by Kaylea Cross
The spreadsheet on screen before him listing the profits of his latest investments blurred before his eyes. He wiped an impatient hand over them, cleared his throat and tried to focus on the numbers.
He’d already begun the transition process and finalized his will. Elena was no longer a beneficiary, having been paid out a settlement in cash when their separation had been finalized. She was too smart to try and drag anything out in court. Smart enough that she would take the money and start over somewhere.
Now he was free.
Tomorrow marked a new dawn. Tomorrow when they finally met face to face again, both he and Oceane could turn the page and begin their lives anew.
Together.
****
Brock jerked awake with a gasp when a bucket of icy water hit him in the face, drenching the front of him. As soon as he came to, he wished he hadn’t.
He was still hanging from the chains attached to the ceiling, his entire upper body in agony. His right eye was swollen shut. Both arms were totally numb except for the constant, biting pain in his wrists and shoulders.
Every single breath was its own separate agony, the places where the thin metal rod had struck leaving welts and bruises, maybe even cracked a couple of ribs. He must have passed out at some point during the beating because he’d been completely under when that water hit him.
Hard shudders ripped through him now that he was awake, his exhausted, beaten body reacting once again to the cold. But he was sluggish now, the prolonged exposure to the freezing air having taken its toll on him.
Brock’s good eye focused on the lone figure in the dim room. The man responsible for torturing him stood in front of Brock with a smirk on his face. “Rise and shine,” he said in a singsong voice.
He caught only a flash of movement, barely had time to flinch as the rod swung out and smashed across his face. His roar echoed throughout the room as the bridge of his nose split open, pain exploding through his face.
He struggled through the fog of agony, fought to clear his head. Blood dripped down his face, running off his lips and chin in a thin rivulet that dripped onto his bare, bruised chest and onto the concrete floor below.
Another blow lit up a stripe of anguish across the left side of his ribs, in the spot where even his tensed muscles couldn’t protect him. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see where the next blow would land, and forced his mind to go empty, not even trying to stay quiet anymore.
Pain wouldn’t kill him. Pain was shitty, but it was a reminder that he was still alive. He had to hold onto that.
With effort he let his body go slack and drifted in between blows, concentrating on thoughts of Tori. He clung to an image of her face. On the night she’d come to meet him at the hotel. Her nervous smile at the beginning. The stunned look on her face when he’d wound the scarf around his wrists, offering his body to her.
He’d never given himself that way to anyone. Only her. In return she’d let down all her walls that night. They both had.
That night had changed him forever, and he would never be the same again. Not that he was likely to live much longer to prove that theory. But if he did survive this he was going to find Tori and consider giving up his career for her.
The bastard hit him across the back now. Brock clung to Tori’s image, drew strength from it. A resolve to hold on through the blows that rained down on his defenseless, suspended body.
He fought for breath, struggled to let the pain wash over him. Tears slipped down his face, mixing with the blood, his soul crying out in agony, his hoarse voice echoing in his ears.
You can take this. Suck it up and take it.
Tori had endured worse than this and survived. He would hold on for as long as it took, or until he gave his last breath.
Don’t let them break you.
His team would be searching for him, along with other American and Mexican agencies. If he could just stay alive long enough, he had a chance of making it out of here.
Providing this sadistic son of a bitch didn’t kill him first.
He tensed, anticipating another blow. Then the sharp notes of a ring tone cut through the room.
The beating stopped abruptly.
Letting out a painful, cautious breath, Brock sagged and opened his good eye to find his tormentor staring at the cell phone in his hand, frowning. The man answered, watching him.
Brock only caught little bits of his response to whoever it was. Then he hung up and gave Brock another smirk that made him long to break the cruel fucker’s neck.
“Need to take a video of you,” he said, holding up the camera. “So smile nice.”
Brock glared down at him with his one eye, refusing to respond in any other way. The bastard was loving every moment of this.
“Say your name.”
He gathered his strength inward. If they were recording him, there was a reason. Were they sending proof of life to Taggart and the others? Or just so they could kill him and send this to the U.S. government after as a giant fuck you?
It’s Taggart.
He had to believe that. Had to, for his sanity.
Drawing in a shallow, painful breath, he tried to ease the shaking but his teeth continued to chatter, blood dripping down his face and chest. “S-supervisory Special Agent B-Brock Hamilton,” he rasped out.
“And what agency do you work for?”
“DEA.”
“Okay. Now smile.”
Brock longed to break his neck. Fantasized about it as he hung there. Fuck. You.
Chuckling, the man tapped out a message to someone, then lowered his phone and tucked it back into his pocket. Picking the rod back up, he faced Brock and grinned, his eyes gleaming with an unholy enjoyment. “Now. Where were we?”
Chapter Fifteen
“Does anyone here look familiar at all to you?”
Victoria scooted her chair closer to the table and carefully examined the photos Taggart slid in front of her. Members of the taskforce were trying desperately to trace the number Oceane had called, but they hadn’t been able to get a lock on the signal yet. The battery had likely been removed or the phone destroyed.
