Anson (The Black Stallion Book 3)

by Maggie Ryan

  Natalia’s cries had blended with the last of the gunshots as she watched the life leave her grandmother’s beautiful eyes. Natalia’s shattered soul ripped from her body in a heart-wrenching scream as she held her dead grandmother in her arms. As the lullaby of Natalia’s life slowly came to an end when the last of the Montez attackers retreated back to their hole, she looked up to see that almost no one was left alive. This battle was over… for now. This song, this ballad of death, had turned into the eerie sound of silence as one of the few surviving Alvarez members stood to assess the damage.

  Looking around the church, one thing was crystal clear to a girl who had yet to reach her teens. The Alvarez family had lost this drug war. The Montezes were stronger, more ruthless, and after the day’s deadly attack, now outnumbered them greatly. Life as Natalia knew it was over. Her father, her brothers, every man she could see was dead.

  This memory, as awful as it was, needed to be remembered daily by Natalia. It gave her the strength to continue on. Juan Montez would pay. Yes, he would fucking pay.

  “Natalia,” a deep voice called from the doorway, breaking her from her thoughts.

  She turned to see Juan Montez holding a tiny red dress on a hanger. His fat belly hung over the belt of his pants, and his forehead beaded with sweat from the simple exertion of walking into the room. “Yes, sir?”

  “I want you to wear this tonight.” It was not a request, and she knew as much. She was his sex slave, purchased six months ago in Moscow. She was his to do with as he pleased. And though she knew she could snap his neck in an instant—for she had spent years training to do so—she had to be patient. She had to wait until the timing was right. When that time was, she had no idea, but her gut always told her to wait.

  Natalia didn’t have a death wish, and simply killing Montez would mean committing suicide. His men were everywhere, even outside his bedroom. Not that she shared his bed, mercifully. The man liked his privacy, or so he said. Natalia knew differently. She’d discovered on day one that the powerful, all mighty Juan Montez couldn’t get it up. His limp dick should have been revenge enough, and she did find pleasure in knowing his secret. If only her father were still alive, he’d find great pleasure in knowing that his adversary had nothing but a limp noodle between his legs. This saving grace had precluded her from actually having to have sex with the revolting creature, but he still required other vile acts from her. Acts so disgusting that she wasn’t sure she would ever recover from the memory of them.

  “Yes, sir.” Those two little words had become the majority of her vocabulary. When she walked off this compound, covered in Juan Montez’s blood, she would never say those words to another person again. She knew that much to be true.

  Montez tossed the dress on a chair by the doorway. “Get ready now.” He turned without saying another word and left the room.

  Luckily, Montez hadn’t wanted anything more from her than to issue his simple command. For now, he left Natalia with nothing but her memories of how she had found herself as the purchased sex slave of Juan Montez.

  In darkness, Natalia had traveled to his compound after being bought in Moscow. She had been sweaty and hot, even though the car’s air conditioning had been blasting on her face. As if waiting for a signal, once the clunk of the landing gear lowering was heard, one of Montez’s men had placed a black cloth around her eyes. The blindfold was too tight, but she wasn’t about to complain. She’d recognized that they were landing at the Ezeiza Ministro Pistarini International Airport. Once they were in the car, she concentrated, using her other senses to map out a route in her head. The smooth ride disappeared after about a half-hour. The bumpiness of the road and the sound of rocks breaking beneath the wheels told her that the way to the secret Montez compound was via a series of dirt roads. The length of time told her that they couldn’t be that far from the heart of Buenos Aires. She knew that less than 200 miles away was the town center of Rosario, where her journey had begun.

  It seemed fitting, in a morbid way, that Natalia had returned to the center of the narco capital. A city serving as the hotspot for the majority of the turf war homicides between the Alvarez and Montez cartels during her childhood would now be the site where she would be living her days as a sex slave to her family’s long time enemy.

