Cheyenne McCray - [Lexi Steele 01]

by The First Sin

It couldn’t be the room where the men forced me to be an assassin. No. God, no.

  All I was positive about was that my entire body hurt in every place imaginable. I was nothing but pain.

  As it brushed my skin, warm air carried familiar smells.

  Antiseptic. A medicinal odor.

  Cologne.

  The cologne was the smell I hated the most, because it belonged to the man I hated the most.

  A face wavered in and out over me. Concentrating was so hard it hurt. Cold, then heat, washed over me as I recognized Satan.

  Benjamin Cabot.

  Vaguely I was aware my right arm felt almost too heavy to move. A cast.

  The pain in my left shoulder was so great I wanted to scream. Dislocated. The guy named Danny who’d dragged me had jerked it out of its socket.

  “I wanted to make sure you’re awake for this part, Alexi.”

  Cabot smiled, then looked up at a man with a surgical mask on. “Dr. Rogers, your patient,” Cabot said to the man.

  “I’ll take care of her, Mr. Cabot.” The doctor reached for me and I became more aware of the focused pain in my dislocated shoulder.

  “No.” I knew what he was going to do. While I was awake. I shook my head so hard that I almost threw up from the pain just moving my head caused me. “Please. No.”

  Dr. Rogers grasped my shoulder and I cried out. He examined it with his fingers and hands, and I wanted to scream from every touch.

  The man wrenched and twisted my shoulder into place.

  I screamed so loud my throat and chest hurt. Agony. Sheer agony.

  Oh, my God. Take me.

  And blackness did.

  April 15

  Monday

  I was sitting on something cold.

  My arm was cradled against my belly. A cast. My right arm was in a cast and pain shot through my forearm. I almost cried at the memory of a man jerking my shoulder back into place, but I had to admit that at least my shoulder felt better now.

  My arm itched beneath the cast and I wanted to scratch it. Wouldn’t have had the strength to even if I could.

  The wobbling in my head made it hard to focus as I tried to figure out where I was and what I was sitting on. I tried to pry my eyes open. All they would part was a slit. I was in someplace dark.

  “You need to relieve yourself.” A sweet voice. Not Cabot’s devil’s voice.

  Relieve myself? Relieve myself. Oh.

  I let go and emptied. A tissue was put into my left hand. Left . . . Oh, right one was in a cast. My left hand shook but managed to wipe.

  Then I toppled off the cold seat and welcomed the dark again.

  April 16

  Tuesday

  Water. Lapping at my waist, covering my legs. Warm, welcome. Lightening some of the pain.

  Hands scrubbed my body with—a washcloth? Gentle hands. But still my body ached.

  The swaying of the water made my head feel like it was swaying, too. My eyes—stuck. Glued together.

  “What is your name?” came the sweet voice. “You never answer me.”

  My lips seem glued, too. Maybe it would be too much of an effort to speak. Maybe that was why I couldn’t open my mouth.

  “I am Alyona,” the girl said. A Russian accent. “I have been caring for you. Sometimes you wake, sometimes you are in a place between wake and sleep and don’t know what it is you do. Bathe. Drink water and broth. Relieve yourself. And sleep. They always drug you.”

  It hurt to focus on what she was saying as I tried to make sense of her words.

  Then warm water spilled down my scalp, hurting but healing, too. “As always we must take care not to wet your cast or the bandages around your chest.”

  Yes, my heavy arm was propped on something. The warm water only went as far as my waist and my chest felt tight, constricted.

  “I am sorry, but I must wash your hair.” She squirted something cool on my scalp and began soaping it. “The cuts and bruises—they must hurt so.”

  Alyona was so gentle, yet the pain was incredible as she lathered my hair.

  Sleep would be better.

  April 17

  Wednesday

  The broth was plain and it didn’t want to go down. I didn’t want it. I just knew I was sick of it. But Alyona insisted. And she gave me water. Helped me up to relieve myself.

  Helped me climb into bed and pass back into oblivion.

