Deception and Chaos

by S. M. Soto

  Deception and Chaos © 2018 S.M. Soto

  All Rights Reserved.

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, dead or alive are a figment of the author’s imagination and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s mind’s eye and are not to be interpreted as real.

  Copyright © 2018 S.M. Soto

  Book Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs

  Editing by Sara Miller and R. Jones

  Interior Design/Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  Warning: This book is intended for mature audiences due to very disturbing situations, dubious content, strong language, and graphic violence. May contain triggers for abuse victims.

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  OTHER BOOKS BY S.M. SOTO

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  PREVIEW OF BLOOD AND CHAOS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The San Diegan Series

  The Darkest Hour

  Scoring the Quarterback

  Damaged Heart

  Coming Soon

  Ache: A Second Chance Romance

  To those that have been a victim of circumstance.

  National Human Trafficking Resource Center:

  1(888)373-7888

  SMS: 233733 (Text “HELP” or “INFO”)

  Website: traffickingresourcecenter.org

  PRESENT

  I WAKE UP TO THE sound of thudding footsteps and keys dangling. My stomach drops, churning violently, because I know who’s here with my daily torment and meal for the day. Crouching down in the filthy corner, I squeeze my frail body into a fetal position to protect myself the only way I can. My breaths come out in short spurts, the oxygen flooding in and out of my lungs. Of their own accord, my fingers curl into a fist, and my nails dig painfully into my palm as my heart thumps erratically against my chest.

  I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten anything, let alone how long I’ve been down here. I’ve skipped the one meal I normally receive in the morning and the one I receive in the evening. It’s my only means to decipher how long I’ve been stuck here. I don’t bear the privilege of seeing the morning rays or the silver light from the moon. I get nothing but four concrete, dilapidated walls.

  I hear the distinct sound of the key entering the lock and the jiggle of the knob. My heartbeat quickens and my body tenses in anticipation. Peeking through my curtain of chocolate brown hair, I warily watch as the bearded man from my nightmares strides through the door with a metal tray of food in his hands; along with a whip and a gun holstered to his hip. He scans the room with slow ease until he spots me huddled in the corner. An evil smirk pulls across the entirety of his face—eerily reminding me of the Joker. My body shivers uncontrollably as I wrap my arms around myself in a protective manner. He drops the tray onto the only table in the room—or basement, I’m not entirely sure—with a clatter that resonates around us. My head feels thick and heavy as my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

  The room is small, with a hard, sodden twin sized bed that reeks of body odor and urine. Leaky, rust stained pipes run along the ceiling and there’s not a window in sight. Just a looming wooden door and the noises beyond, and above it. I can’t even remember how long I’ve been here. I tried to kept count of my meals for a while until they would stop coming then start up again, all to throw off my sense of time, I’m assuming. Or maybe the men really didn’t care if I starved to death. Most likely the latter.

  Canned beans and moldy bread is all I’m ever offered. The water is filthy with flakes and particles floating in it. But on days like these, when my mouth feels so dry, like it’s filled with cotton, I find myself craving the dirty water. Anything to alleviate the burning sensation in my throat.

  This is what my life has become. A lonely basement fit for a lonely soul, devoid of all hope.

  The screech of a metal chair being dragged across the concrete floor snaps me out of my thoughts.

  “Eat now,” he demands in his thickly accented voice. It’s a blend of Iraqi and something else that makes the words seem longer—drawn out even.

  I eye the food on the tray warily and ignore the heady pangs of hunger curling violently in my stomach in short, tight contractions. I was hungry—so hungry, but I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction any longer. Still sore from yesterday’s beating, I stay put, waiting for him to leave. With my pulse pounding in my ears, I maintain my position, crouched low, afraid to move one muscle.

  Suddenly, he leaps out of his chair and stomps over to me in three quick strides. Yanking me up by my hair, he yells in a language I don’t understand. My scalp burns from the force of his grip, and tears cloud my vision as stinging pain radiates throughout my skull. Dragging me to the tray of food by my hair, he throws me onto the floor like a rag-doll. I cry out as a sharp pang shoots through my hip, rattling the frail bones. He shoves my face centimeters from the stale food with his hand still firmly gripped in my hair.

  “Eat!”

  In response, I do the same thing I’ve been doing for the past couple of days. I swipe the tray with my forearm and listen as it tumbles across the filthy cement floor. With a feral growl, he jabs his elbow into the back of my head, the momentum causing me to fall forward, face first. My hands slam against the hard concrete, only seconds before my face does, catching my fall. A fierce kick to my ribs forces the air out of my lungs and has me gasping for breath as pain blooms.

  Forcing me onto my back with his booted foot, he straddles my thin body, wrapping his meaty hands around my neck in a vise-like grip. Clawing at his hands and forearms, my body begs my lungs for air; my chest caves with discomfort. With what strength I have left, I kick my legs in vain, connecting with nothing as my hands futilely try to pry his lithe fingers off. His dark eyes glint with a cold emptiness and anger as my lungs burn with white hot pain. My vision blurs from the tears and black spots dance wildly behind my eyelids.

