“Fuckers have Sarah,” Adam said grimly, lifting his hips off the seat and shucking off his ruined khakis, wincing as he carefully pulled the waistband away from the dressing covering his left thigh. “I’d be up for it if I were in a coma. C’mon, let’s go. I can change while we’re driving.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lulled by the gentle movement of the van and the hum of the tires on the asphalt highway, Sarah was half-asleep when the van’s sudden, sharp swerve sent her careening across the floor, slamming her ribs against the large metal tool box. She cried out in pain.
Oof! No longer on pavement, the van jounced and jolted along what might have been a dirt road—a hundred years ago. Whatever it was currently, it was badly in need of attention. She tried to brace herself, but with her ankles taped together and her hands behind her back, she was helpless, rolling and bouncing all over the back of the van. When her head hit the floor for the fifth time, she started screaming at the top of her lungs. It would have been blood-curdling if it hadn’t been muffled by the gag, but it did the trick.
“Hey, Mac,” the Hulk yelled up to the driver, “slow the fuck down, will ya? There’s nothin’ to hold on to back here!” He gave her a leering wink. “Wouldn’t wanna bruise the merchandise, now, would we?”
She just glared at him. Asshole.
After what seemed like hours of bone-jarring torture, the van finally pulled back onto a smooth surface and stopped. The side door slid open, and Sarah saw that the sun was just beginning to set. The sky was ablaze with streaks of orange, pink, purple, and red—a spectacular display of light and color that seemed to mock the blackness of her current situation. She didn’t have time to observe more than that when she was picked up, slung over her captor’s shoulder like a sack of laundry, and carried across the concrete into a dark, musty-smelling building.
He didn’t bother to turn on a light, just walked her into the room and dumped her onto a mattress on the floor. “Please,” she groaned, knowing he couldn’t understand the word, but hoping that the pleading look in her eyes would somehow convey her meaning. She twisted her body to avoid putting any weight on her aching arms and shoulders. “Please…”
He stared at her for a minute, then seemed to come to a decision. Taking a switchblade from his jeans pocket, he swiftly sliced through the duct tape around her wrists and ankles. She let out a low, sobbing moan as pain stabbed through her stiff muscles. He gave her another hard stare, then ripped the tape off her face and pulled the sodden rag out of her mouth. Gratefully, she sucked air into the bottom of her lungs, then lunged over the side of the mattress and emptied the contents of her stomach all over the floor.
The man hopped back out of the way. “Goddamn, bitch, what’d you do that for? Goddamn it!” He made a guttural sound of disgust and stomped away from her, his heavy biker boots echoing loudly in the empty room. He opened the door and yelled something to someone outside. She thought she heard the word “rag.”
“S–sorry.” Her voice was raw, as if her vocal cords had been shredded. “The taste…it…m–made me sick. Sorry.” Hoping that it gave her a tactical advantage to appear weaker and more helpless than she actually was, she made a great show of hauling her body back onto the mattress and sprawling on the surface like a dead octopus. Actually, she realized with dismay, it hadn’t been that much of a show. She had very little control over either her arms or legs. Having been confined for so long in such painful, unnatural positions, they had no strength in them. They felt like alien appendages grafted onto her body as part of some sort of bizarre science experiment.
As she lay there, hissing through clenched teeth at the pins and needles of returning blood flow, she became aware of several things, none of them reassuring. In the faint light coming in through the room’s only windows, two openings flanking the door she’d been carried through, she realized that she was in a World-War-II-era Quonset hut, the long, arched walls made of corrugated, galvanized steel, the end walls little more than sheets of raw plywood nailed to a flimsy wood frame. It was so hot inside the metal building that she began sweating profusely.
Where was she? Was this the Army of Righteousness compound on the old Harriman property? If so, what was a building from WWII doing at a WWI airfield? If not…oh, God, that didn’t bear thinking about. Adam and Jesse would be looking for her at the old airfield. Before they even realized that she wasn’t there, she’d be out of the country, beyond their reach forever. No! I will not think about that! I have to try and figure out how to get out of here!