  April 18

  Thursday

  Did I wake today? I must have.

  I think, therefore I am.

  Am I?

  April 19

  Friday

  Did I really exist? The world tilted and wouldn’t right itself. A snow globe with swirling white flakes tipping to the side.

  Floating . . . floating . . . floating . . .

  What was right or normal? Was anything real? Or was it all just . . . nothing.

  Pain was real. Constant pain.

  I was there. I wasn’t. I was nothing at all. Nothing but pain.

  Yet beyond the haze and agony there was a life that was mine. I did have a place in the world. The world that wouldn’t stop tilting.

  Pain. So intense.

  Must be alive. To feel such pain, I must be alive.

  No lying to myself anymore.

  “What’s your name?” came a small voice. Alyona. “One day you will tell me.”

  Sweet, singsong, her voice should have made me smile. Instead it echoed in my head and I wanted to scream.

  I was gone again.

  April 20

  Saturday

  “Are you awake?” the delicate voice asked through the darkness of my mind. “We must get you up to attend to your bath.”

  No pain. I didn’t wince at the sound of the voice.

  Progress.

  What progress was that? Nothing made sense. Here. There. What was what?

  “They make you sleep, sleep, sleep.” Yes, a Russian accent. Her name—Alyona, right?

  “They have kept you drugged long.” Alyona sounded concerned, confused, even as she continued. “Maybe it is because you suffered much. They wait for you to heal.”

  The dryness of my throat made it ache when I tried to swallow. It hurt almost as badly as the rest of my body. Yes, I ached. I felt it now. So much so that I whimpered behind my closed lips.

  A small hand gently touched my arm. “Your color is much better and you breathe without so much labor.”

  Yeah. She was right. My ribs still hurt with every inhale and exhale, but it was better.

  I sucked in another breath. Jeez, that hurt.

  Alyona moved close. She smelled sweet and delicate.

  I had a life outside this pain, right? Beyond the fuzz fogging my mind.

  My lips parted as my throat worked. I sucked in air, gasped, and coughed.

  Christ. Wasn’t there a single part of me that didn’t feel like I’d been hit by a train?

  “You need water.” Alyona put something cool against my lips, and thirst hit me hard and sudden. I might crumble to dust if I didn’t have a drink. Now.

  Give me. Now. Now. Now.

  Cool water flowed through my parched lips. Alyona was pouring it into my mouth. Only a little, like she was holding back.

  More. Goddamnit, more!

  When did I raise my head?

  More.

  Something anchored my right arm. Couldn’t raise it.

  My left hand moved, though. It shook as it reached the paper cup.

  Water down the sides of my mouth. Down my neck. Wetting my chest.

  More, more.

  Water droplets rolled over my breasts. No clothes. I was naked beneath a light blanket.

  “Slow.” Alyona drew the glass away and a scream of frustration nearly tore through me. “You have never tried to force it so fast before. Perhaps it is because you are getting better.”

  “Now, slowly.” Alyona brought the cup to my lips again and I gulped what water she gave me. “You will vomit if you don’t. A little at a time.”


  She took the glass away from my lips.

  My whole body was collapsing in on itself. Too much. It had taken too much out of me. To drink the water, raise my head, lift my hand.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  I heard the smile in her voice as she said, “Finally, you speak.”

  The sound of a lock clicking was followed by the screech of unoiled door hinges. I winced. Alyona moved away from me.

  “The bitch is awake.” Who was it? I knew that voice. In my daily nightmares that voice always came. I hated whoever it was.

  “Not for long,” said another male. “Just get her into the shower and that needle back into her arm.”

  Get your eyes open. My jaws hurt when I ground my teeth while fighting to raise my eyelids.

  Someone lifted my left arm. The one that didn’t feel like a gorilla was sitting on it.

  Everything was a blur when I finally pried my eyes open. I saw a plain room with a door to a bathroom. The men holding me got me into the tub.

  Alyona bathed me. This time I realized the men were standing there, watching.

