Mission Paradise

by Deborah Brown

  After ten minutes of banging, Rissa realized that no one was going to come and let her out. She returned to the bed and sat down again, trying desperately to contain the panic in her stomach. She took a deep breath to clear her head and thought of her brother, asking herself what he would do in her situation.

  “He’d fight,” she said aloud to the empty room. “Nick wouldn’t sit around and cry. My big brother would fight, and he would escape.” She looked around the small bedroom. It had one window with cheap, buttercup-yellow gauze curtains.

  It was small, but Rissa thought it might be large enough for her to squeeze through. She stood and walked across to the window, passing her reflection in the mirror and hating the required uniform. She looked out the window, and her heart sank. She was two floors up, and the outside wall was smooth and flat all the way to the ground. Rissa couldn’t climb down, and it was way too high to jump.

  Rissa returned to the bed, and this time she lay down, stretching her long legs out on the duvet and crossing her arms over her stomach. She looked around the room and suddenly remembered her backpack. September had offered to carry it for her when she first arrived at The Farm, but she hadn’t seen it since. She got up and checked the closet, then under the bed. Nothing. A feeling of hopelessness overcame her, and she lay back down on the bed and closed her eyes. An enormous weariness invaded her limbs and her eyelids felt as heavy as rocks. After a while, she fell into a deep and fitful sleep.

  When she awoke, the room was pitch black, and when she remembered where she was, she became afraid. Suddenly, she heard a scraping noise and cried out, “Who’s there?”

  “Hush now, everything is all right. You have to drink this.” A dark figure whose voice she did not recognize held something out towards her, and Rissa realized she had not eaten or drunk anything all day. She took the bottle and sniffed at it, sipped a little, and then drank it down. It was sweet, tasting of honey and apples, and it seemed to put her stomach at ease immediately. She handed the bottle back to the figure in the shadows and was about to speak, but a wave of drowsiness washed over her. She fell back on the pillow and was sound asleep before the bedroom door closed.

  Chapter Seven

  “Test, one, two. Test, one, two,” Slice said into the transmitter on his wrist. Below him and about fifty yards ahead, Zach and Cable nodded to confirm that they had heard the transmission. Slice lay in the long weed cover on a slight mound above a dusty dirt track that led through the towering trees. He watched through the scope of a high-powered sniper rifle as Zach and Cable began the long walk towards The Farm.

  “Roger that, Slice. Keep your eyes open,” Zach said into the transmitter behind his ear.

  “Don’t fall asleep up there now, little man,” Cable said, and behind his back, he gave Slice a thumbs-up sign.

  The plan was simple. Ask to see Rissa, make sure she was safe, and if she wanted, take her away with them. Legally, it was all the Zuma team could do. Rissa was over twenty-one and there was no proof she had been kidnapped or in any way coerced into moving into York’s house. Zach had to assume that, for whatever reason, she’d come to The Farm of her own accord. If so, the former SEALs had no legal grounds whatsoever to simply barge in and pull her out.

  “So far so good, Boss — all clear from up here.” Slice scanned the rooftops and windows through the scope. “Wait. We got company. Hundred yards to your right. Coming around the back of the main building. One female with a guard dog. Be alert.” Through the rifle scope, Slice watched the woman come fully into view, and the close-up of the Amazonian blonde in the black bikini took his breath away. Slice couldn’t help himself; he slid the crosshairs over her breasts, then down her belly. “Oh, man… she’s friggin’ hot!”

  “Stay focused, Slice,” Zach barked. He and Cable had now spotted the woman and the ferocious-looking dog coming towards them. Zach waved and gave her a friendly smile. “Morning, ma’am.”

  She came to within ten yards of the two men and stopped. She was sexy as hell, Zach thought, but boy, did she look pissed.

  “This is private property. State your business,” she ordered in a no-nonsense tone. The dog at her long, tanned thigh growled ominously, straining at the leash and licking its chops as if it had just caught the scent of breakfast.

  Zach came straight to the point. “We’d like to speak to York Jones. Is he anywhere around?”

