Olivia had spent hours those first few days praying Jake would show. With nothing to do but sit on the filthy cot she used as a bed, she often found herself daydreaming about her rescue.
Her favorite dream was the one where Jake would swoop in, take out the bad guys, then kiss her like crazy before carrying her off into the sunset. Olivia’s own twisted version of a fairytale.
Of course, she understood now that fairytales were the stuff of fiction, and happily-ever-after’s didn’t really exist. At least not for her.
Ironically, while she’d been in the midst of one of her Jake-Saves-the Day fantasies, Shorty—what she mentally called one of the men because of his short and pudgy stature—paid her a visit. He had scraggly, unkempt hair and squinty little eyes. Evil eyes. Though Olivia refused to show it, he scared the crap out of her.
One day last week, he’d brought her a copy of an American newspaper. He taunted her with it, laughing as she’d read the printed words. At first she’d been confused, but it didn't take long before she understood exactly what the asshole found so amusing.
Plastered on the paper’s front page were pictures of everyone in her volunteer group, hers included. The article described a memorial service that had been held in their honor. It went on to remind readers how she and the others had all been murdered, their bodies burned and then left behind.
Shorty had mocked her when she’d started to cry. The bastard laughed even louder when she’d fallen to her knees and vomited her stomach’s meager contents onto the dirt floor.
Olivia felt sick to her soul then. Not only from what these monsters had done to her friends’ bodies, but also because the article had confirmed her worst fears.
There’d be no big, romantic rescue. No sunset kiss. Olivia could no longer pretend, because in that moment, she knew. Like the rest of the world, Jake undoubtedly thought she was dead.
Her hopes of being rescued by anyone died that day as surely as the world thought she had. It was the same day she stopped wasting time on useless dreams and fantasies, and had begun to plan.
Thankfully, she hadn’t been sexually assaulted—a miracle in the midst of hell. She was pretty sure Shorty would’ve tried, if not for the guard stationed outside her tent.
She’d overheard the two men arguing one day. Olivia knew enough Spanish to understand the gist of the conversation. For some reason, their boss had ordered the men at the camp not to touch her.
At first, the words brought instant relief. Then, she heard the guard tell Shorty that she wouldn’t bring as much money at the subasta—auction—if she were presented to the buyers in “used” condition. The guard went on to remind Shorty, in horrific detail, what had happened to the last man who’d defied their boss.
Olivia hadn’t needed to hear the gruesome reminder. She’d seen it happen through the opening between her tent’s flaps, and could still hear the snap of the whip, along with the convicted man’s cries for mercy.
Apparently, her guard made his point clear because Shorty walked away after that and hadn’t been back since. Unfortunately, he hadn’t gone far.
Each time she’d go outside with her bucket, the creep always seemed to be there. Staring at her with way too much interest.
Olivia’s daily routine consisted of spending twenty-three hours and fifty minutes in this God-forsaken tent. During that time, she waited. Planned. Prepared for the right time to escape.
That time had finally come.
This morning, she’d been escorted to a small building at the edge of the camp, where she was ordered to take a shower. When she got out, she realized they’d taken her clothes, leaving a long, white dress in their place.
While walking back to her tent with her guard, another man had approached them. He told her guard they were planning to transport her to the auction’s location sometime after dark. Tonight.
Like hell.
It didn’t take a genius to guess what the buyers wanted from her. Olivia would rather die than step one foot in front of a group of vile men who’d use unwilling women for their own sick pleasures.
Unfortunately, Olivia knew she may have no other choice but to do something vulgar herself in order to get away from the men holding her captive. Or risk dying. Probably both.
Considering her plan involved traipsing through an honest-to-goodness jungle alone and without any supplies, dying was a very real possibility. But the alternative—being sold to a monster—was far worse. One way or another, by this time tomorrow, she would be free of these men.
The day she’d read that article, Olivia had begun making notes, both mentally and with her finger in the dry dirt floor. She estimated the time of day when her guards changed shifts. When she normally dumped her bucket, and when most of the men turned in for the night. She did this beneath her cot so no one would notice.
A few times now, a large group of men would leave very early. They’d come back hours later, laughing and shooting their guns in the air. Celebrating.
Olivia dreaded those days. Not only because their joy most likely meant someone else’s suffering, but also because the sound of the gunshots always took her back to that day.
To the terror and blood. The thought of leaving Jake behind. The guilt of her inaction.
So far, with the exception of the shower, today had proven uneventful, but Olivia’s time was running out. The dress wasn’t ideal for a run through the jungle, but they’d taken her other clothes, so she had no choice.
Her plan was simple. She’d lure her guard into the tent and try to seduce him. The thought nearly made her laugh, given how she probably looked, but the shower and dress would help. That, and the fact that she had no panties.
Bile tried making its way up
