by Holly Bargo
“I don’t know that we’ll have sufficient weaponry.”
Gennady shrugged. “Since when have we needed firearms?”
Bogdan focused his annoyance on Gennady. “Maksim ordered what Gennady and I need. The dealer should be contacting you shortly.”
“I just received word payment went through,” Iosif shared.
“So, what’s the plan?” Gennady inquired as he rummaged in his duffel and pulled out clothing appropriate for a military excursion into the jungle. “Iosif, order something to eat. I’m starved.”
“Spasibo,” Iosif thanked them, his voice quiet and intent with gratitude. Bogdan nodded at him in solemn welcome while Gennady grinned his lady-killer smile. Iosif picked up the phone and placed an order for room service. Bogdan pulled out suitable clothes and boots for Iosif and tossed them at him.
The men changed clothes and discussed the plan of attack as they ate. When they were nearly finished with their meal, Iosif’s phone pinged again. He glanced at it. “I’ve got the pick-up information. Let’s go.”
They took the back stairs to avoid notice and followed the directions Frank provided. Iosif cursed at the time wasted on this treasure hunt, but knew he had no choice but to comply with the arms dealer’s whims.
“This is good shit,” Bogdan commented as he settled a gun belt over his lean hips and racked the slide of a pistol to determine whether it was loaded. He stuffed loaded magazines into the appropriate pockets of his pants.
Iosif agreed that Frank hadn’t sold them inferior weapons, although he generally preferred IWI to Glock.
“Look at this.” Gennady lifted a .50 caliber IWI Desert Eagle, eyes gleaming.
“I’ll carry that,” Iosif said.
“The hell you will,” Gennady objected. “You’re the sharpshooter. I’m better with the elephant gun.”
Bogdan chuckled. “He’s right, Iosif.”
Iosif sighed in acceptance and settled the .45 caliber Glock in its holster.
When they’d efficiently stowed extra ammunition on their persons and settled their weapons in place, the three men climbed into the car Bogdan had rented at the airport and refueled just before arriving at the hotel. Iosif watched the tropical scenery grow dark and thick as full darkness descended.
“We’ll get her back,” Gennady assured him, his voice quiet and sure. “And maybe I’ll get a woman, too.”
“Any woman you find there will already be broken, Gennady,” Bogdan said. “I thought you liked the work of breaking them to suit you.”
The wiry man shrugged. “It gets tiring. It might be a nice change of pace to have a woman who’s already trained. Maybe she’ll look at me as a savior instead of the devil.”
Iosif looked out the window and said nothing, although he thought that Gennady was probably correct. Any woman—other than Latasha—who survived would probably be grateful and eagerly comply with Gennady’s dark and twisted passions.
* * *
Latasha woke alone in a dark room with a pounding headache, aching left arm, and soreness deep in her abdomen and between her legs. She tried to shift and realized her wrist was handcuffed above her head. She jerked weakly against the restraint, more because she thought she should at least make the attempt than because she entertained any real expectation of success. As she expected, the cuffs and iron headboard held firm. She scissored her legs and squirmed her hips, trying to determine whether she’d been raped. She didn’t feel the anticipated stickiness of semen or blood and supposed she’d been spared that fate for a moment yet. Elsewhere, though, her skin burned. What the hell had they done to her?
Lying still because there was no use in wasting her energy with futile struggle, she heard the slap of shoe leather and the murmur of male voices. Afraid whoever was outside the closed door would enter, she closed her eyes and feigned unconsciousness. Perhaps she could put off fate a while longer.
The door opened. Latasha focused on keeping her body relaxed and her breathing shallow. Calloused fingers dug into her cheeks, pulling her head around.
“Ella debería despertar pronto,” the man said, telling a second person who had entered with him that she ought to awaken soon.
“Déjala hasta mañana. Mi esposa me espera,” the other man murmured and left.
The man holding her let go, and Latasha let her head fall back as though her neck had no bones. He grunted, turned, and followed El Jefe out. Latasha counted silently and slowly to one hundred, two hundred, three hundred, not daring to twitch so much as a single muscle. She strained her ears to listen for the slightest sound that someone remained in the room to catch her conscious.
