Covertly Strong (The Strong Series Book 1)

by N. A. Alcorn

  He pistol-whips her again, anger clenching his jaw and spurring a twitching vein to protrude from his infuriated brow. “What. Is. Your. Name?” he demands.

  She pronounces each syllable with precision. “Felicia. Santora.”

  Another slash across her face has the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth

  “How much longer, sweetheart? How much longer do you want to play this game?”

  She spits straight into his face, still refusing to tell him anything. “Fuck you.”

  His brow furrows intensely as a protruding vein beats relentlessly at the top of his forehead, the muscles in his neck clenching and unclenching in rage. “Fucking coño,” he mutters as he wipes drops of her saliva mixed with blood from his face. His callused fingers run down the center of her chest and rest between her breasts. “I should show you a lesson.” He eyes her wickedly. “I have several men within this compound who would love to get a taste of you.” His dark gaze is disturbing and exudes evil. “Oh, would they love to get their greedy hands on an American coño like you.”

  She doesn’t avert her steadfast gaze from his. She remains strong, mentally telling herself that she would choose death over giving Hector Arturo any information.

  “I’m not stupid. Tell me what you did when you were here.”

  “My name is Felicia Santora and I gave immunizations to the members of your compound.” Her voice may be weak, but her intentions are one hundred percent strength. Her unwavering eyes exude her tenacity.

  Three hard strikes across her cheek leave her head hanging dejectedly towards her chest.

  The light in her eyes is completely knocked out, her equilibrium staggering for normalcy.

  He grips her hair again—tight enough to rip the strands straight out of her skull—and stares into her eyes. “I’m going to walk out of this room and give you another hour to comprehend that, if you do not provide me with the information I am requesting, I will fucking kill you. And I don’t mean a quick death. I will kill you slowly. I will let each of my men have a turn with you, and when we’re done, there won’t be enough of you left to identify your body.”

  He lets go of her hair, her head falling to the side unceremoniously, before putting out his cigarette on the open wound of her shoulder. A hiss escapes her teeth from the penetrating burn that permeates every nerve inside her body, the discomforting smell of burning tissue infiltrating her senses.

  Hector Arturo strides out of the room, slamming the steel door shut with a harsh bang. Sloan remains captive on the decrepit chair, every inch of her body throbbing from excruciating pain. The shallow breaths that escape her lungs and the erratic pounding in her chest are the only sounds that resonate in the room. Her body continues to lose blood at a slow, agonizing pace from the open flesh of her left thigh. The normal clarity of her mind is becoming vaguer by the second.

  The sensation of her life flashing before her eyes fills her senses, her thoughts reliving the moments of her past, the happy memories of her life. Her brain takes her away to blissful unconsciousness, where comforting memories wrap around her in a caressing, powerful hold, protecting her mind from the stark, unbearable realities that lie before her.

  Nix. She fades to unconsciousness with Nix filling her mind, protecting her from the painful reality.

  THE STEEL DOOR OPENS AND a female form is thrown into the room. Sloan’s eyes fight to stay awake, the life source of her body slowly draining away at a devastating pace. The excruciating pain radiating throughout her body has turned into an incessant ache. It seeps through every pore—every microscopic cell of her body—and resonates deep inside her bones.

  Crying echoes within the walls of the room. It’s a feminine cry, one that urges Sloan’s eyes to open and her retinas to focus on her surroundings, honing in on the woman lying dejectedly on the concrete floor.

  Nico Delgado stands angrily above the woman’s prone form, shouting obscenities and threatening words in Spanish. His jaw twitches and his throat releases a piercing growl. “Get up! Get up, you stupid bitch!” he screams. “You are worthless!” he shouts before unleashing a harsh kick to the woman’s ribs. “Stand up! Fucking stand up!” Spittle releases from his mouth and onto the woman’s disconsolate frame.

