Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
The slam of a car door sounded in the distance, followed by several more in rapid succession. Footsteps approached. Many. But how many?
Her chest heaved. She tripped over a rut in the dirt, and her bare feet scraped against sharp rocks. She let out a whimper for effect, but also because she wanted to scream at him to take her back. She couldn’t do this.
Blood roared in her head, her breath catching, stacking, choking, her mind spinning. I can do this. I can do this.
Van didn’t let up, playing the part with his bruising grip and ground-covering strides. This was why she’d asked him. Tate would’ve carted her out of there at the first sign of her distress.
She staggered alongside him, dragging her feet and stopping, only to get hitched forward again. She wheezed and mewled in pathetic intermittent noises. She couldn’t have faked a full-body tremble, but it was there, attacking her with a force that chattered her teeth.
Oh God, what if she couldn’t do this? Why the fuck did she put herself here?
His thumb dug into her bicep. Then it tapped one, two…five times.
Five men.
Why so many? Mr. E’s operation ran for years with only two captors. Her blood pressure skyrocketed.
She wasn’t counting the steps, but it felt like a lot less than fifty when Van suddenly halted. He didn’t give her time to slow, using her momentum to thrust her to her knees.
Free from his grip, she lurched sideways, scooting awkwardly without her hands in a pretense to escape.
Van caught her neck with his sneaker and slammed her face against the brittle soil, holding her cheek to the earth with the weight of his foot.
“Whoa. Lower the guns,” he said, and the press of his shoe vanished. “Don’t worry about her face. It isn’t her best feature.”
Fucking cocksucker.
She shrank into a fetal position, cowering in the curl of her shoulders, and feigned a series of breathy sobs. What she really wanted to do was tug down the blindfold and take inventory of the men and their weapons.
“Which one of you Zorros is in charge?” Van asked.
Zorros. He was telling her they wore masks. Clever. She might see their faces eventually, but Van would walk away without their identities.
It’ll be okay. I have the GPS chip.
“Call me Jefe,” a man said from twenty-some-feet away, his voice soft and raspy. “She’s a virgin?”
He carried an accent, a tincture of south of the border, where Jefe meant Boss. But there were a lot of Hispanics in Texas. He could’ve been her neighbor, her gynecologist, or the guy who bagged her groceries.
“She says she’s a virgin, but I didn’t check.” Van’s sneakers scuffed in place. “I didn’t want to go prodding around and break something.”
Vile amusement slithered through his voice, but no one laughed.
Dumbasses. A girl could be a virgin without an intact hymen. Lots of things could stretch or tear it. Horseback riding, water skiing, doing the splits, vibrators…
“Where’s the money, Jefe?” Van asked, all humor gone.
Gravel crunched beneath advancing footsteps. Something heavy landed beside her head, followed by the sound of a zipper.
“Pass along our gratitude to Señor McGregor,” Jefe said, maintaining his twenty-foot distance. “We look forward to more business from him.”
Sorry, ese. Larry McGregor’s doing business with the Chief of Hell.
Van lowered, his breaths near, and she curled tighter into a ball as if his proximity had conditioned her to do so.
“It’s not all here.” Van huffed. “This wasn’t the agreed price.”
What the fuck was he doing? He had no idea what was negotiated.
The man who had approached with the money treaded away, only to return a moment later. A second bag dropped on the ground.
“My mistake,” Jefe said. “Now take it and go.”
Well played, Van. Had he not questioned the payment, they would’ve known he was a fraud. Her eyes drifted closed behind the blindfold, but her relief was short-lived.
The bags lifted, and Van’s presence retreated. She clung to the sound of his diminishing footfalls, aching for him to turn around.
Don’t go.
What if there were too many guards and the operation was bigger than she’d estimated? What if this was all for nothing? Her surveillance had uncovered dozens of low-life scumbags like Larry McGregor. Men living normal lives—when they weren’t stealing young girls and selling them to…who?
She’d imagined an operation like Mr. E’s. Small and efficient with a network of Larrys on one end and buyers on the other. But five men had been sent to collect her. Five! How many were waiting at her destination? They could be gangsters, snuff filmographers, drug lords, chainsaw massacrers…
Van’s Mustang growled to life, and the tires skidded. Leaving.
She was alone. Outnumbered. She didn’t know what they looked like, what they were armed with, or who they worked for. And now they owned her. They could do whatever the hell they wanted to her.