by Pam Godwin
Contents
Copyright
Disclaimer
Unshackle
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Dominate
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
Complicate
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
Other Books by Pam Godwin
Knotted Chapter 1
Other Books by Pam Godwin
About Pam Godwin
INTO TEMPTATION - BOX SET
Unshackle (Book 7)
Dominate (Book 8)
Complicate (Book 9)
Copyright © 2021 by Pam Godwin
All rights reserved.
Cover Designer: Hang Le
Interior Designer: Pam Godwin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review or article, without written permission from the author.
Visit my website at pamgodwin.com
If you haven’t read the previous books, STOP!
The books in the DELIVER series are standalones.
Each book is a different couple,
but they should be read in order.
WARNING if you haven’t read the TANGLED LIES trilogy.
The main character from TANGLED LIES crosses over to this series.
You don’t have to read TANGLED LIES, but if you want to read it, do so before reading this book.
ONE IS A PROMISE (book 1) is free on all retailers.
RECOMMENDED READING ORDER
One is a Promise-FREE
Two is a Lie
Three is a War
DELIVER US - BOX SET
DELIVER (#1)
VANQUISH (#2)
DISCLAIM (#3)
FROM EVIL - BOX SET
DEVASTATE (#4)
TAKE (#5)
MANIPULATE (#6)
INTO TEMPTATION - BOX SET
UNSHACKLE (#7)
DOMINATE (#8)
COMPLICATE (#9)
A man with soulless eyes shoved a hood over Luke Sanch’s head, blocking out the private airplane hangar and spiking his heart rate. The stifling fabric allowed in no light. Just pitch goddamn darkness.
He was officially past the point of no return.
One could argue he’d passed that point the night he woke in Van Quiso’s attic, naked and shackled. But unlike that brutal, defining moment, he’d put himself in this situation willingly.
The hood had been expected. What would follow, however, was anyone’s guess.
Beside him, his roommate and close friend, Tomas Dine, received the same treatment. They’d worked numerous jobs together, alongside their vigilante team. Jobs that put them neck and neck with vile human sex traffickers. This operation was no different.
Except this time, he and Tomas were going in alone.
The tread of soft-soled shoes approached from behind, circled ominously, and paused a few inches before Luke.
“Welcome, John Smith.” The man’s voice drawled beneath the weight of a nasally Latino accent. “Your luggage has been searched and transferred. I trust you had no complications during your travels?”
The flight had been over-the-top luxurious—one of the perks of having a Colombian cartel jefe on their vigilante team. Matias Restrepo was funding this entire operation, which included flying Luke and Tomas on an untraceable private jet from Mexico to this hangar outside Orange County, California.
To meet with La Rocha Cartel.
The most aggressive, most organized, most violent cartel in existence.
Sharing the same air with these men made Luke’s knees twitch, threatening to weaken his stance. Saliva gathered in his mouth. He felt sick. Surrounded. Overpowered. Horrifyingly out of his league.
Whether these homicidal terrorists bought his story or intended to kill him was yet to be determined. Survival depended on his ability to maintain his carefully crafted ruse over the next few days or weeks.
“The flight was adequate.” He slipped the tips of his fingers into the pockets of his designer suit pants. “And you are?”
“I’m John Smith,” the voice deadpanned. “My colleague here… He’s John Smith, too. As are the men at your back, who are currently aiming high-caliber guns at you and your bodyguard.”
Funny guy. A blade in the motherfucker’s gullet would be funnier. And oh-so-satisfying. His hands clenched.
Finesse, Luke. Find it and wield it. Don’t be a moron.
Posing as his bodyguard, Tomas didn’t make a sound. The hoods provided a reprieve, hiding involuntary facial tics. They’d been trained for covert operations by Cole Hartman, a retired military, secret agent, whatever-he-was operative. But weeks of lessons hadn’t miraculously turned them into seasoned professionals.
Where they lacked undercover experience, they made up for in vicious determination. Or was it stubborn recklessness?
Or just plain stupidity?
“I expect nothing less.” Luke injected a cocky smile into his voice. “I followed your instructions. We’re unarmed, and all electronic devices were left behind.”
No bugs or tracers. No way for his team to track his movements beyond this hangar. His neck tightened with unease.
“We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Smith,” the man said. “And you’ll understand the necessity of being searched before we depart.”
“Make it quick.” Luke grunted. “And mind the suit. It’s worth more than the lives of your men.”
Arrogance. That was one of the character traits he donned as John Smith. Along with greed, cruelty, and a few other unsavory qualities that would befit the sort of man who shopped for sex in the slave trade.
