by Brad Taylor
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
An Excerpt from Hunter Killer Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
About the Author
Also by Brad Taylor
Copyright
About the Publisher
Author’s Note
I created Amena knowing she probably wouldn’t survive the trials in Daughter of War, but when it came time for her demise, I just couldn’t do it. I liked her too much. But as always happens when I write—after putting my heart and soul into the story—I’m left with the question of “Now what?” Amena is the biggest “Now what?” of my writing career. I had intended for her to exit stage left in a neat and tidy bow, but decided against that. I now have to figure out a way for her to exist in the Pike Logan universe, and this novella is really my segue into this new reality—exploring Amena’s relationship with Pike and Jennifer. I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1
Pulling up to the stoplight, Beth saw a girl her own age in the adjacent lane. She was young, attractive, and happy. She was just like Beth, except for the happiness part. That, and the fact that she had probably entered the Holy City of her own volition.
Beth looked at her across the lane, and saw her wave. Beth waved back, finding a connection that the girl would never understand. The girl began rolling down her window, and when Beth reached for her own, she heard, “Don’t do it. Leave the window alone and shut the fuck up. Right now.”
She turned and saw Slaven Kovac in the driver’s seat next to her, glaring. A handsome man of about thirty-five, with close-cropped black hair, piercing green eyes, and a cleft chin, he was the one who’d groomed her online, and the only one of the three who could show moments of compassion. But she’d learned early that he was still capable of moments of pain. She shrank into her seat, and the light turned green. The car rolled on to the next stop of her life in hell.
She had done nothing to deserve this. She wasn’t a heroin addict or a thief. She was just a child who’d made a bad decision. One her parents were trying desperately to unravel, with little luck. Coming from an upper-middle-class life in Colorado, they had no experience in such things. No idea of what to do or where to turn. They believed she had simply run away and were praying she would return of her own volition. They’d filed the requisite missing persons reports, stapled her picture all over their town, put up a reward, but clung to the belief that it was their daughter’s choice not to come home. If they’d known the truth, it would have devastated them.
Their daughter had been sold into sexual slavery, something they simply could not fathom in their worst nightmares, which was a blessing for them, but not for Beth. As much as they’d fought to find their daughter, they were way behind the men who had taken her. Beth had been forced to give up her body for pay over and over, without any chance of escape. Unless she paid the exit fee to the men who held her.
But that price was more than she was willing to give, even with the hell she endured. Even as the other women in the stable told her it was the best choice. If she stayed, she’d eventually end up dead. The exit fee was her best option. But she couldn’t bring herself to pay it.
The car rolled through the heart of Charleston, South Carolina, and she saw the families playing on the street. She saw herself from six months ago. She wished beyond anything to go home to Colorado. To forget about the fight she’d had with her mother. To forget about the time she crawled out of her window to physically meet the man she’d talked to online, Slaven Kovac. To reset her life.
She watched the people walking about, without a care in the world, and started to sob, keeping it quiet, to prevent a slap for her weakness.
She remembered reading Dante’s Inferno her last year in high school, where she couldn’t understand half of what her English teacher was trying to impart about the symbolism and meaning of the poem. Now she did, because she was living it.
Slaven said, “Cut that shit out. We’re going to the house, and then you’ll do just like before. I promise this time there will be no violence. Just you and a man. It’s Charleston.”
She nodded, knowing this town would be like all the others, but hoping he was telling the truth about the violence. They traveled down the cross-town, then took a left at a sign pointing the way to Folly Beach. Thirty minutes later, the car pulled up to a stoplight in the center of a small town, the streets lined with beach shops, bars, and restaurants. Slaven went right on Ashley Avenue, passing a seedy motel advertising single-use cottages. Slaven said, “That’ll be your work area. Radovan said he’s already used it with Misty the last two nights.”
He slowed down and she saw a crumbling one-story building set back from the road, a small neon sign announcing, “Vacation Rentals—Vacancy.” Behind it was a row of four small cottages, interspersed between garbage cans and cars, all of them looking like they’d been built in the sixties.
Slaven continued driving for another mile, the road lined with beach houses and old brick ranch dwellings. He eventually pulled into a circular drive in front of a two-story wooden house on stilts, the first floor ringed with a porch and a long stairwell leading to the front door.
He said, “This is home for the next week. Same rules as always.”
She nodded, grabbed her small bag from the backseat, then followed behind him up the stairs, her head down. The door opened before he even knocked, and Beth saw Radovan Dragovic, the man the girls called the Enforcer. Broad-shouldered and tall, with a receding hairline and a thick, bony brow, he had pig eyes and a slit of a mouth that was perpetually open, showcasing teeth that looked too small for his gums. She’d been told that he’d had his nose smashed sometime in the past, and it hadn’t healed correctly, leaving him a constant mouth breather. She instinctively hid behind Slaven, knowing that Radovan sometimes liked to slap the girls just for fun.
