by Pam Godwin
Cole narrowed his eyes at him.
“What?” He straightened. “It could be worse, right? At least she’s not chained in a dog kennel on the other side of the world.” At Cole’s silence, Tate set his jaw. “Tell me she’s not in a dog kennel.”
“She’s not.”
Returning to the laptop, Cole opened a photo of a dingy alley with overflowing dumpsters, laundry on clothes lines, and bars on the windows. Sagging balconies hung from the buildings, and graffiti covered the brick walls.
“I shot this from the second-floor apartment I rented.” He pointed to a battered red door among a dozen others in the picture. “She lives in that one. Alone. In the largest slum in South America.” He glanced at Tate. “In the most dangerous city on the planet.”
“Why?” Tate had so many qualifiers for that question, he didn’t know where to start.
Why was she alone? Why did she live there? Why didn’t she come home? Why hadn’t his other investigators been able to find her? Every cell in his body buzzed with urgency to go to her, to get her the fuck out of that hellhole.
“Why is it the most dangerous city?” Josh asked. “Drugs? Cartel?”
“It’s the most weaponized city with the highest homicide rate. A gun for every two people, and a murder every twenty-one minutes. Street gangs and crime lords are in charge. There’s political corruption and drug trafficking, but those aren’t the only problems.”
“It’s the kidnap capital of the world,” Tate said quietly, recalling a headline he’d read somewhere.
“That’s right.” Cole flipped to a new image—another view of the slum with a huge iron gate dominating one side of the road, surrounded by armed guards in street clothes. “This compound is the main hideout for Tiago Badell, the man Lucia works for.”
“Works for?” His head pounded as every assumption he’d made about her over the years unraveled. Armed guards. Iron gate. Main hideout. “Who the fuck is Tiago Badell?”
“One of the wealthiest crime lords in Venezuela.” Cole met his eyes. “His specialty is kidnapping.”
CHAPTER 3
A chill crept over Tate’s scalp. Aside from Cole, every person in the room had endured their own personal hell at the hands of a kidnapper. As unease vibrated between his friends, he wanted to shelter them from it.
He turned to Liv. “I can take this conversation elsewhere.”
“How does it work?” She asked Cole, ignoring Tate’s concern. “Are they trafficking humans?”
“No. Badell leads a gang that targets tourists, missionaries, Venezuelan middle class, anyone who is too ignorant to avoid Kidnap Alley and not wealthy enough to travel in armored vehicles. He grabs people off the street and gives their families three days to cough up the ransom. If payment isn’t received, the victim is murdered.”
Lucia was part of this? It didn’t make sense. How could she go from being abducted and sold into slavery to working for a man like Tiago Badell?
He was certain he wouldn’t like the answer, but he asked anyway. “What does she do for him?”
“You won’t believe me unless I show you.” Cole clicked on a video file and hovered the mouse over the play button. After a moment of hesitation, he leaned around Tate to speak to Kate. “It’s graphic.”
Tate twisted at the waist to see her face. She’d watched Josh kill her buyer and had spent weeks, bloody and broken, beneath a whip. She didn’t look it, but the girl was tough as hell.
She wrapped a tiny hand around Tate’s bicep, shoulders squared. “I can handle it.”
Cole pushed play.
On the screen, a naked man lay on his back on a concrete floor. Eyes swollen, nose busted, and chest heaving, he jerked against the ropes that restrained him. He was skinny, pale, and hard, his engorged dick pointing heavenward, and he didn’t look happy about it.
Whoever held the camera handed it off to someone else, changing the angle to show at least two other men in the windowless room. The footage stayed below the necks, capturing dust on black boots and blood stains on pants. Assault rifles hung across their torsos, their tattooed fingers resting on the trigger guards.
“Who are they?” Tate asked.
“Badell’s men. And that”—Cole pointed at the screen as a woman walked into view—”is Lucia.”
