by Pam Godwin
“When are you going to milk my nuts?” he asked in Spanish.
The gun was already in her hand, so it only took a fraction of a second to aim at the nuts in question.
“Another time then.” With a grin, he lumbered toward the stairs.
She waited until he was out of sight before lowering the Beretta and pulling on her clothes.
Today’s victim was a middle-aged married man and father of five, who had come to Venezuela on a religious mission.
And she’d just raped him.
If she had any humanity left before she’d stepped into that room, she didn’t now. But despite the man’s wretched crying, he wasn’t broken. If his wife paid the ransom within three days, he’d live.
Lucia dragged the balaclava off her head and let it fall to the floor. She was the one who was broken, and if she lived three more days, she wouldn’t deserve it.
Footsteps approached from the stairs. She holstered both guns in her jeans and turned to find Tiago strolling toward her, flanked by two guards.
He gave her a cursory once-over. “Was it convincing?”
The victim had wept prayers to his god, begged for his virtue, cried for his wife to forgive him, and in the end, ejaculated in the condom, inside her, with a self-loathing howl. As far as torture went, he was emotionally wounded, and the camera caught every second of it.
“Yes.” She breezed past Tiago, anxious to escape the basement. “If his wife has the money, she’ll pay it.”
“I know why you did it.”
Her breath caught. Did what? Rape that man? Or did he know about the one she killed this morning? Oh God, did he find out about Tate?
She slowed her steps, arranged her features into a detached visage, and pivoted to face him. “What do you mean?”
“Leave us.” He swept a hand at the guards without looking at them.
The two armed men retreated to the stairs and closed the door, leaving her alone in the dark hall with Tiago.
The guns at her back suddenly felt heavy and threatening, like foreboding shadows looming behind her. There wasn’t a single time in eleven years when she was permitted to keep her weapons in Tiago’s presence without his guards. If this was a test, she was guaranteed to fail.
“Come here.” He snapped a finger at the space before him.
Heart hammering, she held her arms at her sides and closed the distance. When she reached him, he slid his hands around her waist and rested his fingers on the grips of her guns.
She closed her eyes as everything inside her froze. This was it. He was going to shoot her with the guns she’d earned in his employ.
“I know why you petitioned me to use your method of torture,” he said at her ear.
Oh. A ragged breath fled her lungs.
When she was initiated into this job, her role had been to hold the camera as Tiago exacted ungodly pain from the skin of his victims. She’d been weaker then, her stomach unbearably sensitive to the sight of blood and sounds of anguish.
She’d also been naive enough to believe rape was a mercy over the flesh-cutting cruelty Tiago inflicted.
The victims only needed to look distressed for the video, mistreated just enough to convince a family member to send money without hesitation. Rape had been her solution.
And that was the flaw in her logic. When was rape ever a solution?
But in her idiocy, she’d persuaded Tiago to use her vile approach instead of his. Not only had he agreed, he’d designated her as the resident torturer of the male victims.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she’d been wrong, that her way wasn’t as effective. But could she really go back to watching him carve up the bodies of innocent men? Men. He never tortured women in that way. She didn’t think it was out of chivalry. Quite the opposite. He’d told her once that his art of mutilation was a man’s rite of passage.
“You’re trying to make a difference in the kidnapping world.” His mouth hovered over hers, his breaths warming her lips. “And you’re doing it with sex.”
“Rape.” She ground her molars.
“Whatever you want to call it, Lucia. You could’ve begged me to abandon my ruthless line of work.”
“You would’ve killed me.”
“That’s right, and you can’t make a difference if you’re dead, yeah? So instead, you suggested what you believed was a gentler method of torture. A suggestion that didn’t make you appear weak to me or my men.”
Her method was psychological and emasculating. His was physical, gruesome, and barbarous. Whether one was better than the other was debatable.
“I feel nothing in particular for the victims.” He squeezed the grips of her guns, pressing them against the rise of her backside. “Except maybe pity. It’s their own stupidity that brings them into my kingdom. But that wasn’t the case with you. Taken from your home, left to die in a fatal crash… None of your choices led you to me. Do you know why I kept you imprisoned all those years? Why I didn’t just kill you then?”
She tried not to think about her first eight years in his compound—locked in a room on the upper floor, the unbearable isolation and fear, the news of her parents’ deaths, Camila already gone. In those darkest years of her life, she lost parts of herself she would never recover.
Her illness developed over that time. When she became too sick to go without daily injections, Tiago had a new way to cage and torment her.
“No.” She met his heartless eyes. “I don’t pretend to know why you do anything you do.”
“I hope you never give me a reason to kill you.” He slid the Berettas out of her waistband and glided the metal frames along the outsides of her arms. “No matter how ill you are or how intolerable I make your life, you manage to keep something in your possession, something I lost long ago.” Lifting one of the guns, he trailed the barrel across her cheek. “You still have compassion.”
Her throat tightened. It was the closest he’d ever come to saying anything sentimental without making it feel sexual.
It was also possible that he said shit like this just to fuck with her head.
