Looked like I'd gotten picked up by the right men after all. What a shame it would be if it was a completely different set of thugs. Something crawled across my leg, as light and unpleasant as a single stray hair, and I tried not to think about the last time the bed I was on had been washed, if ever.
Christina Parker could not do this. She had been through some difficult things, but she was sheltered. You only had to see her face to know that. She had an unguarded openness in her manner and speech that only comes from having lived a privileged life. A few weeks in a basement doesn't change that.
I brushed the insect away, and winced at the stiffness in my arm. The unknown sedative had made my body feel as heavy as lead, and I ached as though I'd fallen asleep contorted in an unnatural position.
I sat up with effort, cursing the criminals, hoping there wasn't anything more dangerous in that needle than the usual mix of staph and old blood. I was lying on a cot in a dark, windowless room. No other furniture that I could make out, and the bed looked to be bolted down. Creaks in the walls and floor, and the distant rumble of chatter, told me that I wasn't alone.
But where aren't I alone?
I frowned. Had I been out longer than I thought? They could have bathed me, I realized. I could scarcely make out whether or not I was wearing the same clothes. They could have bathed me and changed my clothing while I was unconscious.
I looked down. A quick assessment proved that no, I was not dressed as before: a revelation that would be a bleak wake-up call for any woman entrapped in their snare. We've seen it all, that said, and who knows, we may just see more. Sick — and clever.
A key rattled in the lock, startling me. I hadn't even heard the footsteps approach. Was it that the walls were that thick, or was I losing my touch?
I sucked in my breath.
A man filled the doorway. The light behind him was blinding, throwing his entire face into geometric relief. Under his brown threadbare jacket, he wore a dark t-shirt. His unkempt beard further distorted the lower half of his face, and gave him a filthy, half-feral appearance. Beards could be a clever touch, if they weren't memorable. Shaving it off could be a separate disguise. Nothing about this man was memorable. He was generic trash.
This could be a good sign. If they suspected I was anything apart from what I was pretending to be — a naive foreign girl who had allowed herself to be sold into the sex industry — they wouldn't have bothered with all this pretense; they would have shot me on sight, point-blank, like the poor fool who'd been used to get my foot in through the door.
Unless they have something worse than death in mind, I reminded myself. I couldn't afford to be too positive. They might use torture to find out what I know.
Not that I was any stranger to pain. Even before I got involved in the IMA, and the personal hazards that accompanied such a vocation, I'd been well acquainted with agony. Twice the equipment in one of the local factories of my childhood home had exploded because of poor safety protocols. I had detailed one of those incidents to Michael; I hadn't told him that I'd been in another.
I'd been bringing lunch to my father when some of the lubricating oil caught fire from a spark generated by the grinding metal parts. The force of the explosion had been enough to blow me back. I'd almost lost an eye. I'd almost been killed. The explosion had left burn scars up and down the left side of my face. I was told that I would never look normal again. My parents despaired at ever finding someone willing to marry their deformed, half-breed daughter. The untouchable was just that: untouchable. Unlovable. A face not even a mother could love, much less a husband.
Adrian had recognized the freshness of the scars and the even fresher emotional wounds that accompanied them, and mocked me for it, even as he'd raped me. “Perhaps some depraved part of you is flattered,” he'd said, in that awful accent of his, “that anyone would want you with that face — even like this. And you hate yourself for that, don't you?”
“You are awake.” The guard's voice cut through the silence like a blade. But now that I was aware of his presence, I didn't startle. I'd been expecting him to say something, to assert his presence.
I paid him no mind. For all he knew, I couldn't even speak English. The drugs were strong. They wouldn't expect me to be possessed of myself. And I didn't trust myself to speak or act while my thoughts still swirled bright with hatred.
People say hate is like a poison — but they're wrong. It's like a drug. You never forget your first hit, how it seduces you with its strength and power, and takes you completely by storm. It colors your world in light and meaning, until you wonder how you ever managed to get by without it. And then, eventually, you get to a point where you can't. It takes over your life, until hating becomes your reason for living.
When Adrian brought me to the U.S. I went to a paramedical tattoo artist who specialized in matching ink pigments to human skin. Scar tissue is more sensitive than regular tissue, and the pain was intense, but the scars were a memory I want to forget, and made me more memorable where I would have preferred to be forgotten. And with my face fixed, I found that many doors that had been closed to me were now open. The very men who had mocked my appearance now fell over themselves trying to please me. It was disillusioning. It was pathetic.
But it gave me a reason to keep on living.
I looked at the man in the room, the man who would bring me down if he could, and wondered which distorted version of me he saw. He looked back at me with black, fathomless eyes and chewed on something — it looked like a wooden toothpick.
When he spoke again, all he said was, “Get up.”
I did.
Mistake. I cursed myself. I was pretending that I didn't speak much English. Should I have understood this command? On the other hand, his order had been accompanied by a gesture that was pretty damn clear.
Maybe not such a mistake after all.
Maybe I should have shown more fear, though.
No, I decided. Not yet. But a little more meekness couldn't hurt.