The camera lowered, keeping her head out of the frame. A tight miniskirt exposed the curves of her perfect figure, and a black bra bared her flat stomach. Her hair was either pulled up or cut short, putting all that satiny, bronze skin on display. Her shoulders, arms, chest…every inch of her was toned, smooth, flawless.
No, not flawless. He leaned closer to the image. “Is that—?”
“A scar.” Cole paused the video and zoomed in on her abdomen. “See how it zigzags like that?” He traced it on the screen, following the jagged white line from the bottom of her breastbone to her hip. “Blunt force trauma. It’s pretty faded. Old.”
“Eleven years old?” He inhaled sharply. “Is it from the crash in Peru?”
“Yes. She barely survived. Badell’s men pulled her out, and his personal doctors saved her. I know there were multiple surgeries because I’ve heard Badell discuss it with her. But the details are unknown. It’s strange, because his doctors keep meticulous medical records on every person they touch, yet there’s no record of her.”
Goosebumps blanketed Tate’s arms. “Why did his men save her?”
“From what I’ve gathered, they happened to be in the area and pillaged the crash site for survivors. Easy targets for ransom. They found her and patched her up just enough to keep her alive, only to discover—”
“She has no living family.” Tate’s chest tightened. “No one to pay his ransom and compensate him for his trouble.” His pulse sped up as everything clicked into place. “Instead of killing her, Badell made her work for him? Since he saved her life, does he think she owes him?”
“It’s more complicated than that.” Cole returned to the laptop. “Watch the video.”
When he un-paused it, Lucia strolled across the screen and straddled the naked man’s torso, facing his feet. The camera operator kept her face out of view, honing in on her hands as she wrapped them around the swollen erection.
A pained wailing sound came from the man, his body bucking beneath her. “No, please. I’m married. I don’t want this.”
She preceded to stroke him. No hesitation. No apparent prodding or force by the others in the room. It was as if she was orchestrating it.
The video panned to a black painted wall, where words had been scratched with chalk.
200,000 bolivars
72 hours
No money, he dies
“Ransom,” Tate breathed, his stomach filled with lead. “This is a kidnapping.”
Cole nodded. “The video was sent to the victim’s wife with a bank account linked to it.”
Tate was about to ask why Lucia was molesting the poor guy, but the camera angle returned to her. She stood over the man now, a pistol in her hand, aimed at his legs.
“No! No!” His high-pitched shouting crackled the speaker. “We’ll pay. Please—”
She squeezed the trigger, and his knee exploded in a splatter of red. The camera jostled, lowering the view to focus on the pooling blood and gruesome injury.
No faces. No voices. Just the man’s yowling screams. Then the video cut off.
“Christ.” Tate leaned back, sick to his stomach.
His friends didn’t move, their faces pale as they stared at the black screen.
“His wife wasn’t able to collect the money in time,” Cole said. “His body was dumped in an alley a mile away from the compound.”
“Did Lucia kill him?” Liv closed a hand around Josh’s bouncing knee, stilling him.
“No. She doesn’t do the kidnapping or the murdering. Her job is to inflict physical and emotional pain. Torture. Sometimes she rapes them. Sometimes she causes non-fatal injuries, like this.” He gestured at the screen. “When the victim is female,
Lucia operates the camera while one of the men puts on the grisly show.”
“How did you get the footage?” Tate asked, his throat dry.
“I dropped a hack on her burner phone and—”
“Don’t you have to have physical access to the device to do that?”
“Juice jacking.” Cole’s eyes lit up. “I tampered with her charging port, turned it into a data connection. When she charged her phone, I copied everything she had on it, including this video.”
“Hang on.” His neck went taut. “You were in her apartment? Why didn’t you just take her?”
“Yes, I accessed her apartment.” Cole scowled at him. “I didn’t just take her, because I’m not in the business of kidnapping.”
“It’s not kidnapping if—”
“She’s not being held against her will, Tate. She makes no attempt to flee, and there are plenty of opportunities. She knows the city, knows how to evade the gangs. In eleven years, she would’ve succeeded in an escape.”
