has been here long enough to know better than to approach without invite, which means one of Nathan’s men had encouraged the slave to come cater to him.

  Nathan scans his eyes over the slave, weighing the pros and cons of dismissing him. Only one other man in the room is using a slave right now. The rest are just relaxing. Sending him off wouldn’t be suspicious.

  With a flick of his wrist, Nathan says, “You’re not needed by me tonight. Go on.”

  The slave’s shoulders relax ever so slightly. They always pretend they’re happy to be used, but it’s never the truth. Nathan sending the slave away this late at night means that, as long as the slave makes it to the basement without anyone grabbing him, he’ll be finished for the night. Nathan can’t imagine a life like that.

  Then again, part of Nathan wishes he got to quit this job at night. He hasn’t had a minute off in 8 fucking years.

  “Thank you, Master,” the slave says quietly, eyes averted. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, 7.”

  As Nathan watches the slave crawl away from him, he thinks Bryce. Bryce Jacobson. 19 years old. Slave for 2 years. Never graduated high school.

  Bryce Jacobson. Not 7. Not slave. Bryce.

  Nathan closes his eyes and breathes, reminding himself why he’s doing this.

  This operation has been hell from the start. It’s beaten Nathan down into something less than human, making him damn close to the kind of person he began hunting in the first place. But it’s ending soon. They’re so fucking close. This international trafficking ring will be brought down from the inside by him, the man he’s become, the man he’s replaced his true self – Travis Kenton – with; Nathan Roarke, one of the wealthiest, most ruthless, powerful men in the human trafficking underground. He may have had to spend years tearing at the foundation brick by fucking brick, but this world is finally coming down.

  Nathan just hopes it doesn’t take much longer. Not just for himself, but for the slaves too. He has to bring this thing down so Bryce can go back to being Bryce. So all the others can be themselves again too.

  He has to bring this thing to an end before he loses the final shreds of his own true identity – of Travis – that he’s managed to hold on to.

  ◆◆◆

  It’s late, nearly 3 in the morning, when Nathan’s phone begins to play the opening chords of Stairway to Heaven. He jerks awake. There’s only one number with that as the ringtone, all others set to some generic shit instead. The number calling him is for emergencies only. To be receiving a call from it means that shit has hit the fucking fan.

  To receive a call from it means life or death.

  Nathan’s hand trembles as he hurries to get the phone to his ear. “Maison?”

  “Travis,” his best friend, and operation commander, says in a thick, shaky voice that’s so unlike him Nathan briefly wonders if he’s dreaming. “Trav, they – fuck, man. They fucking took him. They to
ok him!”

  “Who? Who took who?”

  “They fucking – I don’t even - some – some son of a bitch fucking took Carter!”

  Sitting up, Nathan tries to understand exactly what’s going on. There’s a chance he’s still half-asleep because the information is not computing. Carter is Maison’s little brother, but Nathan has no idea what that has to do with anything.

  “Back up, buddy. You’ve lost me.”

  “Someone from your fucking world took Carter!” Maison shouts. Nathan tries not to flinch too hard at the comment about this being his world. He knows Maison is just upset right now. “Someone I don’t even fucking know. I – some shithead named Quinton?”

  Nathan slides off the bed, realizing just how big this is. “Quinton. Okay. I know him. He’s part of the European markets. He – you’re saying he took Carter? That’s what you’re saying?”

  “Yes!”

  “Just – okay. I’m not understanding, you’re saying that Quinton just… took Carter? Like by coincidence, Quinton took your brother?”

  “Not fucking coincidence. He found out who I am.”

  This is when the world screeches to a halt. Up until now, everyone in the underground knew that a small elite group of Americans were trying to track down traffickers. They also knew the leader of this group. A man named Mathew Davis. Maison Beckett’s cover.

  Now Maison is saying that Scott Quinton has discovered that Mathew Davis is Maison Beckett.

  Which means Scott Quinton figured out that Carter Beckett is Maison Beckett’s little brother. The enemy’s greatest weakness.