  Sloan watches her body slowly move to her hands and knees. The woman’s breathing is erratic, frantically inhaling and exhaling air at a hyperventilating pace. Her long, dark hair hangs over her face like a shield, and large drops of blood drip from the ends of her locks, unceremoniously falling onto the concrete floor. When she attempts to brush the hair away from her face, Sloan catches a glimpse of her profile.

  Alejandra Arturo.

  Nico grabs Alejandra by the throat, lifting her to her feet by sheer strength. His fingers tightly grasp her neck, the strangled breaths resonating inside the room. “What the fuck did you tell her?” he questions. His eyes gesture towards Sloan. “Are you working with her?”

  Alejandra shakes her head, no words possible over the harsh grip locked around her throat.

  “Stop lying to me! Stop fucking lying to me, Alejandra!”

  She continues to shake her head at a furious pace, her eyes widening in distress, her lungs visibly heaving up and down with shallow movements.

  “Leave her alone, you pathetic piece of shit,” Sloan manages to speak past the overwhelming dryness of her throat. She’s been without food or water for several hours, and bitter, putrid remnants of chloroform still remain inside her mouth, the tissue of her throat raw to the point of blood.

  A barking, menacing laugh comes from Nico’s sharp mouth. He immediately releases Alejandra and her body sags to the floor. She is visibly beaten and mangled, and it’s apparent that she is hardly capable of standing on her own two feet.

  Nico stands before Sloan, her body still restrained to the chair. He leans forward, his harsh, black eyes boring into her skull with absolute hatred. “Are you sure you’re not a man? I see you have tits, but have we actually proved that there’s not a cock tucked between your legs?”

  His fingers trail down the center of her chest before grasping harshly to one of her breasts. His callused, sweaty fingers painfully knead the soft flesh.

  She doesn’t reveal an ounce of discomfort through her unfaltering gaze. Her brown eyes glower at his without any apologies, without any fear of what he’s about to do. She refuses to show weakness. Her mind has already accepted the fact that she will die. She knows she will die no matter what. At this point, it doesn’t matter if she provides them with the information they want. Her life has already been claimed by these men and there is no way in hell they will release her from their control.

  She knows that death is the preferable option over the other possibilities of what they could do with her. Men like Hector Arturo and Nico Delgado have a difficult time reining in their emotions. They’re passionate, volatile human beings, and once their rage takes over, any prior rational plans will fall to their least priority.

  She knows this will work in her favor.

  She ignores the emotions that threaten to spill from her lids when she thinks about the fact that she’s lost Nix for good. She experienced all of their lasts—kiss, hug, laugh, smile—and she didn’t know it until now. Sloan wishes she could have savored those moments more, wishes she would have known the significance in the moment.

  She swallows the back the tears and forces her mind to focus on the present.

  Nico pulls a knife from back pocket of his jeans. His fingers run along the sharp edge as a smile hints at his lips. “I think it’s time to see just how much of a woman you really are,” he announces. “But first…” He pauses mid-sentence to glance back at Alejandra. “First, I need to restrain this fucking bitch that used to be my fiancée.” He slides the knife back into his pocket and strides towards Alejandra. His hands grip her underneath the arms and he drags her towards the two rusted-out hooks hanging from the ceiling.

  Soft moans of protest leave her cut-open, bloodied lips, but her body doesn�
��t have the strength to fight against him.

  Sloan watches Nico restrain Alejandra’s wrists to the hooks. Anger and rage course through her bloodstream as she observes an innocent woman being manhandled by such a cruel, wicked man.

  “Leave her alone!” she shouts into the room. “Leave her the fuck alone! You are a pathetic excuse for a man, you ignorant piece of shit!” A shot of adrenaline fills her veins, giving her the energy to verbally spit obscenities at him. She’s pissed and angry and furious with herself that she’s in this situation and she can’t do anything to help Alejandra.

  This girl—this woman—doesn’t deserve this.

  She was born into a family where she had the absolute displeasure of having someone like Hector Arturo as a brother. His sole purpose in life has become a crazy, volatile tirade against innocent people.

  And now what will he do to his own sister?

