Unchained

by Roze, Robyn

  At least, Sean’s version of it.

  After arriving on schedule at the secluded airstrip, he had led a willing Graham Dixon to his own execution up the stairs of the waiting jet. When the senator thought he had escaped judgment—again, Sean signaled the ‘attendant’ at the cabin door to lower the boom. Then, over Dix’s crumpled body, he instructed Mick to wait down by the car and get an update from Reece.

  There were things he wanted to tell Dix that he did not want Mick saddled with.

  The cabin to themselves, Sean reached across and smacked Dixon’s face, hard. Time to get this show on the road. Time to close this chapter for good.

  The senator grunted and coughed, fought against the tight bindings that secured him to the seat from his shoulders down to his ankles. His head lolled and fell back against the seat, eyes blinking and squinting before the weight of profound understanding stilled him. They each held the other’s pitiless stares, their mutual contempt perceptible in the cabin air around them.

  Sean broke the hate-filled silence between them. “I don’t know if you have hours, days, or weeks remaining. I do know whatever happens next,” he waited a beat, “will be well deserved. You’ll wish I’d put a bullet in your head, or a knife in your gut. Almost anything would be better than what’s waiting for you.”

  Dixon remained tight-lipped and defiant, not a man to cower under Death’s certain glare.

  “I almost let the sting operation serve as your punishment.” Sean looked down at his watch. “The one happening right about now on the Dream Catcher. It would’ve been easier. I could’ve watched your public humiliation day after day, your total and complete ruin.” He held up his hands in a shrug. “I’m not that man. That punishment wasn’t good enough, knowing everything you’ve done. Knowing you deserve a kind of sentence no court would allow.”

  A sneer cracked across Dixon’s mouth. “You’re no fucking saint.”

  “No, I’m not. Saints focus on salvation.” He held Dixon’s glare. “I focus on punishment.”

  “Well, what’re you waiting for,” he spat out. “Or are you just going to talk me to death?” The quick pulse at his throat, the quiver of his lip, belied the shaky mask of bravado. He didn’t want to die.

  Sean had never met a man who did.

  “You get off hurting girls. You’re fucked up, like most of the world, and I’m happy to rid it of one more monster.” He leaned forward to pull the pin on his secret and watch it blow up in Dixon’s face. “I always knew my last one had to be you.” Leaving the implicit confession dangling between them, Sean eased back in his seat to wait while his former mentor sorted out the significance of the statement.

  A few seconds passed, then the senator’s head jerked in apparent revelation, unraveling the riddle concealed in Sean’s shocking admission. He paled, the earlier bluster draining away and leaving behind the residue of alarming comprehension. “It was you—el Carnicero, was you. All these years, you were The Butcher,” he mumbled in disbelief. “Shipment disruptions that looked like territory disputes. Inventory vanishing and, later, men found…” he winced, his thought unfinished, but loud in the revulsion creasing his eyes. “And you call me a monster.”

  Rescue missions, whether one girl or many, had always involved a team of Sean’s choosing. Masters at the art of stealth and efficiency who did not leave behind clues for even the best trackers to uncover. However, punishing men who viewed people as shipments of inventory had always been solo missions for him, a personal duty not intended for dirtying other men’s hands. Or souls. Rather, it had been a debatable attempt at redemption that always fell short of the desired goal.

  Tonight would be no different.

  “I’ve been picking off the scum in your degenerate world for a long time, starting at the bottom, and working my way up,” he said, tipping his head at Dixon. “We both wash the blood of others off our hands without losing any sleep over how it got there. It’s the reason it got there that makes us different. That ‘inventory’—women and girls and boys—you and Morales bought and sold, tortured and raped, makes you one kind of monster.

  “Showing no mercy to men like you makes me another. And you, senator, made me. Now I will make you a commodity. An object for sale that’s tormented and thrown away. An underground market exists for men just like you; you’re their biggest catch, ever. They rarely get their hands on someone as high up in the trade as you. I’m sure they have something special planned for you.”