Several hands fell upon him, thoroughly patting down every inch of his fit frame. They untucked his shirt, dug around in his pants, and lifted his nuts to prod beneath.
Fucking hell. He gritted his teeth as fingers breached the crack of his ass. Then they moved on to his
socks, shoes, and other less invasive areas. A growling sound beside him indicated Tomas underwent a similar body search.
That done, they were led to a waiting car. He straightened his suit, blindly ducked into an air-conditioned cabin, and slid across leather seats.
“Right behind you, sir,” Tomas said, confirming they hadn’t been separated.
The doors shut, and the vehicle rolled into motion.
Stretching out, Luke felt his way around the configuration of seats. A limousine.
No surprise. He was masquerading as a powerful businessman with the wealth of Bill Gates and the ethics of Lucifer. The cartel wanted his business, his money, and would wine and dine him until he splurged on their product.
He would have his pick of any of their high-priced, stolen girls.
“The hoods remain on until we arrive. Protocol, you understand.” The man from the hangar spoke from an adjacent seat, his accent unnervingly cultured for a cutthroat cartel gangster. “To offset the inconvenience, I have something to make the ride more enjoyable. This one’s on the house.”
Luke tensed as someone shifted across from him. Body heat brushed his legs. Small hands molded around his knees and traveled up his thighs. Female hands.
He cringed beneath the hood. God only knew how old she was. Or how willing.
Going undercover for this job meant he would have to do things that violated his moral principles. Vile things, like forcing his dick inside girls who weren’t in a position to consent.
He wasn’t here to rescue them. Not directly. His assignment was to locate Vera Gomez, glean her involvement in the human trafficking syndicate, and finish the job that his roommates, Martin and Ricky, had started during their undercover stint in Jaulaso Prison.
His friends hadn’t failed in Jaulaso. They’d just, rather unexpectedly, fallen in love with Hector La Rocha’s daughter, Tula Gomez.
Tula’s intel on the cartel was marginal at best. Hector hadn’t fully trusted her with his secrets, and rightfully so. In the end, she’d killed the cartel capo and passed along everything she’d learned about the trafficking operation in his cartel.
She wanted to find Vera, her missing half-sister. Luke wanted to take down her father’s operation and annihilate everyone involved. If the sister wasn’t as innocent as Tula adamantly claimed, he didn’t know if he could keep his promise to show mercy.
The female hands, now sliding over his groin, could very well belong to the missing sister. A sick part of him hoped for that. He’d memorized her face in the old pictures Tula had provided.
Vera’s photographic beauty attached itself to the fingers currently stroking Luke’s hardening cock. He strained against the fabric of his trousers, cursing the confinement but also grateful for it.
Hector La Rocha’s dying confession had painted Vera as the enemy. Add to that her track record with the cartel, and Luke had a good idea about what he was dealing with.
Beneath the hood, he closed his eyes and gripped the slender arms on his lap, ruthlessly squeezing the delicate bones. “I don’t fuck what I can’t see.”
“I assure you,” his cartel escort growled, “she’s every man’s fantasy.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He shoved her away.
“Very well.”
A tense moment passed, coiling with the hum of tires on pavement. Their destination might have only been five minutes from the hangar, but he wouldn’t put it past the cartel to drive around for an hour to safeguard the compound’s location.
Without warning, a small body straddled his lap and lifted the hood to his forehead. His vision filled with a flash of Tomas’ leg beside him, the opulent interior of the limo, and the girl’s face an inch away from his own.
Not Vera. But no less gorgeous. Christ, her eyes alone made his skin heat and shiver. Huge, gray, and feathered with thick lashes, they blinked at him with gut-hardening vacancy. Innocence. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen.
A seductive, practiced smile stole across her features but didn’t touch her gaze. Not even a little. She was probably drugged. And brainwashed.
Holding the hood to his brow, she reached between them and unbuckled his belt.
Most trafficked victims came from homes with little supervision and even less love. A distinguished, wealthy stranger could saunter into an impoverished town and lure neglected teenagers with a silver tongue and mouthful of lies. Promises of a new home, money, loving attention, education, and above all, passage to the United States turned desperate kids into easy prey.
Luke would know. Eight years ago, he’d been one of them. Hard-up, naive, and broke as fuck, he’d fallen right into Van Quiso’s trap.
It had been eight years since his life irrevocably changed. Nine years for Tomas. Even longer for Ricky and Camila. In total, they were nine ex-slaves, collected one by one, sexually trained, abused, and united in misery.