  After decades of war, Juan Montez and his ruthless family had destroyed Natalia’s. On that one fateful day, Juan Montez had increased his stronghold and declared himself king of the cartels. By desecrating the sanctity of the church that day, killing a majority of Natalia’s family, Montez gained control of one of the most powerful drug routes in South America for himself. He was the one man who gave permission for other families to use Ruta 34 to move the only commodity he was interested in—cocaine.

  Natalia’s father, her brothers, every cousin she had, all died in that church. Only a few were spared. The young, the old, and the weak. Whether her mother had been left alive because she was considered one of the weak, or out of Montez’s twisted sense of perversion, didn’t matter. She’d been attending the funeral of her youngest son only to watch her husband and two other sons shot down in God’s house. Her mother was all Natalia truly had left. Her mother cried, and then when she stopped, she cried some more each and every day of her life, until finally God had mercy and allowed her to join her husband and sons. Though heartbroken, Natalia wasn’t truly surprised at her mother’s weakness. She loved her mother very much, but Natalia’s strength came from her father. Callous. Calculating. Cutthroat. Natalia would soon prove she was more than a pampered princess; she’d prove her father’s blood, the Alvarez blood, ran deep in her veins, and Montez would regret the day he did not kill her in that church.

  Years of training. Years of planning. Years of working every single connection she had until she landed a position in a covert group with the goal to infiltrate sex trafficking, yet another ungodly enterprise destroying her country. That was their goal, and though not Natalia’s main focus, it gave her the opening she needed. No one would believe she was a potential drug buyer on any scale large enough to interest Montez. She did not have the capital to even attempt to build that cover. But she did have something—she had her youth and her beauty. If it took an additional step to get to the man, she’d take it. All she had to do was get Montez to buy her.

  And it had worked.

  Did she cry? Did she resist? Did she scream out like the other sex slaves had done when bought?

  No. Never.

  Had she wanted to kill Montez the moment he grabbed her breasts and pulled her down to grind against his pathetically limp cock?

  Yes. She’d wanted nothing more.

  But she had to remember that this was just step one in her master plan.

  The Alvarez family had lost. Juan Montez and his cartel had won that round so many years ago. But Natalia had made it her life mission to make the man pay. And she would. She would do just that. And oh yes, she would make the memory of her family very proud when she delivered the head of Juan Montez on a platter, surrounded in cocaine for that extra special touch.

  Although, Montez and his men were smart. Natalia could not just walk into his home with guns blazing and walk out alive. The only way she could beat him was to earn his trust and make him believe she was nothing more than a sweet, naïve, scared little slave. She would play the weak victim. She would be the submissive woman who allowed Montez whatever he wanted. Oh, she would play. She would play until just the right moment.

  “Why are you not crying,” Natalia remembered one of the sex slaves asking her moments before they were to be auctioned off.

  Natalia had only shrugged, not being able to tell the poor woman that she actually wanted to be purchased, and prayed to God that Montez would want her since she was the only woman of Latin descent being sold.

  She also remembered one of Poplov’s nasty guards asking her, “Why are you not begging? Shaking? Demanding to know what’s going on and where you’re going? I expected a delicate flower like you to show so
me fear. So why?”

  “Sacrifice.” Natalia swallowed against the knot that formed in the back of her throat. “Sacrifice for my family.” He didn’t need to know that Poplov’s threat to destroy their families if they didn’t cooperate held no power over her. Her family was already dead. Montez had seen to that.

  Natalia snapped herself out of her thoughts and memories of death and the day she had sold herself to the devil. She had to focus. Stay focused. One day at a time. One awful night full of nightmares at a time. She had no choice. She’d chosen this path, and as much as she wanted to at times, there was no way to get off it. She was alone. Alone with her internal demons, as well as with the hell she had put herself into.

  Walking over to the chair, she reached for the dress—if you could even call it one. It barely had any fabric, and what material there was, was practically see through. Though she wasn’t surprised. This had become a very typical wardrobe of hers. Montez liked to show her off to everyone. His prized possession. A very expensive possession at that. She still couldn’t believe that he had paid Poplov three million dollars for her. Three million dollars! And other women that night had been sold for more. They were all sick bastards. Every single man who had been in that room that night had been a filthy, vile piece of shit. And when she was done ending Montez, she would sure as fuck find Poplov and make that monster pay as well.