  Dixon wrestled against the restraints. “You won’t get away with this. I’m an American. A senator—”

  “You’re nothing,” Sean interrupted. “You’re already off the grid. Your bank accounts soon to be frozen. Your homes and company raided. You’re on the run with nowhere to go, because you’re a toxic piece of shit that can’t be flushed fast enough.”

  Dixon looked like a man resigned to the executioner’s sword, uneasy acceptance curbing rising panic. “I was right about Mexico,” he said flatly.

  Sean thought back to the chain of events that had led him, and others, to take on the nearly suicidal mission…Shayna’s ex. Frank Chastain’s unpaid gambling debts at the time, ultimately owed to the Morales cartel, had placed Shayna and Danielle in the path of relentless monsters.

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Like I give a fuck.” The stubborn set of Dixon’s jaw contradicted the flicker of fear in his eyes, the rewind of memories transparent on his face. “We had an agreement to stay out of each other’s lanes. I stayed out of yours—while you were fucking around in mine the whole time!”

  “Not just you. Everyone.”

  “How long have you been planning this double-cross?”

  Sean’s mind wandered back to a bleak place and time. The twist of a knob, the push of a door, the evil on the other side. “From the moment I saw what you are, this had to happen. I couldn’t walk away and pretend it didn’t exist—do nothing.”

  Dixon’s swallow sounded loud in the quiet cabin.

  Sean continued, “Every time you tried to kill me after that, you only strengthened my resolve to do this right. To play your game and pretend to agree to disagree. Go our separate ways. To someday—tonight, take down as many of the higher ups in your circle in one sweep as possible.”

  The senator’s chin lowered at the insight. “Of course, you’re responsible for that too.”

  One corner of Sean’s mouth raised slightly, fingers tapping a slow beat on the back of his hands, clasped in his lap. “You think you followed me to Singapore. It was the other way around. I already knew you’d come here—and why. I’ve had to be patient, meticulous, anonymous tips, ironclad intel. It all had to land in the hands of the exact people whose silence couldn’t be bought by you and your titled cronies. Tonight’s raid of the who’s-who on the yacht is the reckoning of my years of dedication to the cause. You tied up across from me. That’s icing on the cake.”

  “You think what you’ve done—what you’re about to do to me, earns you a get-out-of-hell card. Is that what this is about?”

  “You think what you’ve done can be excused with a prayer in your final seconds. Is that your get-out-of-hell card?” Sean scoffed. “We’ve both seen enough, done enough, to know hell is right here, all around us; just open a door, and there it is.” The disgusting video feed from Tan’s basement, and so much more, played in his head. “Heaven and hell exist side by side. Right here. Right now. Just like rewards and punishments.” Sean drummed his fingers on the armrest. “Your punishment is my reward.”

  Sean motioned to two hard-faced men shadowed and waiting in silence at the back of the cabin. They lifted a large wooden crate and lugged it up beside Dixon, dropping it with a heavy thud next to him. It didn’t look big enough to bend and wedge a man of Graham Dixon’s size into its coarse confined space.

  Breathing shallow, eyes fixed on the limited number of air holes, the senator understood his grim fate. His frantic gaze swung back to Sean. “You wa
nt more money, is that it?” The former marine’s armor sounded as if it were cracking, a whiff of desperation in his voice, his pallor gray and clammy.

  Sean rose to his feet and stepped to the side, glancing at his watch. “I already have everything I want.” His satisfied focus rested on the crate, then lifted, empty of remorse, back to Dixon. “To be clear, you didn’t pay me anything. You paid them,” he tilted his head toward the two brutes waiting to cram Dixon into the box. “And everyone else responsible for getting you out of here under the radar and delivered to a remote island somewhere in the Pacific. I know you understand the costly overhead and complicated network involved in supporting that kind of covert organization. And they’re appreciative of the substantial donation you’ve made to their cause. Your generosity won’t be wasted. That’s why this luxury jet is only a prop, not your transport out of here.” Eyes flicking back to the crate, he taunted, “You’ll be stuffed inside, hauled away, and shipped right along with the other—inventory.”