He shook Slaven’s hand as they entered, and Beth wondered where the third man was. The one they called Doc. She caught herself searching the den and folded her head down, eyes on the floor, standing meekly waiting on instructions. She’d learned the best way to stay out of trouble was to try to remain invisible.
They began talking in a strange language she didn’t understand, a guttural, coarse dialect they preferred to use with one another. After a brief conversation, Slaven turned to her with fake exuberance and said, “Hey, you have a repeat customer! Some guy from Virginia is down here in Charleston. He saw you on the website and you must have made an impression.”
Virginia had been weeks ago, and the mention of the state was no help at all. The only good thing was that, precisely because she couldn’t remember, nothing horrible had happened there. She most definitely remembered Washington, D.C.
She simply nodded. He said, “Go upstairs and find your room. This one is downtown, tonight. Looks like you get over with only one this time. Misty will have to pick up your slack with a full slate. Get out of those scuzzy shorts and put on the sundress I bought you. Clean up. I want you looking like a tourist. We’ll go check out the venue. Make sure you know where to go.”
Meaning, Make sure you don’t get any ideas about fleeing.
She stood for a pregnant second, and Radovan snarled and raised his hand. She grabbed her bag, put her other arm over her head, and raced up the stairs, hearing him laugh
behind her.
She opened a bedroom door and saw Misty on the bed, her right eye black, but her joy at Beth’s arrival real. She jumped up and said, “About time! We’ve been here for three days.”
Beth smiled back and said, “I know. I had a lineup in Myrtle Beach that Slaven wanted to take care of.”
She said it like she was talking about pruning the bushes on a lawn, her life now nothing more than clawing for a day without pain. Misty took it the same way, grabbing Beth’s bag and throwing it on the bed, chatting as if they were having a sleepover, but Beth caught an edge.
Misty said, “I’ve been working nights here, and have a lineup again tonight. So far, it hasn’t been too bad. The motel is sleazy as hell, but the johns are all pretty normal.”
Beth said, “I’m going downtown. Apparently, I have a repeat customer. Someone from Norfolk.”
Misty smiled, the edge coming back, saying, “No kidding. Look at you go.”
Beth misunderstood the reticence, saying, “I’m sorry, but that leaves you with the Enforcer.”
Misty touched her eye and said, “Not your fault.”
Beth looked around the room and said, “Where’s Tess’s stuff? Where’s Tess?”
And she learned why Misty was on edge. “She’s paying the exit fee.”
Shocked, Beth said, “What? She said that would never happen.”
“I know. She refused to work last night. It was the third time. Radovan forced her to pay. Doc is with her now, down the hall.”
Beth sagged into the bed, the fake cheerfulness gone. She put her head into her hands and began to weep. Misty sat down next to her, rubbing her back, and then she began to cry as well.
They were jerked out of their emotional pain by Slaven yelling, “What’s taking so fucking long? Get down here.”
Beth leapt up, shouting, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” She rapidly changed her clothes, touched up her makeup, and said, “I’ll see you tonight. Don’t pay the fee. Promise me that.”
Misty nodded, and then said, “They’ll be looking for someone to replace Tess.”
“I know.”
“Don’t help them.”
Beth grabbed her purse, turned, and said, “I won’t. I promise,” then raced down the stairs.
Chapter 2
Thirty minutes later, Slaven and Beth were in the heart of downtown Charleston, parking in a garage off Cumberland Street. They walked down to Church Street, and Slaven pointed out an Irish pub called Tommy Condon’s. He said, “He’ll meet you inside there tonight at 6 p.m. I’ll be in the back, just to keep you safe.”
Yeah, right.
They continued on and he pointed at a hotel next door called the French Quarter Inn, saying, “That’s where he’ll take you. The man certainly has money, so don’t fuck this up. He’s paying way more than the market rate for your ass.”
And Beth remembered who the john was. Some sort of scientist with the U.S. Navy who had also paid for a first-rate hotel in Norfolk. A gentle man, actually. Someone who apparently thought what he was doing was romantic. She knew she’d get dinner out of the deal, along with a single partner on this night. Small blessings.
They rounded the corner onto Market Street, the place crowded with tourists darting in and out of the old brick slave market, and Slaven kept walking, circling around East Bay until they reached Vendue Range. He walked toward the water, stopping at an ice cream shop, a fountain at the end of the street with children dancing and playing inside the water and the Charleston harbor stretching out behind. He pulled up a chair at an outside table and said, “You got it?”
She nodded, and he said, “One other thing. This guy is a whale. I don’t know why he seeks you out on the webpages, but he’s got more to offer than just a lay. When you’re in his room, get his information. I want to know who he is. We might be able to use that for some more revenue. He’s rich, but keeping this secret, and we may want to leverage that.”
She nodded again, thinking, Aren’t I enough? Now you want to destroy this guy’s world as well?
And then she thought of what she was being forced to do, and who was paying to make that happen. The man was the very reason there was a market for her. She snarled, “You got it.”
