Twisted (A Zeta Cartel Novel Book 5)

by AJ Adams

  Words hurt and I knew what had driven the Zeta wild before. "You're a loser. Everyone knows it. A scum bucket nobody."

  Repeating Kowalczyk's insults pushed buttons, all right. He stilled and there was a muscle going in his jaw. "I swore I'd make you scream." The rage had gone stellar because this was a whisper.

  "I'm in tears already – laughing at your needle dick, loser!"

  He hissed in fury. Then, reaching for the top button of his shirt, "Right, you fucking asked for it."

  I'd known it all along. But if he thought rape scared me, he had a surprise coming. "Think you're scaring me with that meat slinky? That's a laugh." I tugged at the cuffs, trying to break my way out. The headboard creaked but didn't give an inch. "Go on," I taunted him. "Dick-flop."

  "I'll make you pay for that." The shirt came off, revealing a ripped torso. The trousers followed, confirming what I'd learned in the car when he'd dragged me across him. The man was harder than steel.

  His cock certainly was. As the boxers fell to the floor, it stood up like a heat-seeking missile. He was back in the bedside drawer, digging out a condom. "I don't want to catch anything."

  "Fuck you!"

  "That's the plan." He got onto the bed, settling between my knees. The pillow was under my hips, pushing up my pelvis and giving him more space. He put his hands under me, holding me up, oozing evil. "Ready?"

  "Go on, see if I care." I wasn't giving an inch. Thanks to Rick, Kowalczyk, and God know how many other bastards, I'd been there, done that and gotten a walk-in wardrobe's worth of t-shirts. "What are you waiting for? Hurry up and stick it in already."

  For a moment I thought he'd punch me. He was possessed with fury, so steaming angry that he could hardly breathe. His hands curled into fists, I held my breath, convinced he'd thump me in the face but then he swallowed, visibly forcing himself back from the brink.

  The muscles rippled menacingly. "Right." He took a deep breath. "Nice and slow." The black eyes flamed. "I want to enjoy myself."

  The cuffs were keeping me stretched out and helpless. I tried to clench, to stop him, but that hot tip leaned against me, seeking a way in.

  "Wanker! Bastard! Fucker!"

  The ripped abs flexed as he rocked his hips. He smelled of leather and rum. He wasn't calling me names, either. Or pinching me, even. A stray wild thought flashed through me: still better than Kowalczyk.

  He leaned over me, his body heat searing my skin. He grinned, white teeth flashing. "You like it rough, don't you, fresa?" Then, to my fury, he clicked his tongue. "Come on, girl, give me a good ride."

  Models work out every day of their lives so they're limber. I tensed, bucked my hips and when he shifted forward, intending to slide into me, I lifted my head and bit.

  "Bruja mala leche!" He was crushing me with all of his weight. "Goddamn bitch!"

  He was about to whack me but I didn't care; I could taste blood.

  "Joder!" A hand in my hair meant I had to let go. Blood was running down his shoulder but he wasn't giving up. He held me down and continued fucking me. "Not laughing now, are you?"

  If he thought I would fall to pieces, he was in for a disappointment. I twisted but my teeth missed his wrist by an inch. "Bastard!"

  The hand was back in my hair, keeping me anchored. I was helpless, and he knew it. True to his promise, he was riding me. Hips flexing, he kept me in place as he fucked me. He was taking his time, too, screwing me slowly and relentlessly.

  Thank God it didn't hurt. I was furious, and my arse still hurt from the belting, but I could live with it. Except, he was laughing at me. "Still too good for me, fresa?"

  "Is it in yet?"

  For a moment he paused, dead shocked. "What did you say?"

  "I'm talking about that one inch terror." My head was screaming to shut up but my mouth was on automatic. "I can't tell if it's in."

  "I will kill you." He was talking to himself more than me. He was beyond fury, I was inches away from death.

  We stared at each other, his black eyes loaded with vengeance as the muscles flexed against me. One fist and I would have broken bones. I wanted to scream, to beg for mercy, but I couldn't. All I could do was stare back.

  It lasted an eon, and then he clicked his tongue again. "Sale, vamos!" and picked up the pace.