Fighting the urge to just cry and give in to despair, she continued her survey of the room. The mattress she lay on seemed to be the only “furniture.” As she moved her cheek against it, it felt…gritty. And along with the smell of her own vomit, she also detected the faint odor of urine, sour sweat, and…something else, the origins of which she didn’t want to examine too closely. Her stomach heaved again, but this time, by sheer dint of will and by swallowing frantically over and over, she managed to keep the contents where they belonged. Though she couldn’t guarantee how long they’d stay there.
The Hulk returned carrying a bucket and a handful of red and gray mechanic’s rags. Placing the bucket on the floor next to her, he dropped the rags on top of her head, sniggering as he did so. He was like a child. A gigantic, malignant child, whose idea of a good time probably included setting squirrels’ tails on fire. “Clean up your fuckin’ mess,” was all he said as he crossed his arms over his chest and took a couple of steps back to watch her.
Slowly, clumsily, she levered herself up onto her hands and knees, as wobbly and ungainly as a newborn colt. She picked up one of the rags, swiped it through the puddle of vomit, and dropped it into the bucket, gagging repeatedly. Just in time she managed to get the bucket beneath her head as her stomach heaved up the rest of its contents. The Hulk squealed like a girl and danced backward a few more steps.
“Hurry up, bitch,” was all he said.
Keeping her head down to keep him from seeing the baleful glare she longed to direct straight at him, she finished cleaning up her mess. Dropping the final rag into the plastic bucket, she shoved it toward the Hulk and sank back onto her legs, lifting her hand to her jaw and moving it gingerly back and forth. It ached from being stretched around the gag for so long. In fact, her entire body was a litany of aches. Her head, her shoulders, her back, her—
“Strip.”
What? Her mouth went dry as panic engulfed her. “I–I—” Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly. Surely he hadn’t just ordered her to—
“I gave you an order, bitch,” he snarled. “Strip.”
“Please…”She looked up at him, “why are you doing this? What is Ryder paying you to risk going to prison for kidnapping? Because whatever it is, I’ll double it—no, triple it—if you help get me out of here. I’ll see to it that you get immunity if you—if you’d just—eek!” She gave a little shriek as he took a menacing step toward her, switchblade in his hand. “No, no, don’t, I–I’ll do it!”
Hastily raising her hands, she unbuttoned her suit jacket, shrugging it off her shoulders. Then she started in on her silk blouse, sliding each button through its buttonhole with trembling fingers, hating that he watched her every move with avid eyes. Slowly, methodically, she pulled the tails out of the waistband of her skirt, but balked at removing it. “I—” She shook her head. “I can’t. Please don’t make me.”
“I got my orders, bitch, and you got yours. Strip or I’ll do it for you. And hurry up, I ain’t got all day.”
“Can’t we just—” Her words ended with another shriek as he lunged toward her, grabbing one side of her blouse and ripping it out of her hands. “Stop! Stop! I’ll do it, I’ll do it!” She shrank back, twisting away from him and rolling to the other side of the mattress, crouching there like a cornered animal, one hand clutching the sides of her blouse together. When he reached for it, she slapped his hand away. ‘Don’t touch me, you bastard,” she managed to choke out through a th
roat thick with unshed tears. “You lay a hand on me, I’ll bite it off, I swear.”
Without waiting for a response from him, she stood up and released the death grip she had on her blouse, letting it fall to the floor. Reaching behind her, she unbuttoned and unzipped her skirt, shoving it down over her hips along with her panties, stepping out of them both and kicking them away from her. No matter what happened here today, she knew she would never wear this particular outfit again.
Turning her back, she unhooked her bra and dropped it onto the pile of clothing on the floor. She stood for a moment, biting her lip, struggling against the urge to hunch her shoulders forward and cover her breasts and pussy with her hands. No. She shook her head defiantly. That’s a shame response. Jesse and Adam taught me to be proud of my body, proud of who I am, and I’ll be damned if I let this Neanderthal take that away from me. Lifting her head and squaring her shoulders, she turned around and stood, hands at her sides, staring at him insolently.
