Hell on the Heart

by Nancy Brophy

  The guard from the tree grabbed her arm. With a hard jerk, he tugged her toward the edge where the other man stood. “You’ve been enough trouble already.”

  The men captured her hands and lowered her over the side. Her bodice gapped open, exposing her left breast. Everybody snickered, but Cezi.

  Cain glared at her. His dark brown eyes glittered with a red tint. She clenched her flaying knees together as the men above lowered her to the ground. Fetid swamp water, sweat and expensive cologne assaulted her nose. Evil has a smell of its own. Her mother’s words swirled in her brain.

  “That’s far enough.” He lifted her stiff petticoat and peered underneath. “The way you’ve pushed my buttons tonight, I’m surprised your panties aren’t white.”

  He twisted her exposed nipple, making her bite her lip to keep from crying out. “Too late for a show of bravery. By the time I’m through, you’ll be begging for mercy.”

  Do not wheeze. Any weakness will be exploited.

  Cain gestured to the men holding her hands to lower her further. Once her feet touched the ground, he yanked her hands behind her and bound them together with what Cezi suspected was one of her stockings. She fisted her hands in an attempt to bulk up her wrists as much as possible, hoping he would tie her loosely, giving her room to wiggle out. No such luck. The binding continued to chafe when she relaxed her muscles.

  The heavy hand he placed on her shoulder pushed downward until she knelt in front of him. The tree’s shadow had covered her, but now her face was illuminated. She blinked her eyes to adjust to the light.

  Kneeling at their feet, insulted her. Insulted her gypsy heritage, but her legs had been ready to buckle. She wasn’t sure standing under her own power was possible.

  Fear mingled with nausea had her stomach doing aerobics. Her teeth clenched until her jaw ached, muscles bunched in knots, eyes glared until dry. His jeering response convinced her she looked about as tough as the grinning Kool Aid pitcher.

  “Do you have something you want to say to me?” He circled her in what appeared to be a slow victory lap.

  Cezi hesitated. Yeah, she had a lot she wanted to say, but every word would further inflame the situation. She swallowed her pride and attempted humble. “I’m sorry.”

  He laughed, a loud abrasive sound. “That’s real nice, but those aren’t the words I want to hear.”

  They weren’t? She shifted. Small stones dug into her knees. Out of the corner of her eye the men from the roof sauntered around the edge of the building, each sporting wide grins.

  Cain grabbed her chin and yanked it up so she stared into his smiling face. Of all the things for her to notice, his teeth were very white and straight.

  All the better to eat you with. The terror Little Red Riding Hood felt had certainly been glossed over.

  “Don’t know what I want? Let’s start with a little action.” He jerked open his belt buckle. On her knees it was impossible not to know what was coming next.

  “What’s with the braids?” He wrapped them around his fist and twisted. Her head followed the direction he pulled. “A handle? Something for me to hold on to?” Tears stung her eyes and she tried to focus on something besides the pain. The noise that came from him wasn’t humorous, although she suspected he meant it to be. “How old are you?” He unzipped his slacks with his free hand.

  Cezi sucked in a breath and squeezed her eyes tight, waiting. Her brain froze, unable to form a coherent thought let alone a plan of escape.

  Words of salvation cut through the quiet night. “She’ll be eighteen on her next birthday.”

  Her lungs dumped their load in one loud, wheezing gasp. The voice of the happiest man she knew, Uncle Luca, held an unsuspected menace that sent a shiver running down her back.

  “If I were you, buddy, I’d be real careful what you pull out of your pants. Messing with an underage girl in this state is a felony.”

  Cain released her hair as he straightened to face his opponent.

  Cezi leaned forward to see if Luca was alone. Oh, hell, he’d brought every male in the family. At least fifteen guys stood together. And each prominently displayed a gun and an attitude.

  The weighty hand returned to her shoulder. “Friends of yours?” She bobbed her head, not trusting herself to speak. “Well, aren’t you the lucky-”

  “Are you okay, Peata?” Uncle Luca interrupted.