When she felt satisfied that she was alone in the room, Latasha again opened her eyes and kept every other muscle still. She listened and delicately shifted as best she could, making as little noise as possible. Her belly growled and she stifled a giggle of hysteria. Of all the times to be hungry!
Then she noticed the pressure on her bladder and wanted to moan. No way would she be able to hold her bladder until morning. The idea of wallowing in urine-soaked bedding made her want to weep with exasperation.
Her distress prevented her from noticing the approach of another visitor until the door opened. She gasped and bit her lower lip, almost sighing with relief to see the madam’s stout figure approach.
“Bueno. Estas despierto. Te llevaré al baño y te lavarás. Entonces comerás,” the woman said as she reached for Latasha’s left wrist.
Frightened, the young woman jerked, but the older woman’s grip was strong.
When her wrist was freed of the cuff, she lurched backward, but the woman fully expected the evasive maneuver and caught her. With a sharp crack, she struck Latasha and said, “No!”
Latasha recoiled and sniffled, feeling utterly defeated. The woman yanked her to her feet and practically frog marched her from the small room to the door of another room. The madam banged on the door and shouted at whoever was in there. A moment later, the door opened and one of the whores emerged, her skin moist and pink from hot water. A torrent of heated Spanish ensued, too fast for Latasha to follow. The whore looked at her, saw the confusion and distress on her face, and must have felt a spark of compassion.
“You are to use the toilet and wash yourself,” she said in a dull, quiet tone in English accented with a Texas drawl. “There is a bathrobe in there for you. Wear it.”
The madam erupted with another torrent of angry Spanish. The whore carefully explained that the new girl didn’t understand Spanish and she was merely translating expectations. Disgruntled, the madam accepted the explanation, adding a threat that if anything else had been said, the whore would find herself thrown to the entertainment of the El Jefe’s lowest, roughest soldiers.
The two young women, one fresh and frightened and hoping for rescue and the other too dispirited and despairing to care, exchanged commiserating looks.
“Obey them,” the latter whispered, imparting one last bit of advice before walking down the hallway to the quarters she shared with two other discarded whores.
The madam shoved Latasha forward, causing her to stumble into the bathroom. She closed and locked the door behind them and pointed toward the toilet. Latasha eagerly complied, biological need overcoming humiliation. When she finished, the madam pointed to the shower and bade her strip. Keeping the other woman’s words in mind, Latasha let the satin robe fall from her shoulders and slide to the floor. The madam looked at her and clucked her tongue as she poked at the outline of the young woman’s ribs clearly visible through the cafe au lait skin. Latasha thought the madam said something along the lines of, “Too skinny. She won’t last two weeks.”
Latasha made use of the shampoo and basic white soap. Discretely checking herself as best she could, she decided she hadn’t been raped. Yet. Oh, goody, something to look forward to, her inner bitch muttered with caustic sarcasm.
She hoped Iosif was on his way.
When she finished her shower, the madam handed her a towel and then a t
hin, cotton bathrobe. She put it on and found her arm once again encased in the tight clamp of someone’s hand. Damn, that woman had a strong grip!
The madam escorted her back to the small room and released Latasha’s arm. She gestured for the boss’ new whore to get back on the bed. Latasha saw that as an opportunity for defiance.
She darted around the woman and dashed for the door. The woman barked out an order to stop, but Latasha’s bare feet slapped loudly on the marble floor. She didn’t get far. Ever-present guards caught her and dragged her back to the room, not missing the opportunity to put their hands where they didn’t belong. The madam said nothing while they groped and pinched and slapped her until one badly aimed blow hit her across the face. Latasha yelped anew as warm blood spurted from her nose.
“¡Paren, idiotas! El Jefe te matará si dañas su nuevo juguete,” the madam shouted over the new whore’s sniffles and tears, warning them of the dire consequences they faced if they hurt the boss’ new girl.
The two guards settled for cuffing her left wrist to the wrought iron headboard of the bed and getting a few more rough gropes in before the madam shooed them out.