“This way,” the man said.
I hesitated — good girl. “Why?”
The man grabbed me roughly by the arm. His fingers were painful. I looked down, to give the appearance of submission while I searched for distinguishing marks. He had a scar on the back of his hand, and his nails were stained brown with nicotine.
Filthy habit.
I hoped I wouldn't have to fuck this man. I could do it, but it would be unpleasant, to borrow Michael Boutilier's woefully inadequate turn of phrase.
Luckily, fucking seemed to be the last thing on his mind. Everything about his conduct bespoke a grim, business-like sense of urgency.
He was worried.
Which meant I should be worried, too.
Flies buzzed, describing slow, somnolent circles in the stale air. The hall was silent but I had the sensation of being watched by unseen eyes.
The man opened a door and let go of me to give me an ungentle shove that sent me stumbling through. “In,” he said, belatedly.
I regained my balance, straightening as I did so, taking care not to stand too tall or look too poised. Appearance was everything; reconnaissance was akin to being a character in a play — only if I did not reprise the role to satisfaction, it really would be curtains.
There was another man waiting in this room.
This new one was dressed similarly to the one who'd held me in his vise grip. He was a smoker, too. I could smell the lingering chemical odor of his cheap, undoubtedly imported cigarettes, seasoned by his rotgut alcohol of choice. What a revolting human being he was. That they both were. This profession was tailored to suit human detritus like them.
He looked me over without playing at subtlety. I saw neither approval nor disapproval in his face, though his expression was far from kind. When his eyes met mine again, it was free from any lingering signs of his humanity.
I waited.
He waited.
I waited longer.
Finally, he spoke.
&
nbsp; “The life you knew is over.”
Trace of an accent, too. Not Russian or Serbian, like the dubious club owner from before. Something else. Possibly Albanian. Interpol's wanted list was filled with Albanian men wanted for everything from human trafficking to terrorism. A hazard, when your chief export is crime.
The men exchanged a look, and I realized my face must have looked too wooden. I stared at the new man impassively, allowing a tinge of unease and, yes, fear, to creep into my face. Fear was what they wanted to see, but if I showed too much, they would be all too quick to tear me apart. Too little, and I would be made into an example.
Deliberately, the man said, “You belong to us.”
He spoke slowly, making lewd hand gestures that would ensure that the implications of that statement sank in in spite of the language barrier.
I shook my head furiously. The new man nodded, and the first one, my captor, slapped me casually. That was a nice touch. Debasing, without involving enough force to leave a mark. The sting was already fading. In an ordinary girl, the dehumanization wouldn't. I let my shoulders sink, which the men took for submission, resignation — whatever it was they were aiming for, that was what they chose to see.
“This is where you live now.”
The second man raised his arm, and I braced myself for another slap, only half-feigning it this time, but he was only gesturing towards the room, in a half-circle gesture that reminded me of the flies in the hall outside.
“You will stay in your room. You will not leave, unless one of the men here comes with you. You will fuck whoever we tell you to fuck. All of the money you make belongs to us.”
Of course. It all comes down to money in the end.
There's a saying that you can't put a price on a human life, but that saying is a lie because we have. We have, and it's so much lower than you would think. Yes, human life has its price like anything else, and will continue to do so for as long as it doubles as a commodity.
I must not have looked appropriately humbled, because the man's eyes narrowed. “If you steal from us, or try to run away, we will know, and you will be dealt with severely.”
Because the premises were being filmed by CCTV cameras? Or because he encouraged the girls to inform on one another? I had to assume it was a mix of both. I continued to meet his eyes blankly.
“You might lose a hand, or your legs. Maybe both.” He shrugged, as if it made no difference to him. “You will make more money if you are whole, and we will be happier with you if you make more money. You want us to be happy with you. If you make enough, we may even decide to let you go. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.”
What a liar he was. If anything, this speech was motivation to avoid becoming a top-grossing commodity. They would never release such a viable and easily manipulated source of income. Not willingly — although a naive girl who didn't speak the language might not think that through. Not when escape was the only thing on her mind.
His threat of amputation, however, could very well be true.
I repressed a shudder.
I had seen such things done before. Adrian Callaghan, for example, mutilated his victims for fun. I had seen him cut out the tongue of the man who Michael Boutilier called Villanueva. He toyed with the man the way a cat does with an injured bird, ending his misery only when he had tired of the game. Oh, and yes — he had raped him, too.
I had seen such things done in India, too. In many ways, Adrian was a glaring reminder of what I had left my country to escape. The difference was that the villains in my home country had become villains out of necessity, of desperation, of greed. Adrian had become a villain because he found it diverting, and because it came as naturally to him as sleeping or breathing. As horrible as these men were, they could not hold a candle to Adrian Callaghan's many cruelties: he could reduce them to a weeping, bloody powder if he wished.
“Do you understand?” the man asked bluntly.
“Y-yes,” I said, infusing the word with a heavy accent.
Not that it would matter if I did or not. This man did not care if I understood; he only wanted to make a point. He nodded, putting an end to the conversation.