  There was nothing I could do to stop him. The hard body hovered over mine, hot and then damp as he ground his hips against mine.

  I knew how to deal with him. I shut my eyes, willing myself away. A runway filled with models. Music blaring. Lights flashing. Persia York, Designer. Success.

  As my mind floated in fantasy, my body was doing its own thing - and the treacherous bitch was getting turned on. I came back, aware of telltale tightening and focussing.

  "That's it." He was all over me, moisture rolling off his skin onto mine. Hot leather and sweet rum scents swirled, enveloping me. There was a slickness and a build-up of heavenly, shivering ripples gripping that rampant, unforgiving rod driving into me. "Sale, fresa!"

  His arms slid underneath me as he pulled me in close. His balls were slapping into me, the heavenly hardness fuelling the ripples. He was groaning in my ear, muscled arms embracing me with fierce passion as he pierced me.

  I wasn't having it.

  "Coño!"

  Hot damp skin between my teeth and the salty taste of sweat and blood. I bit for all I was worth.

  "Goddamn bitch!" He tore himself away and leaned over me, exploding in staccato slamming thrusts of climax. As the bed creaked and bounced, he was pouring himself into me and swearing in equal measure. "Zorra!"

  Scenting weakness, I bucked again.

  "Fuck!" He lost his balance, I went in for another chomp and as he slammed down his hands and broke right in an effort to avoid my teeth, there was an ominous crack.

  Tortured by too much action, the headboard came away from the frame. The bed shuddered and then we were falling, spilling to the floor.

  "Shit!"

  "Joder!"

  We tumbled together, falling in a tangle of limbs and crashing into the cupboard. The chain ripped loose, and the gun fell right on my hand. It then bounced off, but when I reached for it, it slid into place, the roughened grip offering comfort and security.

  I heaved again, knocking him off me. "Get away from me."

  "I'll beat the hell out of you for this." He didn't even know I had his gun. He was on his knees, touching the bite wounds on his neck and arm. "Jesus, you're a goddamn Rottweiler."

  "Move away or I'll shoot you."

  He looked up, his eyes widened. "What the fuck?"

  "I'm not kidding. I'll put a bullet right through your heart."

  I had all the aces, or at least so I thought. But Jorge Santos was completely utterly insane.

  He just went for it.

  One second I had the gun, the next he was on top of me, snarling, "Give that to me!"

  "No!"

  We struggled and then there was a bang. "Fuck!" Jorge was reeling back, hand clasped to his shoulder. "You shot me!"

  "And I'm not sorry."

  But the brave words were let down by limp fingers. He simply snatched the gun out of my hand. "Pinche puta!"

  Suddenly convinced he'd beat me, I went for him first. "I'll kill you!"

  I kicked him, right in the balls.

  He was white, moaning, "Hija de puta" but amazingly, he kept coming. A cunning flip put me on the floor and before I could get it together, he was lifting me up and dragging me across the room. "Zorra!"

  A brief glimpse of a wooden door and the inside of a deep closet. I didn't even have time to take a breath before he picked me up and tossed me inside. The door slammed, and a key clicked in the lock.

  I was alone and locked in the dark.

  Chapter Five

  Jorge

  "That pinche puta." I was in my bathroom, trying to stem the blood that was pouring out of my arm. It was a flesh wound, just an inch-long groove, but it was high up, which made it a bitch to clean. Luckily, I'm a b
oy scout, and so I had plenty of antiseptic, butterfly stitches and antibiotics.

  Apart from everything else, my aching balls throbbed. The bitch had almost gelded me. Every tiny move sent shocks of pain washing through me. Not even a double dose of painkillers was taking the edge off.

  Once I'd dealt with the wound, it took more antiseptic and another twenty minutes to clean the gashes on my neck, chest and other arm. As I dabbed and swabbed, I cursed a blue streak. The bitch had tried her damndest to gnaw down to the bone. For grit and determination, she rivalled Pitbulls.

  The bites bled as well, so by the time I fixed myself up, the bathroom looked like a slaughterhouse. When I finally finished cleaning up the gorefest, it was nearly two in the morning.

  I intended to hit the sack, forgetting we'd trashed that, too. "Holy fucking hell!" The bed had come apart, probably because it was a cheap piece of crap.