“I live in an ugly world,” he went on, “and you’re… You’re a pretty little flicker of compassion, begging to be extinguished. Sometimes I’m tempted to do just that. But I like you like this. You remind me how weak and foolish it is to cling to humanity.”
Her nostrils flared.
“You can retrieve your guns from my guards.” Without a backward glance, he ambled toward the stairs with her weapons. “You’re free until dinner.”
Free.
She wished for nothing, prayed to no one, and had zilch to lose. If freedom was a state of mind, she was hopelessly liberated.
CHAPTER 14
“She’s leaving the compound.” Tate paced through the apartment, his pulse wound up and nerves shot to hell.
The tiny microphones on Lucia’s weapons broadcasted to a receiver on his phone. He’d listened to her activities all morning while burning through a pack of cigarettes and seething every shade of rage.
Without visual confirmation, it was difficult to understand exactly what was happening. But from the sounds and conversations, he knew she’d passed out, was separated from her weapons for a while, then used a stairwell to the lower levels of the compound. That was when he’d sent his fist through the wall.
“You’re gonna give yourself a coronary.” Van reclined on the couch, tracking his movements with a narrowed glare.
Van was notorious for his explosive temper, yet he’d remained chillingly calm when they’d listened to her rape a sobbing, pleading man. Maybe it was because Van had been in a similar situation and was the one person who could empathize with her.
Tate, on the other hand, had gone ballistic when she was in that basement chamber. His imagination had created all kinds of graphic images to fill in what he couldn’t see. It wasn’t until he’d heard the pain in her voice during her conversation with Badell that his vision cleared, and his head stopped pounding.
She was stuck in a living nightmare, and there was fuck all he could do about it when he couldn’t get to her.
But she was on the move now, stepping onto the street outside of the compound and turning…
“She’s not heading toward her apartment.” He strode toward the door, phone in hand and weapons concealed beneath his clothes.
Without a word, Van followed him out of the building and trailed a safe distance behind.
The tracking signal led Tate to a street market fifteen minutes away on foot. Although the tents were crowded with people, it didn’t take long to spot her raven-black hair amid the throng.
A thin shirt hung from her shoulders, the wide neckline clinging to the delicate peaks of her tits. Flat stomach and toned legs encased in denim, she had the body of a young girl, but she wore it like a woman. A woman who would fuck rigorously, unapologetically, in every position and manner he wanted.
And he wanted.
He wanted to feel her fall apart on his cock, hear her cry in relief, and see a glimmer of happiness on her face. But more than that, he wanted her safe and healthy and out of this city.
Her guards wouldn’t be far, so he kept his distance, marking her as she moved from stall to stall, touching the produce and staring at the meats. Jesus, she looked hungry, her gaze crawling over the food with ravenous longing, yet she didn’t buy anything.
Watching her poke through the market empty-handed produced a protective twinge in his chest. She was too thin, too alone, and given the dark circles around her eyes and the sag of her shoulders, too goddamn sad. Every bone in his body thrummed to take care of her.
As he slipped deeper into the market area, the sweet smell of slow-cooked meat and fried dough saturated the air. He paused within a few paces of her and directed his eyes on the hanging rope of bananas she’d caressed.
She must’ve sensed him, because she turned at the edge of his vision, and that deep brown gaze warmed the side of his face.
Knowing her guards were watching, he held out some bills to purchase a few bananas and gave her no reaction.
With a casual twist of her neck, she scanned the perimeter, likely searching for his backup.
Van stood at his nine o’clock across the street, and the moment she spotted him, her chest hitched with a sigh. Then she continued to the next stall.
From there, they eased into a wordless interplay. She touched or glanced at the foods she liked, and he bought them—bread, pork, strawberries, coconut cookies. When she reached the last tent, she selected a paper bag of tea and handed it to the merchant.
Tate sidled in behind her, fighting the impulse to rest a hand against the small of her back. He couldn’t touch her, but she was close enough to infuse his senses with hints of citrus and gun oil, sunshine and city air.
He didn’t look at her as he paid for the tea and whispered against her hair, “You’re not alone.”
Before she could respond, he left the bag of food on the table in front of her and strolled out of the market.
For the rest of the day, he sat in his apartment, listening to the receiver. The silence on her end stretched for miles while she sat by herself across the street. Hopefully, she was sleeping since she hadn’t slept at all last night.
He took a short nap, but it was restless, as his hearing was constantly tuned into the receiver. So he gave up and used the time to research her symptoms, leave messages for doctors in the States, and order the most comprehensive home blood test kit he could find online.
“Is that your plan?” Van gnawed on a toothpick, scrutinizing him. “An online blood test?”
“Got a better idea?”
“No. I just want to make sure you’re not planning to storm the compound and steal the medicine.”
He laughed, because dammit, it’d crossed his mind. “I’m not that reckless.”
“I don’t know. You have a crazy look in your eyes.”
“I’m going to start staying with her at night.” He paced to the window and surveyed the alley until he located her guards. “I need to learn everything she knows about her illness, the injections, the doctors, her injury… There’s so much she hasn’t told me. Maybe the solution isn’t as hopeless as it seems.”