Adrian might be more dangerous, but the threat that these men posed to me was far more immediate. I would do well to heed their warnings — for now.
“Take her out of here.”
A hand closed around my arm, and I traded one circle of hell for another.
Michael
Suraya's first transmission came sooner than I'd anticipated. I had planned on at least several days passing before she felt secure enough to risk communicating. Weeks, even. Gaining the trust of such jaded men took time. I hoped this message was a good sign, but it could just as easily be a bad one. Something could have gone wrong.
Fuck, something probably had gone wrong.
I glanced at Christina, who was fast asleep. A strand of hair was hanging in her face, fluttering with every exhaled breath.
I quietly rolled to my feet, walking to the balcony where the glow of the screen wouldn't disturb her. The message was short, almost curt in its brevity.
Consider the messenger shot.
That was all. Nothing else. Nothing to signify how she was settling into her role.
Nothing.
Messenger shot.
Cliff's man must have been killed.
I didn't like that, but I'd been prepared for that eventuality. Human trafficking was a despised industry, by cops and felons alike, forcing its perpetrators to scurry around in secrecy: they were the very dregs of the morally bankrupt, and conducted their acts with the paranoia and ruthless efficacy of those who know that they have no sympathizers.
It stood to reason that the traffickers would not want to leave any witnesses behind. I'd expected that as well. The drug runner had served his purpose, and having done so there was no reason to let him go. Not only could he spill incriminating secrets, he was money out of the bank. I would not have been surprised if they had killed him just so they wouldn't have to pay him. That's what I would have done, in their position. But then, I like to cover all my bases.
Suraya was alive, though. That was something.
I leaned against the railing. Moisture in the air beaded on my face and the glowing screen of the phone, distorting the pixels into a smeary glowing blur. She had made it this far. I'd give her that. Her prissiness in the office had been an act, like so much else; she had a core of steel. Had to, to get this far.
Suraya was a tough woman. If anyone could handle the job, I knew it would be her. The story she had told me about how she had met Adrian Callaghan seemed true, but I suspected the details she had given me were just a scratch on the surface. Maybe she blamed herself for getting involved with him when her gut instinct was to say “no.” But her gut had probably been saying a number of things, considering who she'd been dealing with, and if Callaghan really had tortured a man in front of her, if he had raped her, working with the bastard might have seemed like the lesser of two immediate evils.
Consciences can atrophy like any other living part of the human body, curling up and withering away from disuse. Even good people can go bad when their morals are left to fester. I walked back into the office suite, shaking my head. And like other parts of the human body, remediation could coax life back into that numb and deadened space.
I knelt down on the floor. In lieu of a bed, Christina was sleeping on our discarded pile of clothes, her hand curled into the folds of my jacket. My chest tightened. I slid a few strands of hair out of her sleeping face. She mumbled and shifted away, and I let my hand fall to the floor. Consciences. I scoffed. What a lark. What had they done for me lately? Made my life a damn sight more difficult.
Christina stirred and blinked her eyes. She brushed the hair out of her face that had caught my attention earlier. “Michael? What happened?”
Developing a conscience had also gotten me the woman I loved.
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing happened. Go back to sleep
.”
“I felt a draft. Where did you go?”
“Nowhere,” I said. “Just outside.”
Her mouth pursed. “Why?”
“Suraya messaged me.”
“She did?” Christina struggled to sit up. Her breasts wobbled a bit with the movement, and she folded her arms, hugging herself. That self-conscious act had pushed her breasts up, and I could see the erect nipple of the left one peeking out from over the back of her hand. I had to force myself to look away. “What did she say? Is she all right?”
“They killed the man who sold her, but she's still alive.” For now.
“Killed?”
“In that line of work, you can't afford to leave witnesses.”
She pressed her full lips together, thinking that over. As she unfolded her arms, she drew my conscious attention to the fact that she still wasn't wearing anything.
“Did she say anything else?”
“No. Probably couldn't afford to. Not at this point.”
I pressed her back, straddling her bare hips to keep her pelvis pressed against the floor. She felt as stiff and unyielding as a tree. Nothing like the pliable woman I had fucked the night before. I flicked the nipple that had captured my attention with my tongue and felt her shudder, and yield. Better. I closed my teeth lightly around her skin before sucking her into my mouth and kissing her hard enough to make her buck beneath me.
“Michael — ”
Much better.
“Shh.” I stroked her other breast with my fingers, and her breathing faltered. I knew if I felt between her legs she'd be ready for me. My cock was pressing against her pubic bone through the too-thick barrier of my pants, and jerked at the thought of plunging inside her, and feeling her tighten around me as I made her come again and again. “Don't talk.”
Thrusting into her was like jerking off during a hot shower — arousing, relaxing, familiar. The added resistance of her tight pussy, the sweet smell of her skin, and the look on her face as I fucked her to orgasm added to the experience, and made my balls tighten with pleasure, and my thoughts go dull. There's a reason sex can be dangerous; when you're fucking a beautiful woman, there isn't a whole lot of room in your head for anything else.
Cease and Desist (The IMA Book 4) Page 11