  The building came with marble halls, good hardwood floors and fancy bathroom and kitchen fittings but the deal hadn't included actual furniture, so I'd ordered sets from a catalogue and not bothered when it wasn't exactly top notch.

  Now I was regretting it. As I didn't want to spend the night on the sofa, I spent an hour putting the bed back together. By the time I hit the hay it was past three.

  Could I sleep? No. I tossed and turned, too wound up to shut my eyes. As I lay there, cursing again, I couldn't help but consider that my evening had not gone as planned.

  I'd set the whole thing up carefully, from the shock of the snatch, right down to the slow and painful belting. I'd expected the stuck up fresa to fall apart, but instead of weeping and begging, the hard-nosed bitch had fought me tooth and nail. Especially tooth.

  Failure.

  I couldn't stop the thought from rushing in. It had started well enough; I thought I'd seen fear in her eyes, but she'd shown her true colours the second she saw I wouldn't let her off. The belting that should have reduced her to frightened submission had backfired spectacularly. Instead of her screaming for mercy, she'd called me out, daring me to take her. Hurry up and stick it in already.

  Fuck!

  I settled in the dark, feeling like shit. I'd meant to have her chained next to me all night, intending to maximise her humiliation and helplessness, but now I knew trying it would have ended in me being savaged.

  I turned on my side, agony rippling from my balls and wincing at the pain in my shoulder. I'd been shot six times in ten years but never by a woman. A cuffed and helpless one, for fuck's sake! As for being booted in the nuts, that was an unwelcome first too.

  The goddamn bitch!

  She was a devil from the darkest hell. Even now the silence from the wardrobe was taunting me. She should have been crying, wailing to be let out, but that mouthy loba was probably ripping up my shirts and peeing in my shoes.

  I swear I was on my feet, about to let her out, when it struck to me that there was no way I could get her without looking like a weak-minded pendejo.

  "I'm in charge. She's the fucking victim." The words floated out and then I was hiding my face in the pillow. "Mierda! What if she heard me?"

  It was not a good night, and the next morning didn't start off too hot, either.

  "Same shirt and suit as yesterday," James noted. "Big night?"

  I wasn't going to tell him my clothes were being held hostage by a vicious bitch.

  "Whoever she was, she kept you busy," James grinned. "You look shattered, Jorge."

  "It must have been a wild night," Paco joked. "You've got a massive bruise on your neck."

  Their banter put me on the defensive and so I ignored them and got straight down to business. "We've started by fucking with Kowalczyk's head, taking out his limo, his yacht and screwing up his precious club." I was dying to take it to the next level. "What have you learned about his organisation? I want an update."

  "Kowalczyk is a hands-off boss," Lencho reported. "He oversees his territory but the main work is done by his distribution manager, Serge Baros. He and his team of sicarios meet their dealers once a week, distributing product and collecting funds."

  "Great. How big is the network?"

  "The bulk of his employees are teenagers. He's got about fifty." Lencho handed me a report. "We intercepted three and took inventories. We calculate he's making five figures a day from the kids."

  The list was impressive: ecstasy, dope, smack and speed as well as Dexedrine, Rohypnol and some fancy designer LSD. "Did you teach them a lesson?"

  "We put one in hospital, he was eighteen, but the other two were thirteen," Paco shrugged. "We gave them a couple of slaps to warn them off."

  "If they're old enough to deal, they're old enough for a beating." But I didn't mean it. Kids need to find their way and you don't want to take off the edge by too strong a message. They'll find out life's hard soon enough.

  There was a moment's silence and then Paco nodded, "Okay."

  It riled me. I got that he didn't really agree, and that he wouldn't beat a kid, I mean, who the fuck would? But he should have known I was being a pendejo and kept quiet out of respect.

  But I quelled my irritation and got on with what really mattered. "And the major dealers? The ones who work with his exclusive clientele?"

  "There are three." Paco handed me another list. "They're a different proposition. Adult, organised and with their own fiefs in Kowalczyk's plaza. We're talking six figures a week. All their details are here."