“Are these all cartel members?” she asked.
“Most of them. We’re hoping you can identify a few,” he said.
It was so damn hard to focus on this when they didn’t know what was happening to Brock. Oceane had called her father’s contact three hours ago demanding a proof of life video, and still nothing.
Victoria supposed she should be grateful that they were involving her with the investigation at all because without something to keep her busy right now she would be losing her mind with worry. It tore her up, made her physically ill to think of Brock being beaten. Tortured. Worse.
“Commander Taggart.”
They both looked up as a Mexican official hurried toward them from the other end of the room. “We just received a call from the local police. Someone called them with a possible tip on Agent Hamilton’s location.”
Victoria’s heart beat faster as the man reached the table they were working at and set a folder down in front of Taggart to open it.
“What’s the tip?” Taggart asked, leaning forward to read the contents.
“The anonymous caller said he had a location on the American hostage. Not an address, but he texted this picture.” He flipped the page to show a photograph of a house. It was grainy and dark, not the best quality, but the house was distinctive. More of a mansion, at least from the looks of it through the tall wrought iron gates at the end of the long driveway.
“Anyone recognize it?” Taggart asked.
The man shook his head. “We’ve got analysts trying to identify it and the location of the cellular signal now.”
“Do you have a recording of the call?”
“Yes. This way.”
Victoria rushed after Taggart into a private office off the main room. The man excused two other people working at the desk, waited until the door shut behind them before pulling up some
thing on his laptop. “Here.” He hit play.
“I know where the American hostage is,” the man said in flawless Spanish.
Victoria looked up from the photograph of the house to stare at the laptop screen, focusing on the voice. There was something familiar about it that nagged at her.
“I took a picture of where he’s being held. If you want more information, it’ll cost you. Ten thousand U.S.”
She knew that voice. Maybe from her captivity.
Her heart began to pound as the dark memories she battled daily began to surface. Taking her back to that dark time and place when she had been used in ways that would always make her feel unclean. Tainted.
Fear and pain intertwined in her mind. Her body. Her throat worked as she swallowed, sifting through those seemingly endless days and nights of darkness while various men had defiled her.
For Brock. You have to do this for Brock.
She closed her eyes and concentrated. Battled through the panic tightening her throat. Forced herself to dredge up the horrors she had sworn to bury forever.
Shadows. The menacing, oily feel of fear coating her skin, her tongue.
The shape of the men’s silhouettes, outlined against the daylight outside the shed as they stood in the doorway. Coming to defile her.
Faces. Some of them clear as a photograph, others blurry and indistinct.
Smells. Cigars, the reek of cigarette smoke that made her shudder, her flesh cringing at the threat of those glowing ends searing her naked skin.
Beer. Whiskey. Stale sweat and cologne.
And voices.
Whispering cruel, terrifying things as a man’s body pinned her to the filthy mattress. Laughter when she couldn’t keep her cries of pain and fear locked inside.
Like the voice speaking now. Straight out of her nightmares, making her flesh prickle. But who? She fought to sift through the images in her head.
The man named an account that she would bet anything was offshore someplace, then continued. “Text me at this number when the transfer is done.” He cleared his throat just before the recording stopped.
Victoria sucked in a ragged breath and opened her eyes as recognition hit with sudden clarity.
Everything stilled. The blood drained from her face, her fingers clenching around the folder as a face became clear.
“Stop.” It was barely a whisper. But Taggart and the other man looked at her sharply.
Her heart hammered in her ears. “Play it back again.” She needed to be sure.
Nausea twisted her stomach but she forced her eyes shut as the recording played again. That distinctive voice rolled over her, taking her back to that hellish prison at Ruiz’s hideout.
The same voice that had taunted her as he raped her.
He’d visited her in the shed out back half a dozen times. Each time he’d finished with her he’d yanked his pants back up and delivered a verbal barb as he stood towering over her, smug in his power over her.
We own you, filthy whore. You’re gonna die a slut, just like you deserve for what you did to Ruiz. You are nothing.
He’d laughed. Then cleared his throat exactly like on the recording as he walked out. Leaving her trembling in pain and humiliation, crying silent, scalding tears in the darkness.
“You know him?” Taggart finally asked, his voice taut.
She opened her eyes and nodded. “Not his name. But his voice and his face.” She rubbed her hands over her upper arms, trying to warm herself. Taggart draped a jacket over her. “He was one of Ruiz’s sicarios. Likely one of the men rumored to be working for Montoya the past few months.”
Taggart’s eyes searched hers. “Can you look through the rest of the pictures, see if you can find him in there? If not, we’ll try an online database.”
“Yes.” If it helped them find Brock, she would do anything. Even confront the ghosts that haunted her.
Back at the table in the main room, she searched through the pictures with renewed urgency. She was halfway through the stack when the Mexican official returned.
“Our analysts traced the origin of the call from the outskirts of Cancún.”