  “York doesn’t see visitors.” The sheer animosity on her face made her look a lot less beautiful.

  “Well, that’s too bad,” Zach said. “Are you sure? We’ve come a long way just to talk. We won’t keep him long.”

  “I said no!” she spat, loosening her grip on the dog’s leash. Immediately, the Rottweiler leaped towards the two men, barking and snapping his powerful jaws.

  Zach took a startled step back and instinctively reached for the 9mm in his shoulder holster. Before he could pull and aim the weapon, Cable moved forward and stood with his arm outstretched, pointing his finger at the Rottweiler. The dog pulled up short and stared into Cable’s eyes. For almost a minute, man and dog stared each other down. Zach heard Cable mumble something unintelligible under his breath and watched as the look in the Rottweiler’s eyes changed from hungry aggression to clouded confusion, then absolute disinterest. The dog yawned, licked his huge chops again, and returned to lie down beside his mistress. Both Zach and Cable heard Slice sigh in their earpieces. He’d had the dog in his sights the entire time, and only now did he reduce the pressure of his finger on the trigger.

  “Bruno? What’s wrong, boy?” The blonde looked down at the dog and then up at Cable in disbelief. “Mister, what did you do to my dog?”

  “Old trick,” Cable said mysteriously and smiled.

  “Who’s your friend?” she asked Zach, her voice edged with unveiled sarcasm.

  “Need to know,” Zach said evenly. His blatant show of alpha male chauvinism caused the blonde to bristle with anger, and she raised her head defiantly. Zach saw the perfectly toned muscles in her shoulders and arms tense into knots, and for a moment, he thought that she too was going to charge.

  She held Zach’s gaze, then looked down at Bruno in disgust. “Fucking males,” she hissed, shaking her head. “Bane of my life…”

  “January!” The sudden shout came from a top-floor window of the farmhouse. When Zach and Cable looked up, they saw a tall, thin man with long blond hair looking down at them and smiling. “What have I told you about showing our guests some hospitality? Invite the gentlemen in for breakfast, dammit!”

  A second later, they heard Slice confirm the man’s identity. “That’s him, Boss. That’s York Jones.”

  January shrugged. She tugged at Bruno’s leash, and the dog got lazily back to its feet. “Come on, you useless bastard,” she growled, making no attempt to hide her disappointment. She began to lead the dog away, then stopped and looked back over her shoulder at Zach and Cable. “You coming or not?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Zach said. “Breakfast sounds good.” He and Cable exchanged a glance they had used a thousand times before. Be alert, there is danger here; watch your back. They followed January across the yard towards the back door of the kitchen.

  The Farm was busy. Everywhere they looked, they saw women walking, talking, doing chores, and running errands, all dressed in the same black bikinis and thigh-high boots, like it was some kind of ultra-sexy uniform. The two red-blooded males couldn’t help noticing that every single one of the young women was fit and tanned and absolutely drop-dead gorgeous.

  “The guy has good taste in women,” Cable murmured, admiring the behind of a particularly petite, but curvy, member of the bikini army who was bent over, fixing the wheel of a wooden handcart.

  “Have you seen their eyes?” Zach asked.

  “What? All this naked flesh and you look at the eyes?” Cable sounded incredulous, and Zach thanked his lucky stars that he hadn’t brought Slice, who’d have been so aroused by now that he could hardly walk.

  “Their eyes a
re weird,” Zach insisted. “All of them. Look.” A young brunette with an inviting smile and a seductive swing in her hips walked towards the two men, and Cable stared casually into her face.

  “You’re right. Something strange is going on here,” he agreed. Still, he couldn’t resist turning his head to watch the girl’s finely toned ass swing seductively to and fro as she passed them.

  They reached the kitchen and followed January inside. York sat at a table piled high with plates of bacon and waffles, fresh juice and coffee. He waved at the former SEALs, inviting them to sit down and eat.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said through a mouthful of bacon. “You’re just in time. How do you like your eggs?”