  Stripping off her clothes, she jumped when someone knocked on the door.

  “Give me a minute,” she said as she tried to get dressed as quickly as she could.

  “Mr. Montez is waiting for you,” a guard’s voice informed.

  “I will be out in just a second.”

  “Mr. Montez doesn’t like to wait,” he said behind the closed door. “He is demanding your presence immediately.

  Pulling the dress over her head, slipping her feet back into her black heels, she opened the door with a smile. She hadn’t taken the time to fix her hair or makeup, but she really didn’t care. Montez seemed to appreciate her natural beauty anyway. “Ready.” The guard didn’t say anything but led her to the dining room where Natalia knew she would stand or sit by Montez’s side as nothing more than a piece of arm candy. Maybe tonight would be the night she would kill him. Maybe…

  Montez was already seated when she walked in. He glared at her, no doubt for making him wait. Others were just getting seated, so it wasn’t as if Natalia were the last to arrive, but there was a high chance Montez would make her pay for this later. A slap to the face, a hand around the throat, a shove against a wall were definitely in his repertoire. She took the empty seat next to him, trying not to make eye contact in hopes that he wouldn’t demonstrate a show of power in front of all by teaching her one of his many lessons right then and there.

  Leaning over, in a very low voice, he said, “Do not make me wait ever again. You are my fucking slave, the lady of the house. Remember that, or I will give you a reminder you won’t soon forget.” Spittle from his mouth hit the side of her neck and the lobe of her ear. It took all she had not to grimace at the disgust of it all.

  “Yes, sir,” Natalia said, biting back the flood of swear words that threatened to escape her lips. She would fucking kill this man. She would…

  She would.

  Chapter 3

  Washing down the last bite of the cinnamon pastry with a sip of his fancy French vanilla cappuccino, Anson stuffed the trash inside the cooking bag. The maple sausage patty had either been not half bad or he had just been craving protein. At least Jennie would have been pleased to see that the MRE had included both a granola bar and a bag of blueberries. It took him five seconds to break camp and store his poncho. Glancing back in the direction of Montez’s compound, he considered returning. But he knew that the desire didn’t come from any true need. He had the information he’d come to get. If he returned, it would be with the hope of catching another glimpse of Natalia. With the compound so well guarded, and the news that Montez would be leaving within a couple of days to attend his birthday party, the professional in Anson knew that he’d have a far better chance of getting to Natalia once she was taken into the city.

  Turning away, he began to hike, pausing to scan for any danger, animal or human, before stepping out of the tree line. Squatting at the edge of the Parana River, he dropped a water purification tablet into his CamelBak and then filled it. The water would likely taste worse than plastic but at least it would be safe to drink. He took the time to wash his face and hands but didn’t bother shaving. He wasn’t attempting to win any pretty boy contest. Slipping the pack on his back, he returned to the trees. It would be easier to walk along the river bank, but the heavy vegetation of the jungle provided far more concealment. He didn’t want to run into any locals or men working for Montez who constantly patrolled the area. Double checking the direction with his compass, he began to walk.

  Montez’s fortress was a little less than twenty miles outside Buenos Aires. A trip that would take no more than half an hour by car. Faster if the man hadn’t located his compound deep in the jungle, accessible only by rutted dirt roads that were constantly washing out with the rains. Still, it would most likely be night by the time Anson hiked that far. That didn’t particularly bother him as darkness provided yet more cover. And with Montez not expected to enter the city until tomorrow at the earliest, Anson had plenty of time. As he walked, his mind ran through possible scenarios as his eyes constantly scanned his surroundings. He also listened to the jungle. The first time he stopped, dropping to his haunches, was when all bird song stopped, a sure sign that danger had been perceived. Anson remained perfectly still, and after a few minutes, the chirps and song restarted. He’d seen nothing, but trusted the potential peril had passed.