  It’s obvious that they think Alejandra has revealed information to her, and now, this innocent woman is most likely in the same boat as Sloan. We probably won’t survive this.

  Alejandra’s arms suspend above her head, restrained by rope to the metal hooks that hang from the ceiling. Her body dangles limply, her feet barely brushing the ground. Her right eye blinks open, but her left eye remains swollen shut from the multiple blows she’s received from Nico. She makes eye contact with Sloan, whose chair resides beside her.

  The two woman exchange meaningful expressions, the inevitability of the situation is apparent in the eyes of both of them.

  Sloan wishes she could turn back time; she would do a thousand things differently.

  She never would have gone back to that fucking house.

  She would have made sure her ass was on that flight to San Diego.

  And she would have found a way to bring Alejandra with her.

  This poor woman just wanted out of her life, and that is the sole reason she came to Sloan at San Salvador. She didn’t want to be a part of La Familia Arturo. She didn’t want to marry Nico Delgado. And she definitely didn’t want to watch the women and children who reside within the Arturo compound being exposed to dirty, awful things.

  Seventeen-year-old girls shouldn’t be forced into having sex with strange men for money.

  Eight-year-old boys shouldn’t have to smuggle drugs into other countries.

  Thirty-year-old mothers shouldn’t have to watch their underage sons being taught how to build bombs and shoot illegal weapons.

  These are not the kinds of things that innocent women and children should have to see, but because of men like Hector and Nico, Alejandra was a part of this. She was stuck inside a life she couldn’t escape. Once she met Dr. Felicia Santora, she probably thought she’d found a woman who would help her escape. She probably thought the charitable American physician would help her find a new life, but little did she know, Dr. Felicia Santora wasn’t just a physician. She was an undercover CIA agent whose sole purpose of being in Guadalajara was to find a way to put an end to La Familia Arturo.

  The irony of the situation is not lost on Sloan as she watches the innocent woman hanging by her wrists struggle to stay conscious. The one person Alejandra thought could save her will end up being the one person who gets her killed. The realization of this fact weighs heavily on Sloan’s heart.

  Nico moves in front of Sloan, the knife present in his hand again.

  Her mind feels a million miles away as her eyes watch the tip of the blade run down her sternum, slowly cutting away the material of her shirt, leaving her silk bra visible to his black, soulless eyes.

  He grins—a full-toothed, demonic grin—as the knife cuts lower and a small laceration is engraved into her olive skin.

  She doesn’t even feel the slice into her flesh. Her mind has drifted to another realm, protecting her from the horrific inevitability of what’s to come. The blade makes a smooth descent to the waistband of her pants, and cruel eyes observe the act with unadulterated pleasure.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  Nico stops and reaches for a cell phone nestled in the pocket of his jeans.

  “Yes,” he answers into the receiver. “I’m with her. With both of them,” he states before placing the call on speaker phone.

  “Tell me what is it about you fucking Americans that makes you decide you have the right to fuck with how I make my living,” Hector Arturo voices from the phone.

  Sloan doesn’t respond.

  “Tell me your name,” he demands.

  “My name is Felicia Santora and I’m a physician for Project Smiles.”

  A barking laugh resonates from the phone. “Stop playing games with me. I know who you’re working for. Your time is running short. Why don’t you save us both some time and tell me exactly what you think you know?”

  She glares at Nico as she speaks into the phone. “I know nothing.”

  “Stop fucking lying to me and tell me what information you retrieved from my compound. Your beloved Agent Sims has already made me privy to your mission. It’s funny how easy it was to buy someone like Sims off.” Hector laughs into the phone. “Sims is dead, by the way. You should probably keep that in mind and reconsider your approach with me. I’m not a very patient man.”

  Sloan doesn’t say a word, refusing to give Hector any bit of information.

  He continues on. “I know you’ve been targeting my family, and guess what? Now, not only is your life on the line, my sister’s life is on the line too. So now that we have that cleared up…tell me what you think you know.”