  Eager to leave his past where it belonged, Sean signaled the two barrel-chested men to begin their work. Removing the lid that would soon be drilled shut with Dixon jammed inside, they stepped closer to their goods, their meaty hands reaching for him. With a final glance at the dead man’s angry, stricken face, Sean moved to the exit.

  “Where are you going, you son-of-a-bitch! Just do it! Do it now! Or don’t you have the guts to do it yourself, you coward! You liar!” he yelled.

  Waiting at the door for a moment, his back to Dixon, Sean savored the marked man’s plea for a quick death by his hand. He obliged—in his head, playing out multiple death-inducing scenarios. But they all lacked one critical element. Time.

  Time to fear.

  Time to suffer.

  Time to beg.

  Most of all, time to remember—all of them, their screams in sync with Dixon’s.

  He looked back over his shoulder, fingertips digging into his palms to control the beast warring inside to break free. “I’d like that. But this is about what they deserve—your victims, all the people you destroyed. They deserve justice. The kind that will leave you begging for your life, and then your death, at the hands of strangers who will drag your hell out, just so they can play their sick games with you a little longer. Sound familiar?” He waited a beat. “Whether or not I’m there, your blood will still be on my hands. And I won’t lose a second of sleep over how it got there.” Ducking through the door and climbing down the stairs, he heard the senator’s tirade trailing after him.

  “I’ll see you in hell, Parker! You hear me? I’ll fucking see you in—” The senator’s rage-filled rant ended with abrupt precision.

  The sharp silence sounded like victory ringing in Sean’s ears, and the door slamming shut on his past.

  With a brisk nod to Mick, leaning casually against the car, Sean noted the curious expression on his friend’s face. He was no doubt wondering why he had to wait on the tarmac away from the action. It had been an unusual request considering their history. Yet, even after forty years of friendship, Sean would always have secrets tucked away in dark corners. Secrets he would take to the grave. Where they belonged.

  He would never divulge his association with the illicit syndicate to which he had donated Graham Dixon. A global collaboration of like-minded men and women from governments and private industries who had grown impatient with the accepted channels of justice, frustrated with the layers of corruption and bribery that enabled human trafficking to flourish on every continent. He had worked for many years as a freelancer for the organization, supplying intel when requested, and rescues when needed. The punishments he meted out thereafter, however, had always been gratis. His preferred contribution to a righteous cause.

  “Everything okay?” Mick’s doubtful expression skimmed the metal bird with its steps still resting on the tarmac, his suspicion the plane wasn’t going anywhere stamped on his face.

  Sean replied with a nod, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Mick wouldn’t press him for details. He would trust Sean’s judgment because Mick was a good soldier. And an even better friend.

  “You’re driving. You can update me on Reece’s operation on the way,” his eyes swept over the muscle car, “while you’re redlining her.”

  Mick chuckled, his big hand sliding with reverence over the curved steel before sliding into the driver’s seat and taking the wheel. “Oh, I’ll make her scream my name. You can count on it.”

  Chapter 27

  The operation had been a success: the Dream Catcher raided, the imprisoned girls at Tan’s house rescued, and a long-standing, personal vendetta settled. Some men had stayed behind in the intervening days since, a cleanup crew to ensure no loose ends.

  Today, back at the abandoned outbuilding on St. John island, after Sean declared the end of the operation, those remaining men were now pulling iced beers from coolers, smoking stogies Mick had supplied, and recalling past missions. From here, they would all go their separate ways, pleased and emboldened by the profitable completion of another hazardous job, and thirsty for their next adrenaline rush.

  Soon after the official end of the mission, anxiety had fogged Sean’s brain, diminishing the current rowdy voices and laughter around him to a faraway hum.

