by Lane Hart
EXPLOITED
A Dark Redemption Novel
By Lane Hart
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.
© 2016 Editor's Choice Publishing
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at the address below.
Editor’s Choice Publishing
P.O. Box 10024
Greensboro, NC 27404
Edited by Angela Snyder
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Photo by Matt Geeling Photography
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Model Shane Burnell
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Cover by vocaldesign
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Warning: This book contains some dark, dirty and dangerous situations, before ending with a jaw-dropping cliffhanger. The debauchery will continue in Redeemed.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
“My thrill-seeking angel is about to lose her wings.”
Prologue
Blair Lockhart, age eight
“Blair? Blair, stop! Listen to me, goddamn it!”
His harsh hand grabs and shakes my shoulder so hard that my head rocks forward and back, snapping my neck and causing my eyes to pop reluctantly open.
Red. Red everywhere. Blood. There’s blood splattered all over his face and…and his white shirt and tie. Oh God, his hands. I look down and watch the blood drip from his hands that are holding me, staining the front of my blue Sunday school dress. The one mommy said looked beautiful on me and brought out the blue in my eyes. Mommy…I still hear her screams. Or maybe they’re my own because she’s lying on the floor next to the coffee table, unmoving, soundless…
“Blair!” he yells. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up and listen to me!”
He’s so close, kneeling in front of me that I flinch when his spit wets my already damp face. Now I’m even dirtier, blood and spit all over me.
God, his eyes. They’re so dark and angry. Scary. He’s never liked me, but now I think he hates me. My only thought is to scream at the top of my lungs for help, for someone to save mommy and me from him…
Whap!
The entire side of my face goes numb before my cheek begins to throb painfully like it has its own heartbeat.
“Stop screaming or so fucking help me…” he says through gritted teeth before pushing something sharp and wet to my neck. My eyes cut over to try to see it, but just moving my head to the side burns my throat. Then I notice the black handle he’s holding…the handle of the big knife that’s covered in her blood. A whimper escapes from my trembling lips despite how tightly I press them together to try and prevent sound from coming out. My sniffles are loud too when I try to catch my breath, but he doesn’t yell at me to stop those.
“Listen to me. You’re not gonna say a word. Do you hear me? Not a single fucking word to anyone! And if you do, this knife is gonna cut through you just like it did her. Do you understand me, Blair? Keep your mouth shut!”
I nod until the pain in my neck makes me stop. “Good, girl. Now go to your room, take the dress off and hide it inside your dollhouse. Wash your hands and face, then put on a clean dress. Got it? Can you do all that, or do you want to end up like her?” he asks, while pointing with the knife to the other side of the room.
Glancing over his shoulder, I see mommy so still, lying in a puddle of red, her unblinking eyes staring up at the ceiling. I shake my head up and down, and then side to side, unsure which answer he wants from me. Whatever it is, I’ll give it to him.
“Go!” he shouts, shoving my back, causing me to stumble forward.
When I catch my balance, I race down the hall to my room, trying to remember everything he wanted me to do. Hide my dress, wash up, get dressed. Hide my dress, wash up, get dressed. Hide my dress, wash up, get dressed. Repeating those three things over and over in my head, I manage to stop hearing her screams and seeing the blood, too busy trying to do what I was ordered. But once I’m standing in the middle of my room with a new, clean yellow dress on, I don’t know what to do next. What does he want me to do now? He didn’t say, and I don’t want to go back out there, but I also don’t want to upset him.
Oh God. Panic rises from within me, making my stomach and chest ache. It’s the same feeling I get when I’m swimming under water at the pool when the two older boys tease me, daring me to try and hold my breath longer than them. I know he’s gonna hurt me too. It’s just a matter of time. Running to my closet, I quietly open the door and slip into the darkness, crouching underneath the rows of dresses. Wrapping my arms around my legs, silent tears start pouring down my face as my whole body shakes, but I don’t make a sound as I wait for him. I don’t want him to hit me again, or worse, stab that knife through me like he hurt mommy. So I’ll hide in here. He’ll come get me eventually.
And that’s what terrifies me the most.
Chapter One
Ten years later…
Brede Rawls
Feeling my phone vibrating against my chest through my t-shirt pocket, I flip the right turn signal on and pull my bike over to the side of the road to kill the engine and answer. I’m guessing it’s Jim calling to give me an update on Paula. Fucking time’s running out, I know, so whenever the phone rings I worry it’s bad news, that I took too long…
Unzipping my leather jacket to get to my phone, I let out a sigh of relief when I don’t recognize the three-three-six area code on the screen. Not knowing who the hell it is, I answer with a gruff, “Yeah?” while still straddling my classic, 1981 Wide Glide Harley.