  She nodded again unable to form words.

  “Your girl stole from me,” Cain said.

  Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside her. Did he think it would offend her family to claim she was a pickpocket? These were the ones who taught her.

  “I returned everything.” The words sounded less defiant than she meant them.

  Uncle Luca shrugged. “Well, there you go. Unless you want to press charges, I’d say we’re done here. Untie her and help her up.”

  While the younger man eased the knots, the roof man produced her shoes from his pockets and dropped them to the ground, followed by her purse. Cezi didn’t bother to put them on; she scooped them up and made a beeline for safety behind the front line of her defense.

  What would her family do? Would they kick Cain’s ass? Her cousins tussled all the time, but she never seen them fight for real. She twisted her neck trying to see between the barrier of males standing between her and Cain’s group.

  Rolf, Luca’s middle son, dropped back to quiz her, “you okay?”

  “Fine.” She managed through gritted teeth.

  “Right.” He grabbed her shoulders. The warmth of Rolf’s hands rubbing her shoulders anchored her. “That’s why your head’s shaking no.”

  She pursed her lips to glare at him, but immediately refocused her attention back on Uncle Luca, waiting for his next words. Cain would know the terror she’d felt.

  Luca’s head jerked toward the gate, so quick she almost missed it. What? This was it?

  “Let’s go.” The soft command came from someone standing in front of her.

  Rolf’s hand on her shoulder guided her with a gentle, but firm push toward the gate. She looked over her shoulder at Rolf, holding a question in her eyes.

  “Get in the car,” he murmured. “We’ll talk later.” The group surrounded her, crowded her between the larger men to form a protective barrier as they marched to the gate.

  Dammit, they’d let the bastard win. With one quick glance back, she saw a cruel smile etch Cain’s features.

  “We’re not through, little thief,” he hollered after her. “Not by a long shot. Keep watching over your shoulder, because one day soon, I’ll be there to collect what’s mine.”

  Chapter Three

  Washington, DC

  It wasn’t rain. It was a deluge. Fifteen minutes earlier, gray clouds skated across the sky. Without warning, the heavens opened and drenched the unsuspecting commuters winding their way through bumper-to-bumper traffic in the nation’s capital.

  John Stillwater straightened his cream colored tie as he eyed his soggy image in the glass door of the insurance company. Prerequisite dark suit, wingtips, briefcase and a corporate haircut supported his image as a life insurance agent for Family Protection Insurance.

  Nothing could be done about his face. He bore the marks of a warrior not only in his eyes, but a series of scars spider-webbed the left side of body from his eyebrow to his chest, compliments of the 2004 Madrid train bombings.

  His shoes sank into the thick gray carpeting as he skirted the empty front counter where a woman waited, drumming her fingers on the glossy wood, shifting her weight from stiletto to stiletto.

  “Are you an agent?” She demanded as he attempted to slide by unnoticed.

  Dammit. He braced himself. Her sharp voice laced with a strong sense of entitlement made his skin crawl. From experience he suspected the woman’s bravado would collapse once he turned. Gasps and repugnant looks of horror were rare, but women with children crossed the street to avoid him.

  He pivoted on his heel, schooled his tone to east coast profess
ional. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

  He’d guessed right. The woman took a step backwards and clamped her jaw shut. John waited while she fought for words.

  “File a claim,” she stammered.

  He purposely looked at the large clock on the wall, turning his head so that his scars were more visible. “Our office doesn’t open for another fifteen minutes. If you’ll have a seat, someone will be with you shortly.”

  The woman backed until a chair appeared behind her knees and collapsed into it as Miranda, the pleasantly round gray-haired receptionist came through the front door, flapping her umbrella to leave as much of the rain outside as possible.

  “Good, you’re here. This woman needs assistance.” He both gestured and smiled, to imitate a true-to-life insurance agent, both actions foreign and clumsy. He preferred an economy of movement. A life of military stealth was hard to reverse.