  Shit.

  Nathan takes a slow, deep breath. This could end their operation if mishandled. This could also end Carter’s life. Maison has gone off the deep end, which is fucking understandable, but Nathan can’t do the same. He has to be the rational one here. He needs to step up to the plate for his commander and be the man to think clearly right now. Nathan has to keep his shit together.

  First things first, “How did you find out he’s gone?”

  “I got a fucking email from the bastard. To my regular email. Can you believe that shit? He just sent it. Plain as day. Right there with my fucking junk mail! I didn’t even fucking know Carter was missing. How long has he been missing? They sent the email just now but who knows how long they’ve had him! They – I didn’t – I can’t-”

  “Focus, Mais. Stay with me. What did the email say?”

  “It’s – it’s fucking pictures, man. They sent me pictures of him. So many – just – just all of these fucking pictures.”

  Nathan closes his eyes. He can only imagine what those pictures must be like. “Forget the pictures right now, Maison. What else did the email say?”

  There’s an awful pause. Then, “We win.”

  “They haven’t won. They won’t. We aren’t going to let them.”

  “They took Carter!” Maison yells, quickly nearing hysterics. “They took my baby brother from me!”

  “And I’ll get him back,” Nathan promises, even though that’s not a promise he should be making. “I’ll fucking get him back, Mais. I swear to you. On my fucking life, I swear to you that I’ll get Carter back.”

  There’s a long pause, punctuated by a hitched breath. “Find him, Travis. I need you to find him.”

  Nathan nods. “I’ll call you when I do.”

  ◆◆◆

  It turns out that Nathan doesn’t have to look far. Scott Quinton was the man who stumbled upon a trail that led him to Maison Beckett – and therefore to Carter Beckett – but he’s not one of the men Maison is after. Quinton is the premier seller of humans in the European markets. That means he’s not even in Maison’s top 10. As far as Maison’s operation is concerned, Quinton is Europe’s problem. He’s barely on Maison’s radar. Would Maison have recognized him if he was calm and Nathan had jogged his memory? Yes. But it would be a vague recognition. A name that had been tossed around on the sidelines. Nothing more.

  Quinton taking Carter wasn’t personal. It was beneficial. This means he’s not keeping him as a trophy.

  He’s going to sell the boy to Maison’s enemies.

  There’s an email waiting for Nathan the moment he opens his secure account.

  From Scott Quinton.

  Subject line: We Win.

  A long list of men Nathan rubs elbows with regularly also received the email. Quinton knows he’s going to make a fucking fortune off of this poor young man. He’s spreading the news far and wide in celebration, starting the email off with the information he recently discovered and the identity of the boy they would see pictures of below.

  This was always the risk Maison ran. He knew it. They all knew it. The point of the operation was to be stealthy, which meant Maison needed to be a loud, easy target for everyone to focus on. What better way to keep the true threat a secret than by presenting a false one loud and fucking clear right before their eyes? No one would ever suspect the man shaking hands and laughing over scotch with them, not when Maison is out there making his cause known. But that was when Maison was Mathew Davis. Mathew Davis, who had no family. Mathew Davis, who had no ties to anyone. Mathew Davis, who had no weak spots.

  Mathew Davis, who had no baby brother he sees as his entire world.

  But now they’ve found out his true identity.

  They’ve found his baby brother.

  Nathan would never say it, especially at a time like this, but this exact situation is why men like Maison shouldn’t be involved in such operations. Only true ghosts like Nathan can really slip into the world of pretend. As Travis Kenton, Nathan was a nobody with no family, no friends, no social ties, and no weak spots. He didn’t even have a home. The CIA snatched him up just weeks after his Army basic training, told him about a great opportunity where he’d make more money and have less rules, and offered him a new identity. A new life. He became Nathan Roarke on a windy fall morning while standing in the basement of an abandoned building in Langley, Virginia. And it was easy to make the transition. Travis was nothing. Nathan was nothing too.