  Why wouldn’t she take his calls? He had left messages, apologies. But, so far, all he had to hold on to were Scott’s testy words from a few days earlier, telling him that Shayna was fine—pissed as hell at both of them—but fine. Wrap up your wargames, Rambo. We’re at the top of her shit list, and you’re going to fix it. Hands and jaw clenched, a churning mixture of frustration and worry clawed deep across his chest. He would be on a plane to Paris soon. Then he would show his stubborn wife…

  A hearty slap to his shoulder vaporized the imagined reunion in his head and brought the chatter, and the man now standing next to him, into crisp focus.

  “We’ve had some tough missions,” Gunnar began, “could’ve had our asses handed to us lots of times. But we always found a way out, always found a way to win.” He paused, admiration in his wizened eyes. “Can’t lie, I’m gonna miss gettin’ called up by you. Sure you’re out?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ve heard that before, you know.” Gunnar had good reason to doubt Sean’s declaration. “Men like us are never really done. We may take breathers for a time, play at bein’ normal—whatever the fuck that is. But that itch, that hunger for somethin’ more, somethin’ dangerous, always comes back with a vengeance. Every fuckin’ time.”

  He wasn’t wrong.

  He wasn’t right, either.

  “Not this time.”

  Gunnar chuckled like a man who knew better than to believe what his ears had just heard. “All right, then.” His scarred, calloused hand extended, and Sean gripped it in a firm shake. “You have fun playin’ normal,” he leaned closer, “and call me when you don’t.”

  As Gunnar stepped away, a surge of raucous laughter drew Sean’s attention to the circle of men entertained by another of Mick’s colorful stories, his eyes wide, hands gesturing in wild sweeps. The big man was a storytelling machine. It was his superpower.

  Like Sean, another man stood back from the group, his arms crossed, a shoulder pressed against the wall. There was more hair above his lip and anchoring his chin than on his recently shaven head. It was Marcus Black, his intense focus leveled at Sean.

  Making his way around the distracted group to Marcus, Sean stood before him, silent, waiting for whatever the man had to say.

  After a few seconds of each trying to get a read on the other, Marcus shifted off the wall to stand tall, thumbs hooked at his front pockets. “Are the news reports true?”

  Sean played dumb. “About what?”

  Marcus appeared unconvinced by Sean’s nonchalant response. “Is Senator Dixon really on the run?”

  The question, and answer, had many layers; Sean knew it.

  Marcus knew it.

>   The combative exchange with Marcus in the belly of a tanker those many weeks earlier played back in Sean’s head. Only Mick knew the dirty details of Sean’s tangled ties to Dixon. However, beginning with their contentious dialogue that day on the tanker and everything that had happened since, right up to the gruesome discovery in Tan’s basement, he could see Black had pieced the complicated puzzle together. The origin story of the bad blood between him and Dixon had become clear to Marcus. It tainted him now, too.

  They were kindred. Like it or not.

  Sean stepped closer. “Wherever the senator’s at, you don’t need to look over your shoulder for him.” He lowered his voice. “Neither does your family.”

  Relief eased the strain on Marcus’ face, but then deep remorse weighed down his features. “I’m no Boy Scout. But,” he looked away, “I can’t forget what I saw in that basement. You were right. Directly or indirectly, I helped those animals. I don’t think I can wall it off, go on like I didn’t see it. But I’m not sure what to do about it.” His teeth ground together, and his shoulders straightened, hands now fisted at his sides. “I know what I feel like doing.”

  In that telling moment, Sean recognized the tormented eyes of his own haunted past, and the pivotal point from it. “I know what you want to do. But it won’t ease your conscience or clean your hands. It’ll just be more fucked up things you have to wall off.” He watched him for a second. “You’re at a critical fork in the road, Marcus. You could live an uncomplicated life. Be a father to that little boy. A husband to his mother. Or, you can continue down the road you’ve been on, putting yourself and the people you care about in danger.”

  “Seems to be the choice you made.”

  “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you know anything about me because of what you saw while I let you track me. The timing and context of my choices were different. And your regrets will be different too.”

  Marcus seemed to mull over Sean’s words, and his options. “The people I care about aren’t in danger because of me, not anymore. I’m already dead to them. I’m a ghost, remember?”