  This was it.

  I always knew I’d die down here, I just never wanted my death to be like this.

  His fingers tighten, cutting-off my air supply. Choking, the instinct to fight overrides my freezing terror. I squirm, scratching my nails over his wrists. It does nothing to stop him, if anything it only entices him to hurt me.

  The sound of a door crashing open and the scuffling of boots can vaguely be heard ov
er the roaring in my ears. His heavy weight is yanked off me, prompting me to gasp for much needed air. I roll over onto my side, choking on my ragged breaths and sputtering sobs. There’s a fire radiating from my throat and neck, constricting my airway. My chest rattles on a sob as I look up, spotting four filthy men standing near the door, watching me like predators.

  These were the usual men that came in every day. The men were some type of Middle-Eastern or Arabic descent. It looked like they wore the same thing every day: black pants, boots and a long shirt that looks like a robe. Oftentimes, the headdresses they wore concealed their identities. Some looked like balaclava’s with only their eyes visible. For the most part, they spoke broken English to me, but when they spoke to each other it was often in another language. One they knew I didn’t understand.

  The man on the far left of the group, Danish, with the full beard and soulless, black, beady eyes, takes a threatening step forward and smiles, revealing his decaying, yellowing teeth.

  “Time to play, pet.”

  With my heart lurching in my throat, I shuffle to my feet as terror overrides my body and I retreat until my back collides with the cool wall.

  I had nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide. Not again. Please, not again. My body won’t be able to handle it so soon.

  He easily closes the distance between us, smoothly flicking open his switch blade. My heart hammers in my chest and cold sweat seeps from my pores as the blade gleams in the dim light. With his knife, he traces the contours of my bony shoulder and collarbone, sending a wave of dread through my body. Danish rests the tip of the blade on my sternum, and I stop breathing. One large inhale and the blade could easily nick me. I swallow down the horrible feeling brewing in my gut. With the very tip of the knife, he places it over my filthy shirt, and seamlessly cuts straight through the front. Right down the middle.

  The degradation. They lived for it. Lived for making me feel like I was nothing. Nothing more than a filthy animal. And it worked. Even now, it worked.

  An ugly sob rips from my chest and I beg through broken, incoherent sentences for them to leave. To spare me just this once. Ignoring my pleas, he shoves me down onto my knees while the other men grip onto my arms, effectively holding me in place, forcing my body to be still; baring my naked chest to them all.

  And that’s when I hear it.

  The slither of the whip hits the floor and as if on cue, my body starts trembling uncontrollably. My stomach churns violently as the bile rises in my throat. The whip is the worst of their beatings. Just thinking about the pain that’s to come, I begin to lose all sense of reality and snap.

  “Please!” I scream hysterically. “Don’t do this. I’m sorry. I’ll eat, I promise I’ll eat,” I sob, pleading with them. “I can’t take this anymore, please!”

  Chuckles ring out around the small room as the men laugh at my hysterics.

  I heard the crack of the whip before I felt it. It slashed my back horizontally and the screech of agony that flew out of my mouth was piercing, even to my own ears. Another vicious lash slices my back in the same spot and white-hot pain radiates throughout the wound; spreading along my back like wildfire. I don’t hear anything except the sound of my pain—my screams, eating up the space inside my body, bleeding out of my ears. I choke on a cry and the sound gets clogged in my throat. The blood trickles down my spine in a slow path, the warm liquid tingles as it trails down my already battered skin.

  I tense my body, waiting for the next blow, and when it comes, it hurtles my body into a world of excruciating pain. I shriek out again at the top of my lungs and try loosening their grip on me. My voice is raw and scratchy from my wails of agony. A vicious lash hits my upper thighs, while another, slithers past my face and onto my shoulder, then landing on my back again. I can feel my skin separating with each of the brutal strokes. The pain spreads along my body, like I’m being branded with fire. Tears clog my throat as I hang my head and sob face down into the floor.

  “I think you enjoy the pain, pet.” Danish grates out harshly in my ear. It only makes my tears come harder and faster.

  With my cheek laying against the cool floor I stop fighting and fall into that blissful numbness that’s calling my name. I let it consume me. The energy dissolves from my body seamlessly, and I don’t have the power to hold myself up any longer. I feel nothing but the incessant throbbing radiating from my back. Hiccupping sobs escape my lips, and tears fall freely from my eyes. I lay motionless on the cool concrete, wishing it can swallow me whole. The whip finally stops, and I whimper in relief. Searing heat flays along my back, making it feel like raw, bloodied meat.

  My hair is gripped tightly, and my head is yanked back toward a pair of the vilest eyes I’ve ever seen.