She blinked. “Cancún?” That was over eight hundred miles away from here. How did the caller know about Brock? Unless Brock wasn’t in Veracruz at all, as they’d assumed?
She tuned the men out, letting them worry about that as they discussed the latest development. A minute later, her heart stuttered in her chest when she came across a photo of a man she recognized.
“This is him,” she said, tapping the man on the far right of the picture. It wasn’t a clear shot of him but the image still made her stomach roil.
“You’re sure?” Taggart asked.
“Yes. He’s got hazel eyes and a slight gap between his upper front teeth. And a snake tattoo on his left forearm that winds up his wrist. The head is on the back of his hand.” She had become all too familiar with it in the glowing light from his cigars as he took his time burning her with them. She shook the memory away, focused on the men standing beside her.
The Mexican official leaned over, his expression darkening as he looked at the image. “Javier Sanchez. One of Ruiz’s most wanted sicarios.”
Javier Sanchez. She’d heard both those names during her captivity but had never been able to put them to a face until now.
“How would he know about Hamilton?” Taggart asked. “Was he in on this? Was he the one who attacked him and took him hostage?”
“It’s possible.”
“Call your contacts in Cancún,” Taggart commanded, turning away and pulling out his cell phone.
“Taggart.”
Taggart and Victoria both looked over their shoulders as Agent Rodriguez strode toward them, his face set. “What is it?” Taggart asked.
“We got it.”
Taggart tensed. “The video?”
“Yeah.”
Fear spread up Victoria’s spine like the caress of icy fingers. Whatever the video showed, the look on Rodriguez’s face told her it wasn’t good.
“Is he alive?” she blurted out, unable to stand it.
“Yes. At least when it was taken.”
“I wanna see it,” Taggart said.
“Over there.” Rodriguez motioned to the far end of the room where a group of agents were gathered around a large monitor. The rest of FAST Bravo were there as well, riveted to what was on the screen, their expressions ranging from horrified to lethal.
Victoria headed for them, barely aware of her feet moving as she crossed the room with Taggart. Agent Freeman glanced up, saw her coming and stepped away from the group to block her path, holding up a hand as he shook his head. “No. You don’t want to see this, trust me,” he said.
Get the fuck out of my way.
She managed to hold it back and shoved his restraining arm aside instead. Heart thudding, she stepped around him to look at the screen.
The instant she did, she came to an immediate halt, the soles of her shoes suddenly glued to the floor. She covered her mouth with one hand, tears flooding her eyes as she took in the horrific image before her.
Oh my God, no. Please, no…
Rodriguez leaned forward, hit a button to start the video. A chilling voice came from behind the camera.
“Say your name.”
They’d beaten Brock to a pulp. He was covered in blood. And they’d included proof of the date by showing the front page of a newspaper.
She bit her lips together, blinked back tears as she watched in horror.
It took a long moment for him to respond, and when he did his voice was so hoarse with pain that she died a little inside on hearing it. “S-supervisory Special Agent B-Brock Hamilton.”
“Did it come?”
At the question from behind her, Victoria tore her eyes away from the horrible image and spun to face Oceane, who rushed into the room with an anxious expression on her face.
She locked eyes with Victoria. “Did they send the video? Is he alive?”
&nbs
p; This time Victoria was the one to step forward and try to block her friend from seeing the monitor. But it was too late. Oceane had already looked at it.
She froze, her blue-gray eyes widening in shock, then horror. She twisted away with a cry, covering her eyes too late in a futile effort to block out what she’d just seen.
SHE HAD ONLY seen the screen for a split second, and that sickening image was already burned into her memory forever.
Oceane struggled to breathe, tried to make sense of what she’d just seen, couldn’t control the horror and outrage swamping her.
They’d chained him. By the wrists. Left him hanging from the ceiling in some sick reproduction of Jesus on the cross, his arms spread out and his legs dangling beneath him.
He’d been covered in blood, his face split open. And he was shaking, a combination of pain and cold, judging from the blue tinge around his bloody mouth.
Her father had done this. Ordered for Brock to be tortured and then had one of his men film the aftermath.
Oh God, she was going to be sick. She swallowed, her stomach pitching. She took a stumbling step forward, blindly reached for something to steady herself with.
A low curse sounded from somewhere in the background, then strong arms banded around her from behind, holding her upright.
Gabe. His familiar, comforting scent surrounded her, but as reassuring as his presence usually was, it didn’t help the nausea. She gagged, tried to push free before she got sick on him.
Someone shoved a trash container in front of her. She reached for it, latched onto the sides as her stomach heaved, bringing up the tiny amount of dinner she’d forced down her throat earlier on the plane. Acid burned up her esophagus, her eyes watering as she retched until it was empty.
Someone took the bucket from her. Gabe scooped her up in his arms, lifting her off her feet. She made a sound of protest and weakly pushed at his shoulder, but he wouldn’t be swayed. In moments he’d carried her outside into the muggy night air. Victoria was there, holding the trash can.