  Then they began to build Nathan from scratch.

  They began to build him into the man he is today.

  They began to build him into the man who gets emails like the one on his phone screen now.

  Nathan forces himself to look at the pictures. Every single picture. Not just out of solidarity for what Maison has seen, but also because the Nathan persona he has created, the monster he has become, would look at them. The last thing he needs is one of his acquaintances making a comment about how pretty the boy looked in this or that shot and be caught off guard.

  It also has the added benefit of being able to see what the boy has gone through. Carter isn’t going to come with a checklist when Nathan buys him. There won’t be a list of injuries and health issues. Nathan needs the clearest picture possible of what Carter has endured if he has any hope of taking care of him once he has him.

  The pictures go in order.

  Carter still in street clothes, lying in a trunk, wrists bound behind his back with zip ties, his eyes closed, his mouth slack, the poor boy probably drugged out of his mind.

  Carter stripped naked, crammed tight into a wooden crate, his body bound in an impossible position.

  Carter standing in a crude mockery of a shower room, trying to hide his genitals as a man off to the left laughs at him.

  Carter in the same room, this time with his hands chained above his head, his genitals on full display.

  Carter’s face up close, blue eyes red-rimmed and glassy, cheeks smeared with tears, fiery defiance in his gaze as he glares at the camera.

  According to the email, Carter just arrived at the place where he will be held until the auction. There’s a promise for more pictures to come, as well as a To Be Announced as far as the date, time, and location of the auction is concerned.

  Nathan has never been a patient man, but there’s only one thing he can do.

  He waits.

  ◆◆◆
/>
  1 hour and 28 minutes later, another email arrives. It’s a picture of Carter in a cell packed with at least a dozen other future slaves.

  The caption reads: Home Sweet Home.

  ◆◆◆

  “I don’t like it,” Nathan says for the third time. He’s sitting on his bed with his back against the headboard, nursing an expensive bottle of scotch. “I don’t want to do that.”

  “You think I want this?” Maison growls in return. “You think I like the idea of my baby brother being terrified and victimized for who knows how long?”

  “Then,” Nathan says through gritted teeth. “Let. Me. Tell. Him.”

  “It’s out of my fucking hands! Director says no. He says no fucking way.”

  “Then tell the fucking director that I say no fucking way.”

  There’s a long pause. Then, in a choked voice, “Are you saying you won’t buy him?”

  “What?” Nathan sits up, his heart beating faster. “Of course not. No, Maison. Of course, I’m going to buy him. I’m saying that I won’t lie to him. I’m telling him as soon as he’s safe with me.”

  Another long pause.

  “He’s a shit liar, Nate, and an even worse actor. Kid practically ruined his high school’s production of Romeo and Juliet. It was cringe worthy.” He sighs. “I can’t… fuck, man. I can’t fully argue with the director on this. I’m not sure if Carter could handle the truth.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “What happens if we tell him the truth and he begs to go free? What happens when he starts to freak the fuck out and demands you let him go? Or what happens when he makes a mistake? When he slips and calls you Travis? Hell, even if he called you Nathan in front of people, you’d have to punish him harshly or they’d know something is up. He can’t use your name. He’s a slave. He has to play the part of the slave. Can you guarantee that Carter will be able to successfully switch between slave and Carter whenever necessary? Even though you’ve admitted to having trouble yourself juggling your Nathan persona with your identity as Travis? Can you guarantee that when he’s exhausted or hurting or in pain or whatever else he ends up feeling in moments when you’re doing things to him in front of your men that he won’t slip up? Even if he knew the truth, he’d still be getting traumatized every once in a while, because you have to use him in front of your men in order to keep from raising suspicion. You know even better than I do that when someone is traumatized, especially sexually assaulted like that, their minds tend to disconnect. What happens when he loses himself and calls you the wrong name, or begs you to stop in a way that isn’t slave-like, or does or says something else that gives everything away?”