  Chapter Eight

  Back in the Zuma office, a frustrated Lark was trying hard to unearth additional information about York Jones. She was still a little miffed that Slice had beaten her to The Farm’s address. She sighed, got up from her workstation, and went across to Fish. She took a spray bottle of water from a shelf and began gently spritzing his lush, green leaves, thinking about Slice, whose flitting from woman to woman was legendary.

  “Men, eh? They’re all the same, Fish. They love you and then they leave you. Bastards.” Immediately, she apologized to the plant. “Sorry, Fish… I didn’t mean you.”

  Lark had had the hots for Slice ever since she’d first set eyes on him. She loved the way his abs rippled under his t-shirt, and his tight ass in his well-worn jeans was a joy to behold. But it was more than just his good looks. Lark loved the way he smelled. Not the rank stench of his sweat-soaked body after he’d been on one of his grueling runs, but his natural odor, sans aftershave or deodorant. The ordinary scent that oozed from his pores whenever he was in a relaxed state turned her on. But she was a professional, and quickies in the office were not something she was going to indulge in. It would never stay a secret. If Slice wanted to start a genuine romance outside of work hours, then she would be happy to give it a shot. But she wasn’t going to chase after him either. Lark finished spraying down the palm tree and returned to her desk. She had work to do, and she needed to get Slice out of her head.

  Lark had already checked Los Angeles police records for the last three years, back to the date of York’s purchase of The Farm, and found nothing that suggested he’d ever been in trouble with the law. She widened the search to include the entire state and again came up with nothing. But it bugged her. Lark had a sixth sense for snooping, probably inherited from her grandmother, who’d been a fan of mysteries and had read all the famous whodunit authors’ books to her granddaughter before she reached the age of nine. There had to be something. Everyone has something to hide, she thought. She turned and looked over her shoulder.

  “How about you, Fish. What’s your dark secret?” Fish didn’t respond. “Not a word without your lawyer present?” Lark giggled quietly. She knew no one understood what was going on with her and Fish, and if she was honest, neither did she. All she knew was that she felt better when Fish was close; sometimes, he was the only one who would listen. A sudden, warm breeze from the open window shook the palm tree’s leaves, as if he was agreeing with her. “Me and you against the world, honey bun.” She turned back to her laptop screen.

  California was a big zilch. She looked again at York’s grainy profile picture. He looked normal, but then so did most criminals. Most looked like the guy next door, apart from Manson maybe. She stared at York’s photo and made a remarkably accurate imitation of the famous Lecter slither with her tongue. She laughed, thinking she might be crazy. Yeah, she decided. So what?

  Thinking about Manson gave her an idea. He had been the leader of probably the most infamous cult in the entire world. Could the set-up at York’s farm be a cult of sorts? Lark changed her search parameters and began looking for anything that resembled a cult in California over the last ten years. The results astounded her. There were literally hundreds. She sighed and began to wade through the information. Almost all of them appeared to be harmless, if a little weird. Along with the myriad of wacky religious groups she’d expected, Lark was amazed at the sheer number of sex cults, money cults, and nature cults. Cults that were waiting for the arrival of UFOs. There was even a cult that worshiped a particular kind of fish.

  Lark sifted through them all before deciding the task was akin to wading through molasses while wearing flippers. She needed more information to narrow down the search. She got up again, grabbed the phone, and paced around the room while she speed-dialed Slice’s cell phone.

  He must have looked at the caller ID because he answered, “Hi, Lark.”

  “Hi, how’s it going out there with the wackos?”

  “Wackos?” Slice asked, bemused.

  “According to Google, California is bursting at the seams with weird people.” She heard him laugh and pressed on. “Listen, what have you got on The Farm so far?”

  “Not much. It is a bit wacky, I suppose. But it looks pretty peaceful. No sign of Rissa yet. Zach and Cable are in there right now. Why, what do you need?”

  “Oh, nothing specific, just an overall impression?” She stopped pacing and stroked Fish’s leaves with her free hand. There was a short pause while Slice thought about her question. Lark hummed and raised her eyebrows at Fish. She held her hand over the receiver. “He may be gorgeous, Fish, but he is a bit slow, don’t you think?” She was sure the palm tree agreed.