“And if it is? Hopeless?”
“I’ll draw her blood and send it off to a lab. Maybe figure out a way to bring a doctor here to her.”
“If she has a terminal illness, Tate, there’s little you can do.”
“I know.” He pivoted away from the window and dragged his hands down his face. “I know.”
They’d been in Caracas for eleven days. The trip could extend twice that or longer. Van never mentioned his wife, but he was so damn smitten with her the distance must’ve been eating at him something fierce.
“I could be here another month.” Tate crossed his arms and met Van’s eyes.
“I know. I’m with you till the end.” Van gave him a soft, genuine smile.
The human side of Van was an anomaly. Witnessing its rare appearance wedged something deep inside Tate, crowding out some of the cynical, mistrustful feelings he’d harbored for so long.
“I’m sorry I haven’t said it before, but thank you.” He released a slow breath. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I know.” Another smile from Van, this one twisting with his standard wickedness. “Wanna mess around? This dry spell is brutal.”
He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his brow. “And there you go, ruining it.”
“You make it too damn easy.” Erasing the few feet between them, Van stepped into his space. “Just so you know, I’m going to rid you of your homophobia.”
His hackles went up. “I’m not homophobic.”
“You have a problem with men fucking men.”
“No, Van. I have a problem with you fucking me.”
“Well, then let me clear that up.” Van braced a hand on the window behind Tate and pressed close enough to exchange breaths. “I love my wife, and I’d cut my dick off before I cheated on her. I like to fuck with you, but I don’t want to fuck you. Feel me?”
He’d rather not feel Van’s breath on his face, but… “Yeah, I feel you.”
“Good boy.” Van patted his cheek and held the touch there, cupping his jaw for a defining moment before strolling away.
The familiar touch paired with the murmured words should’ve triggered a flashback of those agonizing weeks in the attic. But as Tate tempered his breathing, he felt strangely…peaceful.
“All teasing aside, you seem more comfortable around me.” Van lowered onto the couch, his expression serious. “You’re healing.”
Tate nodded absently, thinking. Being cooped up with Van in a small apartment and depending on him for protection might’ve been a much-needed catharsis. He could honestly say he trusted the perverted psychopath. He might even like him, but he wouldn’t admit that out loud. So he left it at a nod.
“Good.” Van grabbed a bottle of tequila and poured two glasses. “Let’s drink to that.”
A few hours and shots of tequila later, Tate watched from the window as Lucia left her apartment to meet Badell for dinner.
Armed and ready to go, he left Van behind to keep a lookout on the alley.
When he hit the street, the sky was dark enough to cloak the buildings in shadows. He kept his head down, gait swift, and managed to arrive at the rear of her building unmolested. After a quick I’m here call to Van, he knocked on the neighbor’s back door.
The middle-aged woman looked as harmless as her little dog when she answered, but she refused to open the door farther than a crack. When he slipped a few bolivars through the opening and said, “I’m Lucia’s amigo,” she was more than happy to escort him in and show him the hidden cut through in the closet.
It was too easy. Giving up Lucia’s hidden door to a total stranger meant she’d do it for anyone willing to bribe her.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She stared at him blankly.
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Well, shit. He’d only picked up a few Spanish words. “Uh…nome?” No, that wasn’t right. “Nombre?”
“Franchesca.”
“Franchesca, don’t let…” Damn language barrier. He needed a translator. “Hang on.”
He dialed Van, who had grown up in a border town and spoke fairly decent Spanish.
“Miss me already?” Van rumbled through the phone.
“Nope. I need you to translate. Tell Lucia’s neighbor to never let anyone in the back door. Never show anyone the passage through the closet. Never, no one, under no circumstances. You get the idea. Use your threatening tone.”
“I have a threatening tone?”
The innocent act was bullshit, so he decided to poke the sleeping bear. “You used to, but you’ve grown soft. And gay. So gay your pretty wife is at home right now bouncing on a harder, straighter dick.”
“What the fuck did you just say to me? You’re going to find out exactly how gay I am when I fuck your skull through your asshole, motherfucker. You’re fucking dead.”
“Yeah, that tone. Here she is.” He handed the phone to Franchesca.
As she listened, her breath wheezed, and her eyes grew wide. When she handed the phone back, he disconnected and placed a larger bill in her trembling hand. No translation needed for hush money. It was a universal language in this town.
He left her staring at the money and slipped into Lucia’s unit through the closet.
Other than the muted glow from a night light in the wall, her windowless space was dark. He did his best to seal up the passageway. She needed a lock or something to brace against it. Something to keep trespassers like himself from breaking in.
At least, she wouldn’t be sleeping here alone anymore, and when he left Caracas, she would be with him.
Switching on the ceiling light, he scanned the barren room, which entailed a single-person mattress, mini fridge, sink, toilet, and shower head that aimed at an open tiled space.
Her boots and a small stack of clothes sat in the corner. On the counter was the bag of tea, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a generic bottle of hair and body wash.