  I still couldn’t tell Alyona my name when she asked.

  April 21

  Sunday. I haven’t a clue what time and don’t care.

  What a godawful nightmare.

  “Jesus Christ.” My words came out in a low croak through my aching throat. It was damned near impossible to swallow.

  Open your eyes. What was that crust crap gluing them together? Someone might as well have jerked them open with a crowbar, as bad as it hurt when I managed to get them open.

  Nothing but a blur. The gunk in my eyes was like looking through a thick fog.

  One breath. Another. It so hurt to breathe. Did one part of me not ache?

  Blink. Blink away the gunk. There, everything came into focus.

  I frowned. It looked like I was in some kind of hotel room with boarded-up windows.

  Before, I couldn’t open my eyes. Now I couldn’t get myself to close them.

  Every lump in the mattress beneath my back bruised my skin, and I felt pain at the bottom of my backside. The caning on top of everything else. A dizzying sensation wanted to take me away to some kind of black hole.

  Maybe I wanted that. Maybe I wanted the black hole to swallow me. Maybe I didn’t want to face reality.

  Because I knew there was a reality beyond this threadbare room. A new reality. A reality I didn’t want.

  A reality I would find a way to overcome.

  But . . . what—when—how did I get here? The how and why touched the fringes of my mind like cold fungus.

  And days . . . days of broth and water and the toilet and baths . . . it all seemed surreal.

  I’d been here awhile, but I’d never been so aware since I came to this place. What place?

  Deep breath. Face more reality, Steele.

  For some reason it hadn’t occurred to me that I had a name.

  Lexi Steele.

  Lexi.

  My chest hurt when I held my breath before turning my head to my right. A worn-out chair next to a nightstand with a reading lamp.

  A flash of memories hit me from nowhere. A flood of memories. I had a partner. Donovan. Nick Donovan. I worked for—for an organization called RED. I was a special agent and was an assassin. Yes, that was me.

  I was a killer.

  More memories bombarded me and I wanted to hold my stomach with both hands.

  Cabot.

  Every blow to my body came as clear to me as if he was beating me now.

  Being auctioned to the highest bidder.

  He was going to auction me like he had sold Donovan’s sister.

  Your new reality, Steele.

  Bullshit.

  Pull yourself together. Analyze the situation.

  Escape.

  Not a single person could control my future. No one controlled Lexi Steele.

  I’d been through worse.

  Yet the pounding of my heart made my chest ache. How could I feel more pain?

  But the pain was less than it had been when Cabot had beaten me. SOB hadn’t been able to fight me without having two men hold me. Coward.

  Time to assess. A cry and a gasp almost tore through me as I tried to push myself up to a sitting position and pain shot through my right arm. Something heavy encased it from my wrist to my upper arm.

  A cast. Cabot had broken my arm. The pain in my lower chest and sides was thanks to the ribs he’d cracked when he kicked me. The tightness that made it even harder to breathe came from bandages wrapped around my chest.

  My left shoulder hurt like hell, and I winced at the memory of it being dislocated and put back into place.

  One thing after another flashed through my mind, and my heart felt like someone was twisting a stake in it. I wanted to scream as my chest rose and fell, harsh and fast, with my breathing. I was hyperventilating.

  “Calm down, Steele,” I growled at myself, and concentrated on slowing my breathing. Deep inhale. Slow exhale.

  I swore in six different languages.

  My breathing quickened again.

  Okay, the freaking out and releasing every swearword I could think of didn’t help.

  It took all the strength I had in my left arm to push myself up, my right arm cradled against me. My left arm shook so bad from the pain in my shoulder.

  Hallelujah. I managed to sit.

  The light blanket fell to my waist and my stomach curdled. I was naked. It seemed like every bit of my fair skin had pale, yellowing bruises. Shadows of them, really.

  How long had I been here? Wherever here was.

  With the sick feeling my constant friend, I looked at the cast.

  The curdling from my stomach jumped into my throat.

  Cabot had signed it.

  To the newest treasure of my collection.