The madam looked at her and said slowly, enunciating each syllable, “Voy a conseguir comida. Comerás.” She mimed spooning food to her mouth and chewing. Latasha nodded to show that she understood. The woman nodded and left, closing and locking the door behind her.
Latasha yanked her wrist again with as much success as before.
She hoped Iosif was on his way.
Shortly after the madam departed, one of the other whores entered bearing a bowl filled with some sort of grayish porridge. She sat down on the mattress beside Latasha, not bothering to straighten her robe when it slid down over her shoulder. Latasha looked once into the woman’s dull expression and dead eyes and could not bear to look again as the woman scooped up a spoonful of porridge and held it to her mouth. Latasha reached for the spoon with her one free hand, but the other woman moved the spoon away and shook her head slowly. Latasha sighed and the woman again brought the spoon close. Trying one more time, Latasha grabbed at the spoon. The girl’s mouth twisted in a snarl and she hurled the bowl and spoon to the floor beyond Latasha’s reach.
Muttering an insult against the stupidity of new girls, the whore left the room. The madam returned, glanced at the mess, and broke into a spate of angry invective. She slapped Latasha, looked at the message again, and slapped her some more. Latasha whimpered as fresh pain bloomed bright and angry across her skin. She buried her face into her arm and shrank away, but could not avoid the pummeling which continued until a particularly vicious blow struck her temple and she blacked out.
* * *
Frank’s directions proved accurate, much to Iosif’s relief. The vehicle had long since left asphalt behind and had pulled into the dense cover of tropical foliage. He, Gennady, and Bogdan smeared blacking over their faces and necks, pulled on thin, black gloves, and quietly went over their strategy one final time.
“Don’t shoot until it’s absolutely necessary. Our ammo is limited,” Iosif warned them. The other two men, who also had once served with the Russian military, looked at him with annoyance. They didn’t need reminding.
Iosif did not apologize. Slipping their only pair of night vision goggles over his eyes, he took the lead and began walking. Gennady and Bogdan crept along behind him, their progress stealthy. Gennady pointed out the first patrolling thug. At Iosif’s nod, he circled around the bored man. From behind, he clamped his hand over the man’s mouth and, with his other hand, plunged the nonreflective black blade of his KA-BAR knife into the thug’s throat. A few seconds later, he lowered the dead man to the ground and dragged him under some shrubbery. Gennady wiped the blade on the corpse’s pant leg and returned to his comrades.
Rolling his shoulders and grinning with evil glee, he said in a low, exultant voice, “Well, that was fun.”
“We will all wallow in blood tonight,” Iosif promised.
They eased forward. Iosif took out the next guard and Bogdan a third. The closer they approached, the less direct their route became. All three men knew they needed to eliminate as many opponents as they could going in, so they’d have better odds of survival coming out.
By the time they reached the wrought iron gates leading to El Jefe’s ostentatious mansion, the sleeves of all three men were soaked in blood. Bogdan looked up at the spikes topping the gate and the iron fencing that enclosed the immediate grounds.
“It’s not going to be easy going over that,” he commented.
Iosif fished in the last dead guard’s pockets and found a set of keys. He detected no lock on the gates to which any of those keys fit.
“Maybe one of the keys unlocks the guard shack,” Gennady said.
Iosif handed the keys to Gennady and took several steps back and then a running leap. He grabbed onto a spike and used the momentum to fling himself over the gate. Landing heavily, knees bent, he grunted and paused to listen before straightening to his full height. He approached the gate and reached through. Gennady dropped the keys into his hand.
“Good jump,” the wiry man complimented.
Iosif nodded and applied the keys to the door of the guard shack. Sure enough, one of them opened the door. He stepped in and gagged. The shack’s interior smelled unpleasantly of unwashed flesh, onions, and flatulence. No wonder the guard had left his post; he’d been desperate for fresh air.
“Anybody read Spanish?” Iosif inquired.
Gennady and Bogdan shook their heads. Vitaly was the linguist among them, and he was home lying in his cozy bed with his wife.