She maintained eye contact the entire time he was walking toward her, breathing through her mouth as his body odor closed around her, struggling not to flinch at the rough touch of his hand on her naked breast.
“Man, you are one fine-ass woman,” he breathed next to her ear.
“And you are a mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging ape who can’t even reach around to wipe his own ass.”
He squeezed her breast harder, his fingers like a vise. “You better be nice to me, bitch, or you’ll go to your new master beaten to a bloody pulp.” He leaned in and licked her face, from her jaw up to her temple. “Crap, you smell good. Never smelled me a woman who smells as good as you. Subtle and expensive. Never felt one as soft as you, either.”
Gritting her teeth, she endured his pawing in silence, mentally wishing him and all of his brethren at the bottom of the ocean. But she couldn’t suppress the shudder of revulsion that rolled through her when he stuck out his tongue and licked her neck. Nor could she stop herself from jerking back away from him.
“Bitch!” he roared, slapping her across the face so hard she nearly blacked out from the pain. With a sharp cry, she turned and tried to run, but he threw his arms around her, effectively pinning her arms to her sides. Lifting her off the floor, he ignored her kicking feet and frantically twisting body as he carried her over to one of the corrugated metal walls.
When he set her down, she reared back to bite him in the neck, but he just grabbed her by the throat and squeezed, cutting off her air until her vision began to blacken, and she finally sagged against him, all resistance gone.
Before she knew it, her hands were cuffed and attached above her head to chains dangling from the ceiling. He kicked her legs apart, snapped metal shackles around her ankles and cuffed them to chains bolted into the cement floor. When she opened her mouth to scream, he shoved a ball gag inside and buckled it behind her head.
“Bitch,” he sneered, giving the cheek he slapped a vicious pinch before doing the same to her left nipple. Her scream of pain and outrage was muffled by the gag. Picking up the mattress, he stacked it against the wall. “Shoulda been nicer to me,” was all he said before exiting the room and leaving her all alone in the gathering darkness.
For a long moment she simply stood, taking stock of her situation and considering her options. She didn’t like what she came up with. Her situation was desperate and her options were zero. If Adam and Jesse didn’t find her—and soon—her life was, quite literally over. Because she would kill herself before she allowed a human trafficker, someone who wasn’t even human himself, to “train” her as a sex slave. Oh, yeah? And just how’re you going to do that? You can’t even wipe the drool off your chin. You’re completely helpless!
For the first time since being taken, she succumbed to the waves of despair battering against her soul. As they inundated her, threatening to drown her, the tears she’d been struggling to keep at bay finally began to fall. And this time she didn’t even try to stop them. If her nose stopped up and she suffocated, she’d just be dead that much sooner and save herself a shitload of suffering.
* * * *
Absently, Jesse folded the map, watching Adam as he carefully packed blocks of C-4, detonators, and other anti-personnel devices into the pockets of the utility vest Wildfire had given him. Adam’s focus on the upcoming mission was formidable, but Jesse could tell he was in pain, whether from his leg or his head, he wasn’t sure. Not that it mattered. They were both running on nothing but adrenaline and pure stubbornness and were headed for one hell of a crash. I just hope it holds off until after we get Sarah outta that fuckin’ camp.
For the past two hours they’d gone over every detail of their hastily improvised plan with Bill’s team. In spite of his protests to the contrary, Adam had finally had to admit, at least to himself, that his injuries from the accident were severe enough to affect his mobility and slow his timing. And even though he chafed under these limitations, he refused to compromise the mission, so his only role was to go in and set enough explosives to create chaos and confusion. Hopefully he could provide enough of a diversion to draw attention away from the transfer of the rifles and drugs long enough for Alpha to get in, take down the Army of Righteousness, and secure those self-same rifles and drugs.