“Or died trying.” He knew that denying the truth didn’t make the facts go away, but maybe Cole had missed something. Something glaringly important. “The woman in the video… You’re certain that’s Lucia? There were dozens of women in that crash in Peru. What if you followed the wrong trail?”
Cole opened another photo on the laptop—a wide shot of a woman walking along an urban road in daylight. He maximized the view, bringing her face into beautiful clarity. Her hair hung like a shiny black curtain to her shoulders, emphasizing her delicate, ethereal features.
At first glance, she looked like Camila with short straight hair. Her huge brown eyes, warm complexion, stubborn chin—every familiar detail made his chest ache for the sister he’d spent the last six years with.
The woman in the photo had a narrower face and slimmer build. Too slim. Her bones jutted sharply, pressing against her skin. The smile he’d memorized from Lucia’s childhood photos was missing, yet her beauty remained. A dangerous kind of beauty, like if he got too close, he would become hypnotized. Infatuated. Totally fucked.
“Still have doubts?” Cole asked.
“That’s Lucia.” Tate blinked, forcing himself to look away. “But the anonymous woman in the video—”
“Has the same scar.” Cole re-centered the image, moving the focus from Lucia’s face to the faded wound beneath the cropped shirt.
Identical scar. Same toned stomach and body shape. The evidence was there, undeniable. Lucia had aimed that gun and shot an innocent without flinching.
Ice filled his veins. He wasn’t naive, and as much as he hated it, he could accept the fact she was a coldblooded criminal. The question was, what the fuck would he do about it?
“Can you still copy her phone?” he asked. “Wait. Do you have the number? I could call her.”
What would he say to her? Hey, you don’t know me, but Camila escaped her kidnapper. She’s alive and misses you. How about you come home, and we’ll pretend you never tortured innocent people?
“The phone was destroyed the day after the video was taken,” Cole said. “As of yesterday, she still hadn’t replaced it.
“The man she works for, this Badell guy… He must be blackmailing her. I mean, she’s not working for money if she lives in a slum.”
“They all live in the slum, outside of the law. It’s their kingdom, where they make their own rules. She eats dinner with Badell every night. Goes in and out of his compound freely. She is watched and never leaves the city. I’ve seen his guards trailing her, but he puts guards on all his high-ranked officials.”
She’s a high-ranked official? For a street gang? Camila would be heartbroken if she knew this.
“What about the police?” Tate rose from the couch and paced through the room. “We could turn over the video and any evidence you have against him and shut down his entire operation.”
“You’re not getting it.” Cole propped his elbows on his knees, pulling in a deep breath. “This is Caracas. The police are poorly trained, under-equipped, and aren’t paid shit. They tip off the gangs when something isn’t right, and the crime lords thank them for that service by giving them a cut of the profits.”
Of fucking course. He dropped his head back and heaved a frustrated breath to the ceiling. He needed answers, and the only way he’d get them was to pay Lucia Dias a visit.
“Tate.” Liv’s melodic voice wove around him as she stood from Josh’s lap and approached. “You need to call Camila.”
“And say what? She breathes and bleeds a passionate crusade against people like Tiago Badell. If she saw that video of her sister, it would hurt her irreparably. She thinks Lucia is dead and… Fuck, Liv, that’s better than the truth, don’t you think? I can’t tell her. Not until I talk to Lucia.”
“If you go to Caracas,” Cole said, “you’ll be kidnapped and killed inside of a week. You’re untrained and unprepared. At a minimum, you need someone with you, preferably a security guard. Someone to watch your back.”
“I’m not a security guard, but I’m good with a gun.” Liv touched Tate’s jaw, drawing his gaze to hers. “I’ll go with you.”
“The hell you will!” Josh leapt from the chair, eyes blazing.
“Josh,” she snapped. “I’ll do whatever—”
“No. End of discussion.”
Josh glared at her, and she glared right back. Tension shivered between them, a silent battle of wills. Tate was certain Liv would win, but it wasn’t up to her.