“Door, door, door,” he chanted softly, looking at the labels on the control panel.
Looking through the bulletproof window, Bogdan pointed to one switch labeled portón and said, “That’s like portal, right?”
Iosif shrugged and said, “Let’s do it.” He pressed the switch and the iron gate swung open almost soundlessly on its well-oiled hinges. Once the gate was open, Bogdan set himself to disabling the mechanism to ensure it stayed open.
The three men advanced toward the mansion, taking a zigzag pattern to conceal their presence within clumps of foliage and trees. The barking of dogs greeted them next.
“Fuck,” Gennady spat. “I hate dogs.”
Bogdan looked at Iosif and asked, “Do we kill them?”
Iosif nodded once without hesitation. He’d regret dispatching the animals later. For now, guard dogs were a danger he did not need.
With uncanny accuracy, four Rottweilers leaped from the darkness. One crashed into Gennady who struggled against the beast before driving his knife up to the hilt into the dog’s ribs. Bogdan quickly disabled one and then took on another. Iosif caught the fourth with a knife to the beast’s throat. Bogdan growled as the dog sank its teeth into his arm. Having no better option, Iosif drew his pistol and shot the dog. Gennady leaped over to the injured dog, which whined piteously, and cut its throat.
“If they weren’t sure we were here before, they definitely know now,” Iosif said.
They raced toward the closest set of doors.
The doors were works of stellar craftsmanship. Thick planks of wood tightly fitted together and banded with iron that wasn’t merely decorative hung from massive hinges built to withstand their immense weight. Practically medieval looking, the doors were latched and locked with modern hardware that yielded to three well-aimed kicks from Iosif’s booted foot. They swung open easily on those well-oiled hinges. Weapons drawn, the three men rushed inside.
The rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapons fire found answer in the heavy boom of Gennady’s Desert Eagle. The sound echoed off the bare walls, followed by shouts and screams.
“Got one,” Gennady quipped with macabre humor.
“I need one alive,” Iosif ordered as they heard the thud of booted feet racing toward them.
With military precision, the Bratva soldiers moved from room to room, clearing each and leaving blood and corpses in their wa
ke. El Jefe’s disorderly thugs couldn’t make up for the elite and brutal training that opposed them.
“I’m out of nine,” Bogdan announced as he tossed the pistol away with one hand and drew a .357 magnum caliber pistol from its holster between his shoulders with the other. The long barrel sent a heavy bullet into the thigh of a thug. Gennady raced forward to capture the disabled man.
“English?” the wiry man demanded.
“No hablo Ingles,” the man moaned as he clamped his hands over the fast-bleeding wound in his leg.
“I doubt he speaks Russian,” Bogdan said and aimed his gun at the man’s head. He wouldn’t miss at point blank range.
“I speak English,” came a young voice from another direction.
Bogdan spun around as Gennady clubbed the wounded man on the head with the butt of his weapon. The man’s eyes rolled back and he slumped unconscious to the floor. The man would either die of blood loss or, if he survived, lose the use of his leg. Bogdan didn’t care which.
“Who are you?” Iosif asked, eyes narrowed at the youth who gazed dispassionately at the carnage.
The boy, who looked to be about sixteen, raised his chin and turned emotionless eyes toward him.
“If I tell you what you want to know, then you must promise not to harm my mama or my sisters.”
Iosif met the unflinching gaze of the boy whose dead, soulless eyes showed no emotion. Only intelligence.
“I do not hurt women,” he said, a blatant lie. But the boy did not know that.
The boy held his gaze for a moment, then nodded as though coming to a decision. “I am Pablo Ochobella.”
“I’m looking for a woman,” Iosif growled.
The boy nodded, not pretending to misunderstand. “The new girl. He said I might have her when he was finished with her. She’s muy linda for a negra.”
Iosif raised his gun. “If you have touched her, I’ll kill you.”
The boy cast him a look of patrician disgust for the hoi polloi. “I do not lie with negras.”
Iosif’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Where is she? Tell me or you are of no use to me and will die where you stand.”