  “Okay. Here’s what I got,” Slice said. “Women. Lots of women. Seems like he’s the only guy in the outfit. And Lark, I swear to god, all of these women are totally hot. I mean… sizzling. And you’ll never guess how they dress.”

  “How?” Lark asked coyly, not sure she liked Slice’s description at all.

  “They have this kind of uniform: black bikinis and thigh-high boots. That’s all they wear. Sexy as hell.” Slice trailed off and waited for Lark to speak. When she didn’t, he tried again. “Does that help?”

  “I have no idea,” Lark said. “I’ll run it through the search engines. Thanks, Slice.”

  She was about to hang up when she heard Slice say, “Umm…Lark?”

  “What?” She felt her stomach tighten.

  “I just wanted to say thanks.”

  “Thanks for what?”

  “You know what.” Slice paused and took a deep breath. “Thanks for all you do for us. Never turning down a work request.”

  “I don’t need thanks for that; it’s my job, and I love it.”

  “I’m not sure we tell you often enough how much we appreciate you.” There was a defensive note in his voice.

  Lark sighed. After all her daydreaming about him, this was not the conversation she wanted to have; to say she was disappointed didn’t quite cover it. She wanted to lash out, but then she’d have to apologize and admit her feelings for it to make any sense. A minute passed without any additional remarks from Slice. “I have work to do, best I hang up,” she said tersely.

  “I’ll save you the trouble,” Slice said, and then there was the sound of an empty line.

  Lark tossed the handset down on her desk and walked across to Fish. “See, Fish? He’s smitten already.” She began humming that tune again. “But don’t get jealous, baby. Lark loves only you.”

  She went back to her desk, sat down, and entered the new search terms into her laptop. Cult. Women. Single male. Black bikini. California. She hit the enter key and sighed, once again frustrated at the lack of results. She sat for a moment, scratching her head and staring at the screen. Then she changed the search from the state to the entire country and hit the enter key again.

  One piece of information immediately caught her eye. A news clipping from a small town rag in Nebraska from almost ten years ago. The short article reported on a Jane Doe, thought to be a member of some anonymous group living in the woods. It was poorly written, probably by some novice reporter who had been given the weekly births, deaths, and marriages column –– copy and paste, as Lark called it — and out of sheer boredom, the budding Pulitzer Pri
ze hopeful had milked the story for all he could get. As a result, the article contained more detail than normal. And one detail in particular made Lark pause and catch her breath. The Jane Doe, who had drowned in a local lake, had been dressed in a black bikini and thigh-high boots.

  Chapter Nine

  York refused to broach the subject of Rissa until they had finished breakfast. He seemed to have an enormous appetite, and even Cable, who it was rumored had once eaten an entire spit-grilled pig in under an hour, watched in awe as York shoveled bacon and eggs into his mouth like a condemned man at his last supper.

  Zach decided to play the waiting game. He nibbled at a crust of warm bread and sipped coffee while he prodded York with what appeared to be casual inquiries. “So, how many women do you have here?” he asked.

  “Eleven,” York said, still chewing. “The group is almost complete. One more, and we can settle down and get on with the mission.”

  “What mission?” Zach asked, his curiosity awakened.

  “Mission Paradise,” York replied, and there was a hint of pride in his voice. He swallowed and smiled, then poured himself another cup of coffee.

  Zach waited for him to explain. He had York pegged for a sociopathic tyrant, and just like the villains in James Bond movies, those guys loved to talk.

  York did not disappoint him. “Are you happy, Mr. Lazarro? Truly, totally happy?”

  “I guess,” Zach said. “It depends on how you define happy.”

  “Do you have everything you desire?” York pressed, leaning forwards and meeting Zach’s even gaze with a powerful stare of his own.

  Zach shrugged. “I have a job, a woman, friends, and financially I’m fine. How about you, Mr. Jones? Do you have everything you desire?”

  “Look around you.” York waved his fork. “What do you think?”