“Josh is right,” he said. “You’re not going. No—” He held up a hand when she tried to interrupt. “I’m not budging on this.”
She sniffed, turned on her heel, and strode down the hallway, shutting the bedroom door behind her.
“Shit, man.” Tate scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to cause problems. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ll enjoy the punishment later tonight.” Josh’s eyes gleamed, his smile twitching with mischief. Then he sobered, nodding at Cole. “Why can’t he do it? He knows where Lucia lives and seems to have the training to move around the city without getting killed.”
“Yeah, well…” Tate blew out a breath. “I can’t afford him.”
“Even if I were to help you pro bono—which I won’t.” Cole gave him a hard look. “I don’t extract people unless they’re willing.”
“I just want to talk to her.” Tate studied him for a moment, an idea forming. “If I approached her, would she shoot me on the spot?”
“Her guards would.” Cole shook his head. “You can’t just walk in there, Tate. The gangs decide who enters the neighborhood.”
“But you can. You rented an apartment across the street from hers. How’d you do it?”
“I know which palms to grease.”
“Then get me in. I’ll pay you to set me up in that apartment and tell me everything you know about Tiago Badell. I’ll do the rest. Just name the price.”
“It’s a suicide mission. The price is your life.”
“Train me.” Tate paced through the room, fueled with determination. “Teach me whatever I need to know to make contact with her.” He paused in front of Cole, hands flexing at his sides. “You know my account balance. Take it all.”
Cole considered him for a nerve-wracking minute before lowering his head in his hands and exhaling. “Okay.”
Hope surged. “Okay?”
“You’re a stubborn asshole.” Cole lifted his eyes. “If I don’t help you, you’ll go anyway, and I’ll have your moronic death weighing on my conscience.”
“Good man.” Tate clapped him on the back and lowered onto the couch beside him. “For the record, I think she picked the wrong guy.” He motioned toward the tattoo on Cole’s arm.
Cole looked down, his eyes stark and unblinking as he traced the inked silhouette of the woman, his finger gliding with reverence and longing. He seemed to forget himself in that private moment, his gaze turning inward and the hard lines of his jaw softening.
Then, like a flip of a
switch, he curled his hand into a fist and snapped his spine straight. “Do you think this thing with Lucia will give you what you need to finish your tattoo?”
Startled, Tate glanced at his own ink. How did Cole know it wasn’t finished?
Roses of various sizes and blooms sleeved his arm in shades of black and gray. His mother’s name had been Rose, but each flower on his skin represented the women who had helped raise him at The Velvet Den. They might’ve been whores, but they were also his friends. His only family.
The cluster of roses stretched above his elbow and faded away. The artwork was supposed to blur into another image across his bicep—the profile of a woman. He always imagined Camila’s face would complete the design, but she didn’t belong to him.
As he stared at the blank space on his bicep, he knew Josh and Kate were watching him, waiting for him to answer Cole’s question. Will I have what I need to finish it? Will I have someone to call my own? He wanted Camila, and that dream was unattainable.
“No. The tattoo is finished.”
Cole rubbed the stubble on his cheek, studying Tate with those perceptive eyes. Then he looked back at the laptop and sighed. “The apartment in Caracas is paid through the end of the month. I’ll extend the lease for another month, get you into the neighborhood, train you on basic self-defense, and walk you through Lucia’s patterns. After that, you’re on your own.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t like this.” Josh lowered into the chair, perching on the edge. “Can you hire a security guard to go with you?”
“Maybe.” Tate didn’t know how much money he’d have left after he paid Cole for the help, but he’d figure it out. He turned to Cole. “Do you have more photos of her?”
“Hundreds.”
For the next hour, Tate scoured the images on Cole’s laptop, memorizing every expression, gesture, and article of clothing that belonged to Lucia Dias. Cole showed him blueprints of Badell’s compound, but other than the windowless concrete room in the video, there were no pictures of the interior. Cole hadn’t tried to breach the iron gates because that level of intel hadn’t been included in the finder fee.