Jesse relished the far more active role he would be taking. He would be conducting a building-by-building search for Sarah, taking out whatever AR fuckheads he came across. They knew she was there. Alpha sentries had reported the arrival of the dark green panel van over four hours ago. Four fuckin’ hours ago! Four gut-churning hours that he and Adam had spent ricocheting helplessly back and forth between hope, anxiety, and utter despair. Lord only knew what Sarah had been going through during those same four hours. He just prayed he could find her quickly and get her to safety before all hell broke loose. The window of opportunity was extremely small, mere minutes, in fact.
Because stealth was of paramount importance to his part of the mission, his weapon was a Heckler & Koch MK23, fitted with a suppressor. His pockets were jammed with extra clips. Jesse didn’t particularly care for silencers—they screwed with the balance and power of a gun. But in this case, the merits of using it far outweighed its liabilities. He couldn’t afford to have any muzzle flashes giving away his position.
The tent flap brushed aside, and Bill “Wildfire” Payton walked in. Five Alpha teams were taking part in the raid, and had set up camp at the lake Jesse had paddled across—Christ, was it just last week? Seems like a month ago. So far there had been no sign that the Neo-Nazi skinheads had felt compelled to expand their security perimeter. Or maybe they had, just not as far out as the lake. “Just got news from the AWACS plane shadowing the drug plane. It should be landing in around fifteen minutes.” He took one look at the lines of pain tightening Adam’s mouth and opened his own mouth to tell them once again how ill-advised he thought this op was.
“Don’t say it,” Adam ordered, zipping the vest pockets shut and slinging it around his shoulders, thrusting his arms through the openings. “We need to go right now. Best time to set my explosives is when everyone is occupied unloading the drugs and transferring the first shipment of rifles.”
“You’re not a hundred percent. I will not have you jeopardizing this entire operation—”
Adam leveled a look at his former teammate, as he buckled on his helmet, wincing at the pressure against his wound. “You’ll have to shoot me in the back to keep me from going. Are you prepared to do that?”
Bill held up his hands, palms facing out in surrender. “Okay, Nitro. Only you know for sure how far you can push yourself.”
“As far as it takes to get the job done,” Adam muttered, flexing his shoulders to ease the throbbing in his head. “We’ve got to find her and get her to safety before Malone ships her out in one of those false-bottom trucks.” When Bill didn’t respond, Adam looked up at him. Uh oh. He didn’t like the look on the black man’s face. “What?”
Bill pressed his lips together. “We…don’t think that’s
what he’s going to do with her.”
“What? Why not?”
Bill paused.
“Spit it out, Wildfire.”
“Sokolov.”
It didn’t seem possible for Adam’s face to get any whiter, but it did. Jesse’s blood went cold, all the air whooshed out of his lungs. “You’ve got to be shittin’ me!”
“I wish I were.”
Holy fuckin’ hell! Viktor Sokolov. Brutal, vicious, ruthless, Viktor Sokolov was more than just a sadistic psychopath. He was pure, unadulterated evil. A high-ranking member of the Albanian mob, a group absolutely known for its total disregard of human life, he trafficked in arms, drugs, assassinations, prostitution, hijackings, kidnappings for ransom—anything that brought him a profit. His specialty, however, was women, particularly young, white women, whom he “trained” as sex slaves, then sold to the world’s wealthiest, most unscrupulous men, auctioning them off to the highest bidder.
God, it doesn’t get any worse than this.
“Holy shit, Wildfire,” Jesse said with barely suppressed rage. “When were you gonna tell us?”
“I’m telling you now. According to Solo, Malone’s been bragging about selling a woman to ‘some Russian dude’—Solo’s words—for a cool million bucks. We thought it was complete bullshit, until we got your call telling us that Sarah had been taken. So we had Alpha Command do some quick checking, and the latest intel is that the Russian dude who paid Malone the million dollars is Sokolov. And we think the woman he bought is Sarah.”
Both Adam’s and Jesse’s expressions could have been carved from stone.
“Word is he’s on the plane that’s bringing in the second half of the rifles, the ones stolen from the Ukrainian Army depot. The plane that’s going to carry out the five tons of cocaine. The plane that will be landing in”—he glanced at his watch—“oh, around thirty minutes.”
Owning Sarah [Sequel to Loving Sarah] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Page 34