Luke was damn proud of what they’d become. Vigilantes. Freedom fighters. An inseparable family. The only family he had, and he would take a bullet for every single one of them.
Beyond the tinted windows, luxurious estates dominated the Orange County landscape. The limo headed east, away from the coastline and commercial clusters.
Canting his head, he locked onto the man sitting across from him.
“Is she too cooperative for you?” Dark aura and oily eyes—the desperado scowled at Luke’s grip on the girl’s arms. “You like them to fight? Is that it?”
“I forwarded my specifications.” Luke pushed her away. “You know what I want.”
She returned to her seat without argument, and the hood fell back in place, blinding him. On instinct, he reached up to lift it.
“Leave it.” The man clucked his tongue. “When we arrive, you’ll be pleased with the selection. We have exactly what you requested.”
Early twenties, brown eyes, black hair, slender build, golden complexion. Luke didn’t have a type, but those were the attributes that had been sent to the cartel because they matched Vera Gomez.
Best case, she was enslaved at the compound and available for purchase. He would buy her and get her the hell out of there.
But he was prepared for the worst.
Unbeknown to the cartel, Van Quiso had made this meeting possible. Van, the notorious slave trader from Texas. Van, the dead man who had been shot by his partner, Liv Reed, six years ago.
Only those connected to the Freedom Fighters knew he’d survived. Over the past month, Van had dug up some connections from his old trafficking life and reinserted himself into the underground network as an interested buyer named John Smith.
Within days, La Rocha Cartel had taken the bait.
They’d vetted and trusted the information Van fed them. And why not? Van had contacts that could only be obtained by powerful, scum-sucking rapists.
Because Van had been one of them.
He’d done a lot of atoning since then. Enough to make him seem almost… Empathetic? Accountable? Human.
It was strange to admit—no one ever said it aloud—but Van had become a trusted friend among them. A Freedom Fighter. Family.
The bastard was still a cocky prick. But Luke no longer held a grudge for the unspeakable weeks he’d been raped and tortured as Van’s captive. If he were honest, Van had done him a favor.
Luke had a purpose now, a reason to fight. Many reasons. He had friends who cared about him. Because of Van, he’d escaped a lonely, meaningless, dead-end life.
Because of Van—and the obscene down payment wired to the cartel—he was on this blindfolded ride to an unknown destination, where he would be expected to sample the merchandise and purchase a stolen girl.
For a wealthy, sexually depraved monster, it was a dream vacation.
For Luke, it was a chance to exact justice.
Silence thrummed for nearly an hour. The hood eliminated eye contact and the awkward need to make conversation, but the tension mounted. It was coming from him, knotting in his shoulders and making every s
econd unbearable. Reality setting in.
He was on his way to La Rocha Cartel’s secret compound. Without a weapon. Without a tactical team of Delta operatives. Without federal agents who did this shit for a living. It was just him and Tomas, working outside the boundaries of the law.
If they succeeded, Hector La Rocha’s four sons and their despicable operation would be eliminated. Vera would be returned to her sister, and countless slaves would be freed.
If they failed, he and Tomas would be gutted, dismembered, and never seen or heard from again.
You volunteered for this. Trained for it. You know what you’re doing.
It wasn’t working. His heart refused to abandon its frantic sprint around his ribcage.
Eventually, the limo slowed, motoring in stops and starts, presumably through gated entrances manned by armed guards. Then the engine shut off.
“Have a look, Mr. Smith.” His escort shifted, creaking the seats as the doors opened.
Luke dragged off the hood and caught Tomas’ expressionless stare before turning his attention beyond the windows.
Parked in a massive, extravagantly landscaped courtyard, they were surrounded by opulence and money. A lot of fucking money.
Stone archways and monolith columns supported red-tile roofs that stretched between Mediterranean-style buildings. The compound formed a sprawling, symmetrical circle around him. A towering, open-air fortress, broken up by breezeways and multilevel turrets to create individual living spaces with wrought-iron balconies and stucco exteriors.
The travertine driveway snaked through a portico and curved out of sight. Patterned pavers drew walkways in every direction, leading under covered arches to smaller courtyards, lush gardens, fountains, and pools.
Less conspicuous, but no less excessive, was the security detail. Cameras and guards covered every corner and entry point. Weapons weren’t in view, but they were there, hidden under oversize jackets. Anything else would’ve made guests uncomfortable.
This was a resort designed to entertain depravity. A compound built on indulgence and the blood of innocents.
The limo emptied, leaving him to exit last. The unforgiving California heat baked into his black suit as he stepped out and joined Tomas. His gaze landed on the row of cars in the courtyard.