  The receptionist gave him amused acknowledgement as she played out her role, allowing him to escape. He ducked behind the partition that separated the lobby from the serene offices.

  The decor soothed. Subtle pastels and rich woods blended to create harmony or as he secretly suspected a barrier from the chaos that reigned one floor below. At a solid door in the far corner marked private, he punched in a code. A series of metallic clicks followed by a hollow-core thump indicated the tumblers had slid into place. The door opened and he stepped into a small stark-white alcove.

  Placing his palm against a pad and his eye against a scanner, he let the machines verify his identity.

  “Good morning, Agent Stillwater,” the monotone female computer voice droned as the interior door sprung open to reveal an almost sound-less elevator that took him to the basement level. “Welcome back.”

  He didn’t answer. The noise sensitive computer recorded any response. Another alcove. Another door and finally he was in the FBPA office. Automatically, he reached up to loosen his tie and unbutton his collar.

  “You’re back.” D’Sean Lassiter leapt to his feet in a sleek cat-like move. On more than one occasion his agile body and quick wits proved essential to their survival. “Was Minnesota as bad as you thought?”

  “Montana.” Stillwater corrected absently. “Worse actually. Who’s here?”

  Gray metal desks, savaged from some defunct military installation were crammed together, hemmed in by white walls lacking any ornamentation save that of the United States flag and a framed photo of the President. But despite the no-frills décor, the Federal Bureau of the Protection of Americans or the FBPA served its function well while not beholden to any overseer group other than as a direct adjunct to the President himself with the proviso that the last thing the country needed was one more secret government agency working independently of others.

  Information sharing was essential. As a result, the small, tight, handpicked group operated hand-in-hand with both FBI and Homeland Security.

  “Everybody except Twylla and Skeet,” D’Sean said. “She’s stuck in traffic, but should roll in any minute and he’s doing the weekly curtsy at Quantico.”

  Stillwater studied the black man as he spoke. Something was different. “You shaved your head. Cornrows got old?”

  D’Sean ran long tapered fingers over his newly shorn head. “What’d you think?”

  Stillwater shrugged. What’d he think? He thought his partner of ten years looked like his partner, but without hair. “It’s not what I think that matters. Do women think you are still ‘lickable’?” He raised his eyebrows in amusement as he quoted one of the many barflies who’d lusted after D’Sean.

  The black man laughed. Combined with his smooth looks, many were fooled into doubting his ability as a warrior. Stillwater knew different. No one else could be trusted to have his back, and he was confident D’Sean believed the same. But that didn’t mean their relationship didn’t include a heaping helping of trash talk. While the rest of the team approached carefully, D’Sean lived to annoy.

  “What’s not to love, Tonto?”

  Stillwater grunted, refusing to give in to the taunt. Tonto. His Indian heritage was a fact, but he was nobody’s sidekick. And he was nobody’s whelp. “I bet Shantell could answer that better than me.”

  Shantell was a crazy woman, the kind that flocked to Lassiter like dust to computers. The black man sported two superficial gunshot wounds from a wild night in Chicago when she’d chased him down a hotel corridor firing a Saturday-Night-Special. He’d taken a load of shit from the team over that incident. Even more after it became public knowledge that he’d been buck-naked at the time.

  D’Sean scowled. Direct hit. John smiled for the first time since his return from Montana.

  Lassiter wasn’t one to go down without a fight. “Your day’s coming, Tonto. Some hot little mama will take you in hand and you’ll never know what hit you. She won’t be like those other women you choose, so eager to please.” His fingers fluttered under his chin and he batted his eyes.

  John snorted, confident in his retort. “Never. Women I see know the rules. They’re welcome to come home with me at night as long as they’re gone in the morning.”

  D’Sean shifted his shoulders as though warding off an invisible hand as he scoffed in disbelief. “I can feel it in my bones. Hundred bucks says it happens before Christmas.”