  “You will learn to obey, kalb,” Danish sneers viciously.

  I muster up all my strength and spit into his face. My mouth is dry, and I don’t manage to spit out as much saliva as I would’ve liked, but the fighter in me sees it’s more than enough. His eyes blaze and his nostrils flare.

  “Remember this lesson, whore.”

  My hair is released, and my face cruelly smacks the concrete floor with a thud. A sharp pang shoots throughout my cheekbone and tears cloud my vision. I clench my eyes shut, staving off the pain. The faint thudding of boots in the room gets closer.

  Summoning all my strength, I peel my eyes open only to catch the tail end of a heavy boot flying toward my face. My skull is branded with fire when the boot makes contact. I try to block myself, but the blows come from every which way, uncaring where they land. The pain is insufferable, but after a while, my arms drop, and I make no move to protect myself. I no longer have the strength nor the power to do so.

  I can’t feel anything.

  I don’t want to feel anything.

  The last thing I remember is closing my eyes and letting the darkness devour my last breath.

  PAST

  “WELL, HELLO BROTHER DEAREST. LONG time no talk,” I chastise through the phone. It’s been three weeks since I last heard from my older brother, Garrett. He works out of state, and his job requires long hours of endless work.

  Doing what? I have no idea.

  Garrett sighs into the phone. “Sorry Soph. Work’s been crazy lately and my boss has been up my ass. Just wanted to check in and see how you were.”

  “I’m doing okay. I’m going to the banquet tonight for mom and dad. I really wish you could be here with me tonight, Gar. You know how hard this is.”

  I sit back in my chair and blow out a deep breath, fiddling with the stack of hot pink Post-it notes on my desk.

  After my parents’ death, my mom’s best friend threw a banquet in their honor. My father was in the service for as long as I can remember, and my mother was the dutiful service wife. They were the couple everyone in my father’s rank looked up to. Over the years, the banquet in their honor grew bigger and bigger, and now, it’s an event most charities and people refuse to miss.

  “I know, Sophia. I know. I wish I could be there with you tonight but I just…can’t. I’m sure mom and dad would be so proud that you’ll be there attending in their honor.”

  The line is quiet for a couple of seconds as we both silently think about the loss of both of our parents. I was thirteen when my parents passed away in a plane crash and Garrett was about to be eighteen. He’s taken care of me for as long as I can remember, he’s always been there for me, but these past few years he’s been more distant than ever. I wouldn’t blame him. Giving up your college years to care for your kid sister isn’t part of anyone’s life plan. He needs his space, I get that. I just wish it didn’t hurt so much.

  “So, who’s your date to the banquet tonight anyway?” He asks, changing the subject. “Please don’t tell me it’s that prick, James?” The irritation in his voice is unmistakable and I can’t help but laugh at my typical over bearing, protective brother.

  “Seriously, Garrett? And I’m not dating Jameson anymore.” I roll my eyes, putting emphasis on the name.
“Plus, you’re right. He totally was a prick. I’m going with Alexis. She’s been there through everything, and no one else knows how to soothe my mood like that girl does.” Garrett grunts on the other end of the line mumbling incoherently under his breath. I can almost picture the look on his face. It’s probably identical to his looks of distaste he wears whenever the subject of Jameson arises.

  “Glad to hear it. James was an all-around ass who thought he knew it all. You were too good for him anyway, Soph.”

  “Jameson, Garrett. His name was Jameson,” I chide. Vivacious voices and loud thumps erupt on the other end of the line. My brows pull together in a frown.

  “Garrett? You still there?” I ask while trying to listen in on the voices in the background.

  “Yeah, look…I’m sorry Soph, but I gotta run. We’ll talk soon though, all right?”

  His voice sounds muffled by the chaos in the background.

  A pang of disappointment and a wave of sadness engulfs me. All I wanted was a conversation with my big brother that lasted more than three minutes.

  “Wait, Gar! Please, just call me sooner than three weeks next time,” I say, though it comes off more like a question. “You used to visit every month and call every week. Now, I’m lucky if I even get one call and one visit from you. I know I lost mom and dad, but I never expected to lose my older brother, too. You’re all I have left Gar, just please come by and visit soon. I miss you so much.”

  The tears threaten, and my voice gives away my emotion. I hated not seeing my brother when I wanted. He was everything to me. When we lost our parents, he was my rock, my anchor, the only person who truly understood me. We shared a bond most brothers and sisters didn’t have. Losing your parents is tragic, but what’s even more tough is the fear of being separated from your sibling after losing a piece of your heart. Garrett took on the role of mom and dad and did everything he could to protect me—the ultimate sacrifice. All the while dealing with his own grief and trying to get an education and a job while caring for me. Garrett stepped up when most teens would’ve broken down, but not him. I grew up thinking my older brother was a super-hero, and I still do. I guess I still haven’t quite grown out of that notion.