“Brede! How you doin’, man?” A way too peppy masculine voice shouts into my ear, so loudly I have to pull the device away despite the noise of passing vehicles.
“Who the fuck is this?” I ask since I only give my cell number to a small, select group of individuals who I trust implicitly, like the man and woman who raised me.
“It’s Roger Lemons, you know, from Lexington,” he answers quickly, probably because of my clipped, pissed off tone.
“Rog?” I reply in surprise as I watch the sun begin to set over the horizon. It’s been years since I’ve stepped foot in that god-forsaken town, but I do vaguely remember a kid from middle school named Roger. “Is this really the Ginga Ninja?” I ask with a chuckle.
If I remember correctly, he was a freckled-face redhead that the other kids picked on, right up until he followed them home after school and whooped their asses in their own front yards.
“Yeah, man! How you been?” he asks excitedly.
“Busy,” I say since I’m still suspicious about how he got my number, and I don’t have time for fucking pleasantries. Heading out of New York after a job fell through, I still have at least eleven hours before I reach Kentucky, if the sky doesn’t open up on me. And I need to get there before Jim’s call. I need to see her and say what I should’ve told her years ago before it’s too late. But I also hate the idea of showing up empty handed. Guess I don’t have a fucking choice.
“What’s going on? I’ve got somewhere to be, and you’re slowing me down,” I bark into the phone at those somber thoughts.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, sorry,” he says. “So, I got your number from an Army buddy who said you’re the one known as Azrael, the angel of death. That true?”
Running my free hand through my windblown hair, I exhale a breath. Must have been Nolan Stevens since he’s the only person from Fort Benning who has my number and knows about my illegal side business.
“What do you need?” I ask, neither confirming nor denying the nickname that I received during my three tours in Afghanistan.
Both of my biological parents were murderers, so it seemed fitting that I should follow in their footsteps. As a trained sniper, I was the government’s executioner, disposing of bad guys for them. They paid me to be a murderer, and it was easier to do than I expected. Putting a man in the sights of my rifle, holding my breath, pulling the trigger and simply walking away. I was deemed a hero for stopping at least forty-two hearts, taking the lives of men who could’ve had wives and kids depending on them for all I know.
Since I was honorably discharged a year ago, well, I haven’t found any civilian jobs that require my skills of assassinating men with a single gunshot to their head. To pay the bills and all my vices, I’ve been living as a mercenary, getting paid to kill seven different men so that those individuals who wanted revenge didn’t have to get their own hands dirty. My hands are so damn stained they’ll never be clean again, so what’s a few more deaths on my conscience?
Rog clears his throat before he answers. “My…associate has a loose end that needs to be…snipped. You game?”
Yep, he wants me to take someone out. Lucky number fifty maybe?
“What’s the pay?” I ask.
“Six figures,” he says. “Easy target without any family ties, and one who won’t put up a fight.”
“What’s the catch?” I ask since the job sounds too easy for that kind of money. And if it’s so easy, my services wouldn’t be needed.
I hear Rog’s breath whoosh across the phone line. “You’ve gotta find her first.”
“Her?” I echo in disbelief.
“Is that a problem? Because I could probably get him to cough up some more money.”
What the fuck? And how convenient that I just so happen to get a job when I desperately need the money more than ever. It’s my damn fault for loving Atlantic City and Vegas a little too much, squandering away most of my paydays on gambling, girls, and good booze. Those three things just so happen to be the best ways for me to get through the nights. Now that I desperately need the blown money, I would gladly trade the miserable, lonely insomnia for it if I could.
Never one to believe in a higher power, when I got the bad news from Jim about Paula, I asked the devil for a deal. Just let me take one more life with a big enough payday to help the couple who raised me with their medical bills, prevent them from losing their house, and give me enough left over to live off of until I could settle down and find a legitimate, permanent job in Louisville.
I’m tired of being a fucking assassin for hire. I can’t sleep anymore without getting shitfaced drunk to block out the endless faces that haunt my dreams, which only makes me an even grumpier bastard than usual. It’s not the faces of the dead that bother me, but their blameless sons and daughters, mothers and wives, brothers and fathers who I’m certain still grieve for the men I killed, even if they were the lowest scum of the earth.
My life is shit, and I know it’s because of the lives I’ve taken. Sure, all of them deserved it, like the leader of a human-trafficking ring that a stolen girl’s parents paid me to go find and kill in Mexico, or the crazy zealot who was wanted for the church bombing that killed three innocent people. Even so, that doesn’t mean I should’ve been the one to pull the trigger. So maybe this is really it, the last job I’ll ever have to take. An answer to my…well, not prayers, but perhaps my curses?