  Almost seven months? Piece of cake. “You’re on. Gather everyone in the conference room in…” he glanced at his watch, “twenty-seven minutes.”

  He heard Lassiter’s amused chuckle as he sauntered back into the bullpen to spread the word. Stillwater dropped the file folders onto his desk and closed his office door.

  Winning the bet would be a snap. This case promised to be his undoing. As a healthy male, he liked women. And women liked him back, despite his scarred face or in some cases because of it. But recently he couldn’t talk to a woman without evaluating what each of her actions or reactions would get her if he hadn’t been one of the good guys. It’d be a miracle if he managed another date before Christmas.

  In thirty-four years, he’d seen more than his fair share of human misery and cruelty. Every time he closed his eyes, the shattered faces of the young girls he interviewed danced before him. Good thing sleep was overrated.

  The girls in Montana were the lucky ones. They’d been rescued. Family and friends waited to welcome them home and help put their lives back together. How many other parents waited for word on their missing daughters?

  As he concentrated on entering details from the Montana trip into his computer, D’Sean opened his door a second time and poked his head inside.

  “What does the schedule look like for this week?” D’Sean attention was focused on the cell phone glued to his ear and for a brief moment, John wasn’t sure the question was directed to him. His fingers poised above the keyboard hung in midair while he waited to see if D’Sean needed him to respond.

  “It’s not an issue. I can get there,” Lassiter spoke into the phone addressing the caller on the other end. Concern and intimacy flowed through his voice. This was a personal call.

  John returned his eyes to the monitor and resumed working, giving his partner privacy that hadn’t been requested.

  “Are you sure?” Lassiter asked after several minutes of silence. John glanced up and D’Sean shook his head mouthing ‘never mind’ as he disappeared into the hallway, pulling the office door closed behind him.

  Stillwater immediately dismissed the call from his mind. If Lassiter wanted to share the details, he’d volunteer them.

  The conference room was a misnomer. It was the only place that had enough chairs for the team to gather and compile data. John chose the chair at the far end of the rectangular cherry wood table, a discard from the upstairs Insurance office.

  RJ “Ciggy” Reynolds, computer geek and demo expert, pulled up a chair next to him, flipped it around and threw a leg over the seat. “Judging by your expression, I’d say you didn’t get what you wanted.” His freckled moon-shaped face belied his concern. Unli
ke the rest of the team, Ciggy actually looked the part of an insurance agent despite the fact he’d shed his jacket and tie.

  Stillwater ran a hand through his hair. “I did and I didn’t. We have a break through, but the situation is much more pervasive than we imagined.” He nodded to each of the others as they trickled through the door and took seats.

  D’Sean, the last to arrive, settled on the opposite side. “So what do we know?” Around the table the three men and one woman leaned in closer for a detailed report.

  John shook his head. “Nothing good. My info confirms all our suspicions.”

  The group groaned. He opened the top file.

  “Becca George,” he flashed her driver’s license photo from three years earlier, “just turned sixteen. In the middle of the day, two men, one with a television camera knocked on her door in Shreveport, Louisiana with a huge bouquet of balloons. Told her she’d won a ten thousand dollar shopping spree at a local mall from a contest she didn’t remember entering. A limo was to take her to the television station for the public announcement. Her parents were already on their way to meet her at the station. The sixteen year old didn’t even hesitate. Once she was in the back seat of the limo, she doesn’t remember another thing until she woke up naked, cuffed to a bed in a strange house.”

  He pulled another photo from the file folder. “Here is what she looks like today. Nineteen. Haggard. Underfed. Scars, bruises and broken bones decorate her body with the addition of intimate piercings and a branding that I can’t even imagine how painful it must have been.”

  He grit his teeth to keep his anger from spewing forth. The others at the table, hardened men and woman, all ex-military, who had seen both combat and suffering, looked shocked as he recited the facts.

  He opened the second file folder and passed another photograph. A typed bundle of pages held the next girl’s story, but Stillwater didn’t refer to his notes. Each story was imprinted in his memory.