  Benjamin.

  Sick bastard.

  Sick, sick, sick bastard.

  I’d put away a serial killer, the Harvester, who liked to eat his victims in small pieces. I’d be happy to do the honors as I indulged in my fantasy of chopping Cabot into tiny chunks myself. I’d be pleased to feed them to the man waiting on death row. Harvey might want a farewell snack.

  No way was Cabot getting away with this. There would be a way to escape. I’d find it. Then I’d bring him down.

  RED allowed us to use any force necessary.

  Any force.

  This would be necessary.

  I’d do it even if it wasn’t necessary.

  Voices. Creaking door hinges followed. I had to figure things out. Couldn’t let them know I’d woken. The lumpy mattress became my friend, along with the threadbare blanket, as I pretended to sleep.

  “Bitch is still out of it,” a now-familiar voice said as the door to the room squeaked open. Danny. I’d kill him after Cabot.

  A girl cried out and her body hit mine as she was flung into the room. Oh crap. My left arm. I gritted my teeth, clenching them hard enough to send a shooting pain through my head. I couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound, or they’d know I was awake.

  I wasn’t ready for that, yet.

  The doors slammed shut.

  The girl crawled onto the mattress beside me and sobbed, her whole body shaking.

  Flashes of memories came to me—a girl had taken care of me. Fed me. Bathed me. Helped me on the toilet.

  “Alyona?” I kept my voice low as I opened my eyes and looked at the girl who had her back to me.

  A loud sniffle. Her shoulders shook. “You are awake.” Another sob. A moment passed before she spoke again in her strong Russian accent, and rolled to face me. “I—I worried for you.”

  She looked . . . familiar.

  I caught my breath. She was the same dark-haired girl I’d seen abducted and thrown into a van on one of Donovan’s monitors.

  “Thank you for taking care of me.” I reached up and brushed her cheek with my fingertips. She was model-beautiful. “How long have I been here?”

  Alyona
scrunched her eyebrows. “It is Sunday, yes?” she seemed to ask herself, then nodded. “Yes. A week yesterday it has been since you were brought to this”—her voice caught—“this prison.”

  “A week?” My voice rose before I could keep it down. I let my hand fall away from her face and forced my voice to go lower. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “They put a needle in your arm every day after I cared for you, to make you sleep. They said”—her voice shook—“they said you needed to heal before . . . before they turned you into . . .” Her voice quavered again and I heard the tears. “Merchandise. Like me.”

  She continued. “I am not supposed to be touched until I—I am delivered to my new owner. But—it just now was not so.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” The kind of feeling that rushed through me now was hot and fluid. I’d never felt anything like this. Not even when I faced pain beyond pain. Not even when the crap was beaten out of me the two times I’d screwed up after assassinations.

  One man in Mexico.

  Another man in Cuba.

  My “employers” never telling me why I had to kill these men.

  Both men were history, but I’d been tortured to hell and back by their men.

  Still, I escaped.

  Now, here in the good ol’ US of A, Cabot considered me merchandise to auction off.

  No fucking way.

  What I’d said about hopelessness? No such thing. Unless you’re dead, there’s hope.

  The pain in my ribs wasn’t easy to ignore when I sucked in my breath. “They didn’t drug me today?”

  Alyona looked cute and young despite the tears and weariness on her features, and the fact that she’d just been raped. She looked eighteen at most.

  We would have time for questions later, when I could do something about the mess I was in. The mess all of the girls were in.

  I would make sure any women who might be here with us got out of here soon. That they were taken away from this place. And that the men who had done this to them paid. Paid big-time. There were so many ways to kill a man so that he felt excruciating pain in the moments before his death.

  She hesitated. “I do not remember the men coming to the room before I was taken to—to the man named Cabot. For—for assessment. From the time you have been here they have always drugged you.”

  “Cabot raped you?” I was even more furious than before, if that was possible. No matter who had raped her, it was a horrible violation. Cabot doing it seemed even worse. “That man is so dead.”