“Half a mil and no less,” I tell Rog as I scratch my scruffy beard in thought. Not only do I want that big ass payday, but I want to price myself out if it’s not gonna be the end all. As a general rule, I don’t go after women. My hits have always been men, the worst evil to walk among us, and I’m doing society a favor by eradicating them from ever breathing again. But some chick without family ties, who he says no one will miss? Well, I just don’t know about all that.
“I’ll see what I can do and get back to you,” Rog says. “And boss…I mean, my associate expects her to end up back this way, so maybe I’ll see you soon, huh? We can grab a beer, and you can even crash at my place if you need a place to stay.”
Fuck. If I have to go back there to that shithole and all the depressing memories it holds, my price is definitely going up. For years I’ve been avoiding that place and all of its ghosts.
“A million is the bottom line,” I tell him. “And I want twenty-five percent up front, so I know he’s good for the rest.” That should be enough for me to send to Jim to stop the foreclosure while Paula waits for a transplant. Apparently, the slight relief she got from chugging aspirin for years of crippling arthritis has destroyed her kidneys.
“Shit, man. I dunno about all that. Let me get back to you,” Rog says before hanging up.
Part of me hopes that I never hear from him again; but on the other hand, I need the money now more than fucking ever.
Chapter Two
Blair
Present day…
"Goddamn…motherfuck…Son. Of. A. Bitch!”
Practically jumping out of my own skin, I pop straight up in the closet floor, clutching the bedsheets to my chest and gasping for air. Taking deep, calming breaths, I try and slow my racing heartbeat after startling awake in the middle of what must have been a dream about a dirty mouthed sailor, one with a deep, husky voice.
Any dream is a welcome reprieve from my usual nightmares. The ones that are a continuous loop of blood and screaming, the occasional man chasing me with a knife, and the worst ones, when he actually catches me. God, the screams. I wish I could stop hearing them. Grabbing my head that constantly aches, I groan before twisting around to fluff up my old pillow. Nothing to do but try and get comfortable in the small cramped closet floor. At least until the next nightmare.
When my shuffling foot kicks the wooden slats, I hear that same dirty talking sailor’s voice from my dream say, “What the fuck?”
He sounds highly aggravated.
I sit up again in the pitch black space, wondering if the mysterious dream man is wearing dress whites with the cute little sailor cap, you know, the ones like Tom Cruise wore in A Few Good Men. God, those are so hot…
When the closet door creaks open and a bright light suddenly shines into my eyes, I practically hiss. Holding my palms up in front of my face, I try to ward off the beam that I fear may very well be powerful enough to melt me like a gremlin or a vampire. Why is my fantasy sailor trying to blind me? This is the strangest dream ever.
Unless…
No. There’s not really a man with a serious potty mouth standing in my empty childhood home right now, shining a light in my face. That’s ridiculous. And, jeez, even if he was, I can’t see if he’s in uniform, or anything else for that matter, now that my retinas are good and seared.
Oh my God.
Am I being robbed?
“Who are you and what the fuck are you doing in here?” he asks gruffly.
This man is no sailor! Sailors may curse up a storm, but they would most certainly speak kindly to ladies.
Wait.
Did the guy breaking into my house just ask who I am?
Ugh, jeez, I hate these moments when I can’t figure out what’s real or imaginary. Coming off the meds, I thought I had pushed my way through all the hazy fog days. Evidently not.
“Dammit, no one’s supposed to be here,” the cursing sailor huffs, like I’m inconveniencing him. At least he finally removed the spotlight from my face.
Unable to move or speak, stuck between reality and a fantasy world, I sit frozen with fear rapidly growing into a knot in the pit of my stomach. I watch as the tall, lean figure in all dark clothing, definitely not a white sailor uniform, paces back and forth in front of the open closet door. It’s hard to tell with the lack of lighting, but I think he’s wearing a mask over his face.
If he’s trying to scare the shit out of me, congrats, it worked. It’s amazing how menacing one piece of clothing can be. Cover your face with something dark, and you’re guaranteed to invoke terror in everyone you meet. Right now, though, he’s not very scary since he’s just mumbling to himself. I can’t help but wonder if he also converses with the voices in his head. He sounds like a young guy, too, maybe just a few years older than me.
His pacing stops abruptly; and when he shines the flashlight in my face again, I sigh in exasperation as I squint away from it. Is that his big plan? Torture me all night with the bright beam until I go blind?
“Why are you in the fucking closet?” he asks. “You’re not calling the police are you?”
I shake my head and hold up my empty hands, palms facing out.