  I contemplated our position. I wanted to take Kowalczyk's business, not destroy it. "Baros, the sicarios and the three dealers are players and will have to go. Identify the teen network. I want names, addressed and every other detail. We'll need them once we take over. But our first move is to hit Kowalczyk's pipeline."

  There were nods all round. This was classic strategy.

  "His source is in Poland," Lencho said. "His people fly out every Thursday to collect it. They come home by private plane, landing in either London City."

  "Airport security is a bitch," James mused. "We'd have to take out police and special security forces."

  "We don't want that kind of attention," I told him. "Where does he stash his inventory?"

  "In a Canary Wharf warehouse, right over there," Lencho grinned as he pointed out the window.

  "Right, let's cut off his supply." I paused for effect, thoroughly enjoying myself. Then I went to my computer and punched a sixteen-digit number into Google.

  Within seconds, a voice echoed around the room. "Jorge Santos?"

  It was a woman's voice, and it came from my desk speakers. I had to say, it rocked me. "Yes, uhm -"

  "Nice love bite, Jorge," she sounded amused. "Now, what can we do for you?"

  Without thinking about it, I touched my neck. "How?"

  On cue, a Manga girl danced across my desktop, blowing me a kiss. "We're hooked into your PC."

  Yes, she was definitely laughing. And somehow, she'd hacked into my computer and turned on the camera. Another damn woman getting one over on me.

  "Dragon's in the middle of an epic chess battle, so he can't talk," she informed me cheerily. "I'm Pandora. Now, can we get down to business?"

  She rubbed me the wrong way, so I was snappy. "I want a plane grounded in Poland this Thursday and the consignment on board confiscated by the authorities."

  There was a five second silence. "That would be Jacek Kowalczyk's weekly delivery?"

  I wasn't even going to ask how she knew. "Yes."

  "It will cost you a hundred thou."

  Cheap at the price. "Great. Where do I send the money?"

  "Hang on, Dragon's pawn just checked the queen. No, it's checkmate. Awesome!" After a ten second silence. "Dragon is taking it out of your Caymans account now."

  Holy fuck! I'd heard stories, but this was beyond my wildest imagination. That bank was supposed to be secure. Still, I kept my cool. "How about he takes half a mil and stops all Kowalczyk's consignments leaving Poland for a month?"

  Another pause. "Agreed. Nice doing business with you."


  As I checked she was truly gone, the others were staring.

  "Dragon?" James asked wide-eyed. "The genius hacker?"

  "Yeah," I was super cool, but I was blessing Arturo for having the foresight to gift me with this contact information. "If you want the job done, hire the best."

  "Joder, I thought he was a myth," Paco sighed. "I mean, they say he can take down a government - just by getting on his laptop."

  "All true," I told him. "And for the next month, Dragon will make sure Kowalczyk can't get off the ground."

  "Beautiful," James sighed.

  "But it's expensive," Paco calculated.

  "It's an investment."

  The team nodded. Without product, Kowalczyk had no revenue stream.

  It was a crippling opening move, and I had more in store for him. "Spread the word we're attacking his warehouse in two days' time. While the Polish pendejo is running around trying to fortify his warehouse, we take out Baros, his sicarios and his major dealers."

  "Classic misdirection," Lencho grinned.

  "Exactly," James was all over it, it's his job as my lieutenant to back me up. "I love it."

  "We're shorthanded," Paco noted. "We could hire troops."

  "How about we talk to the Rathkeale Rovers?" Lencho suggested. "We've a truce with them."

  As if I hadn't considered that already. I fought down a flash of irritation. "No, we do this in-house. If the Rovers think we're stretched, they'll call off the truce and try to take us."

  "Right, sorry," Lencho caved instantly. "I wasn't thinking, Jorge."

  Jorge, not boss. I took a breath. "The aim is not to crush Kowalczyk outright -"

  "Because we can't," Paco sighed.

  I gritted my teeth. "This war will be different," I informed them. "We don't go in all guns blazing. We're doing this inch by inch."

  I brought out my map. "This is our current plaza, and this is Kowalczyk's. Our territories lie side by side and so we're going to invade street by street."

  "Inch by inch," James smiled. "That's like a hundred meters on the map."

  "Can we do it that way?" Paco worried. "Even with money problems and some dealers gone, he's still bigger than us."