Slaven caught the tone and laughed, saying, “Don’t screw this up. Keep your phone on you. I don’t like this setup. We don’t control the venue, and it might be dangerous.”
Even as she understood what the john represented, she knew he wasn’t dangerous in the slightest, and that the phone Slaven had given her was slaved to his own, letting him see everything she texted, searched on the web, and even the numbers she called. She knew what he meant was, You’ll have an opportunity to flee, but if you do, you will be punished.
She nodded again and said, “I understand, daddy.”
He patted her hand, showing the same man he had been when he’d groomed her. “You’re always the good one, Beth. I wouldn’t let Tess or Misty do this, because they’d cause trouble, but you never do.”
At the mention of Tess, she felt the despair return. She didn’t want to show it, but she knew she was not going to live for another six months. Tess proved it. Even when they asked for the exit fee, if you didn’t agree, they would just take it.
Nobody was ever going to help her. Not the johns she slept with, not the women in the stable, not anyone. She had prayed her parents would seek her out, but that hadn’t happened. She’d prayed that someone would arrest the men who forced her to do the things she did, but that hadn’t happened, either. She’d given up hope on anyone helping her.
She was but one of many women trapped in the sex trafficking trade, a business that occurred around the world, the women coming from all aspects of life. She had nobody and nothing on her side.
Well, she did have one thing.
She didn’t know it yet, but she would have one experience that none of the other victims of the slave trade could duplicate. She met a refugee.
And that small child would bring more destruction than anything the men holding her could fathom.
Chapter 3
Amena was bouncing off the cushions of our couch while waiting on us to get ready, shouting every five seconds, “What’s taking so long, Pike? Let’s gooooo.”
In our bedroom, I finished tying my shoes, saw Jennifer in the bathroom brush something mysterious on her face, and decided to throw her under the bus. “It’s not me. It’s Jennifer.”
Jennifer scowled at me, and I shrugged my shoulders, saying, “I’m ready.”
I left the bedroom and found Amena in front of the TV, watching yet another Game of Thrones episode. She looked up and said, “We going to leave anytime soon?”
“Yes. But Jennifer’s still doing her makeup. You should know about that.”
She smiled and said, “Winter is coming. We need to go.”
I chuckled at the phrase, because she had really dived headfirst into the series. She’d taken an extreme interest in one character—Arya—seeing herself in the young woman’s story.
A child who’d been left on her own in that medieval world, Arya ended up becoming an assassin, defending herself when no one else seemed to care, and that was really Amena’s story. Right down to the killing.
Amena was a Syrian refugee who had crossed our path on an operation in Europe, and she’d proven very resourceful. So much so, I’d decided to bring her to the United States, not the least because her actions had helped me stop a deadly chemical weapons attack. At first it had seemed idyllic, me the savior giving her the chance at a better life, but lately it had grown a little tense.
Like a stray cat who enjoyed being out of the weather when you open the door, but ultimately starts scratching the walls to get back outside, Amena had initially loved staying in our home, but eventually, she felt cooped up, demanding to be allowed to roam the streets of Charleston like she had in Europe.
I couldn’t allow that, not because I was afraid for her—Lord knew she could take care of herself—but becau
se she had no legal paperwork allowing her to be in the United States. Any incident involving the authorities would bring questions that neither she nor I could answer. And it really didn’t have to be an incident, because her looks alone demanded attention. She was exotic, to say the least, with hazel eyes, black hair, and tanned skin. Even at the ripe old age of thirteen, people would stare and ask where she was from.
Because of the attention, I didn’t let her go out on her own. Not until I could get her legal paperwork through some contacts I had. So far, that was taking much longer than I had expected, and now, four months later, she was growing tired of being on a leash.
It wasn’t like I locked her up all day. I mean, she came with me to the store, and went with Jennifer on errands, but we didn’t let her go out on her own. It was too big of a risk, but lately it had caused Amena to start fighting back, chafing at the restrictions, to the point where we argued more than we bonded.
I hated it and was glad she wasn’t pushing the fight today.
I said, “Winter isn’t coming here, I’ll tell you that. It’s damn near ninety degrees outside. You sure you want to walk to the market?”
She smiled and said, “Oh yeah. I’m sick of just riding in your car.”
We lived off of East Bay, about a ten-minute walk from Market Street, and we’d promised to take her there today and let her run around a little bit. The Spoleto Festival was in town this week, and the area promised to be full of tourists who loved the arts. Something I just couldn’t wait to join.
I said, “Yeah, you’ll probably want to go home as soon as you see all the jackasses who’ve descended on our fair city. Jennifer, however, will force us to go look at some froufrou paintings.”
I saw Amena’s eyes widen, and realized Jennifer was standing behind me. Without missing a beat, I said, “But that artwork is really special, so I don’t mind.”
I heard Jennifer grunt, then turned around in mock surprise and said, “Hey, you ready to go?”