  “I know that you’re an asshole,” she spits with absolute distain. “I know that, even though I won’t walk out of this compound alive, I take great comfort in the fact that, one day soon, you’ll get what’s coming to you.”

  Nico unleashes a deafening punch to her face, knocking her equilibrium off and leaving tears dripping from her eyes, the sound of the blow easily heard on the other end of the line.

  “How does that feel?” Hector asks with a chuckle. “Have a wonderful day at La Spa Arturo today, okay? And just remember what I said. If you don’t talk, I’ll make sure each of my men takes a turn with you before killing you slowly. Not an inch of your body will go untortured…unsliced…unfucked. And when we’re finished with you, there won’t be enough of you left for your fellow Americans to identify your pathetic body. Take me off speaker, Nico.”

  Nico places the phone back to his ear and receives instructions from Hector.

  “Keep them both alive and don’t call me until the American speaks.” Sloan overhears the rest of the conversation.

  Nico ends the call and slides the phone back into his pocket.

  “I think I’ll let you two ladies rest while I prepare a few things that will motivate you both to speak,” he announces before leaving the room.

  Sloan remains restrained to the chair, her shirt and pants torn open. Blood seeps from the superficial cut down her abdomen and the newly acquired gash below her right eye. She glances over at Alejandra, whose arms hang weakly from the ropes above her head. Her body sways back and forth.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispers to Alejandra. “I’m so sorry you’re involved in this.”

  Alejandra’s right eye opens and locks with Sloan’s unrelenting gaze. “I’d rather die than marry Nico. I’d rather die than continue to watch my brother’s evil seep into the minds of the innocent people inside this compound. I’d rather die than be involved with Hector’s plans to take his evilness to American soil. Death is a better alternative to all of those things.” Her wild strength is even apparent through the weakness latching on to her voice.

  Sloan gestures with her eyes towards the lone camera that resides above the steel door.

  Alejandra nods in response.

  The two women stare back at each other, communicating their thoughts without speaking a word. Both are now aware that everything they say to each other is being recorded. The words Alejandra just spoke will be used against her the next time someone walks through that barred, wooden door.
/>   Sloan’s gut clenches at the horrendous realities that lie ahead.

  CHOCOLATE IRISES ARE ROUSED AWAKE when the pinch of a tourniquet wraps around her arm. A dark presence hovers over her. She blinks against the fog in a pathetic attempt to make out the figure.

  A devious smile spreads across Nico’s face. “Rise and shine,” he taunts. “I’ve got something that’s going to make you feel real good.”

  She watches in terrified fascination as a needle slides into her vein.

  Nico’s callused finger presses down on the plunger of the syringe, pushing murky liquid into her bloodstream. “Back to oblivion for you,” he mockingly jokes. His warm breath brushes her face as he leans in close, his nose mere inches from hers. “I promise we’ll make it good for you.”

  His harsh chuckle echoes inside her brain as her eyes lose the battle against the hovering presence flowing throughout her body. She struggles against it, but it’s a worthless attempt. Unconsciousness takes over and everything in Sloan’s world turns black.

  ANOTHER PINCH OF A NEEDLE startles her eyes open.

  Everything is black, her eyesight clouded by an anesthetizing force.

  The bare skin of her back discerns a soft surface pressed against her. Am I lying down?

  Goose bumps surface on her skin. It feels like nothing is covering her body.

  Her arms and legs fight against a restraining force. She can’t move them. Is it because I’m not really awake or am I still restrained? Her mind strives for logical reason, grasping at mere remnants of rational thought through the distortion that fills her brain.

  Hearing is the only sense that resonates. Deep voices—familiar voices—surround her, taunt her, and urge fear within her. Fear of the unknown, of what’s about to come

  “Turn on the camera.”

  “How fucking much did you give her? Jesus, Nico, I said I wanted to fuck her, not fuck a goddamn corpse. She’s practically dead.”

  “Oh come on, Mendez. I know you’re curious what that American pussy feels like.”