  He continued to hike—or more like push and shove his way—through the vines, branches and growth; his footsteps almost completely silenced by the thick layer of dead plants, leaves, and God only knew what that covered the ground. Every half hour or so, he’d stop to rest, check his compass to make sure he was still heading in the right direction, and take a few swallows of water. By the time the sun moved overhead, its beams barely penetrating the canopy, he figured he’d covered about seven miles.

  Though he was alone, he wasn’t the only thing moving through the jungle. The birds were colorful and loud. He also saw all sorts of insects, including a super-sized centipede. Ants were everywhere, as were beetles as big as his thumb. Rustles and snorts were given by smaller mammals, which he wasn’t concerned about. The only dangers he really worried about would come from man, snakes, spiders, and any of the species of large jungle cats that roamed the rainforests of South America.

  He didn’t hear any sounds of civilization until mid-afternoon. He’d been following the river and knew that many people used it as a food source. Resting again, he trusted his camouflage to keep him invisible as he watched an older man, accompanied by a much younger one. After the boy was seated in the canoe, the man pushed it off from the bank as he stepped in with one fluid motion. Seeing that instead of rifles, there were fishing poles sticking out over the gunwale, Anson dismissed them as any threat but had to admit he felt a bit of jealousy. He remembered Drake taking him on weekend trips down the Rio Grande. They’d fish, swim, and camp, but more importantly they’d spend hours just talking. The younger boy had truly bonded with his adoptive father during those weekends, which had meant the world to Anson. He smiled as the sound of the boy’s chatter faded as the canoe rounded a bend.

  Anson figured he had no more than five miles to go when it began to get dark. Clouds were rolling in fast and he knew he had two choices. Either set up camp or push on. A loud crack of thunder helped him make his decision. Pulling on his poncho, he soldiered on. If it rained as hard as he believed it would, he’d not stay dry either way. Better to be drenched by the time he reached the city than to spend a miserable night attempting to sleep on wet ground.

  Exhaustion was setting in when he finally reached his hotel. Upon his arrival in Buenos Aires tw
o days earlier, he’d taken a cheap room in a small hotel in the San Telmo district. Though he could have afforded to stay in any of the top-rated hotels in the business district, he had chosen this place because there was no lobby to walk through. The less he was seen, the better. Slipping his key into the lock, he entered his room. It wouldn’t rank even two stars in the United States but he didn’t need fancy. It might be shabby but it was obvious the owners took pride in their establishment. Fresh sheets were on the bed and, just as important, clean towels waited in the bathroom. Dropping his pack, he stripped out of his clothes as he turned on the taps. He was already soaking wet, but the pounding of the hot water against his body drove the chill away. He stayed in the shower until the water began to turn cold. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he draped his discarded clothing over the shower rod, hoping it would dry overnight. He dug through the suitcase he’d had when he checked in under the name of John Gardner. Anson figured that there were only a handful of people who would know that Gardner was one of the authors who had been contracted to continue the James Bond novels after Ian Fleming’s death.

  Wrapping the scabbard around his calf, he tucked the knife inside and then tugged down the leg of his jeans to conceal it. Pulling on a t-shirt, he stuffed some money into his pockets. By the time he stepped outside, he looked nothing like the man who’d spent the past forty-eight hours in the jungle. He walked through the streets, constantly categorizing the people he moved among. Young couples strolled along hand-in-hand, tourists gawked, and older people, looking almost as tired as he felt, were returning home after work. As he approached a small square, the aromas in the air had his stomach growling. He bought a choripan, which consisted of a thick chorizo sausage sliced in half and left to sputter on a grill. As it cooked, a baguette was cut down the middle and placed face down beside the meat. When the stall owner handed the assembled sandwich to him, Anson ladled chimichurri sauce over it, adding a spoon of salsa criolla, and topping it off with a few sliced picantes. He took his beer and meal to a small table.