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.
Sweat pooled beneath her braless breasts as the rumble of Van’s car faded into silence. There was no turning back. It was done.
“He’s headed your way,” Jefe said.
Dread churned in her gut. Who was he talking to? Someone on the phone?
“No, let him pass,” Jefe said. “Just make sure he gets on the interstate. We’ll wait.”
Van was smart. He would know if someone followed him, and he sure as fuck wouldn’t try to come back for her.
Her stomach clenched. With her hands bound behind her and miserably numb, she couldn’t remove the blindfold. Only slightly less bothersome were the strands of hair stuck in her mouth. She tried to spit them out as she tracked the creaking of leather, the fall of heavy boots.
She’d expected a gang of uneducated hoodlums to fall upon her with grabby hands and verbal threats. But they remained silent. Disciplined. Like an army of professionals. Somehow, this was worse.
She dragged herself to her feet, teetering on shaky legs. “C-can someone…r-r-remove my blindfold?”
Well, that sounded effectively timid.
The air shifted in front of her face. She stopped breathing. Someone was there, close enough to touch a fingertip to her forehead.
She recoiled, but the hand stayed with her, trailing over the blindfold, down her cheek, and freeing the hair stuck to her lips. Her pulse raced, and the muscles in her neck strained against the pressure to hold still. She burned to slam her head forward and break his fucking nose.
Give him a weak little girl. Let him believe you’re not a threat.
“Please don’t t-touch me.” She bunched her shoulders to her ears and tucked her chin to her chest.
Brushing the strands from her cheek, his finger followed the line of her jaw, pressed beneath her chin, and forced her face skyward.
She didn’t have to pretend to be scared. The reminder that this man bought and sold humans was enough to get her throat working, her fear bobbing in her exposed neck.
The finger on her face disappeared, and metal clicked behind her. She jerked. Too late.
A slim ring of steel snapped around her forearm. More clicks, and the manacle cinched tighter. A handcuff.
He slid it down her arm, securing it above the rope on her wrists. Where was the second cuff?
Her answer came when he gripped her arm and the metal on his wrist clanked against hers. Her pulse thrashed in her ears.
What kind of man was she handcuffed to? Was he young or old? Covered in scars? Did he fuck his victims after he killed them?
“Let me go.” She raised her voice several octaves and pulled against the restraints. “I won’t tell anyone. I haven’t even seen your faces.”
She shook her body, hoping her freak-out was believable. Inside, she was frozen with terror, but showing her emotions didn’t come natural for her.
“I wouldn’t fight him, puta.” Jefe’s accent issued from farther away. “He bites.”
An image flashed through her mind of an oversized man with a boar’s face and dribbling tusks. And I’m handcuffed to him.
“Get away.” She blindly kicked his legs, snarling as she clawed at the hand on her arm. “I want to go home. Please don’t do this.”
In a flash, he shifted in front of her and wrapped an arm around her thighs. Her feet lost contact with the ground, and she was lifted up, up, and over his shoulder. She landed upside down, her face against the cotton on his back, and her wrists locked to one of his behind her.
No amount of bucking and kicking would dislodge the hand on her ass or
