Four weeks of watching her every move, satisfying myself that she meets the strict criteria required by The Elite, the organization I work for. There’s one final check that a doctor will carry out—that she’s a virgin—then she’ll be put through a night of rigorous testing. If she passes, she’ll enter The Elite Maidens program. If she fails…
She’ll pray for death to take her.
I really hope she makes it. She’s far too stunning a specimen to end up working in a filthy brothel where she’ll spend her days and nights drugged and fucked by ten or more men a day. By comparison, Elite Maidens live a charmed life. Maybe not one they’d pick for themselves, but in a straight shoot-out, the maidens program is fucking paradise, relatively speaking.
She stirs, her eyes moving behind her closed lids. I briefly muse on what she’s dreaming about. I’d lay odds on it being far from what’s about to happen. I caress a lock of her hair, feeding it through my fingers, then let it fall away.
With great care, I slip my hand into my pocket and remove the small bottle. I unscrew the cap, and keeping it at arm’s length, I hold it beneath her nose. It should only take five seconds to render her unconscious for at least six hours, more than enough time to transport her to the facility, but I leave it there for another two seconds anyway.
I secure the cap and put it back in my jacket pocket. Using my thumb, I ease back first her left eyelid, then the right. Yeah, she’s gone.
Slipping my arms under her knees and around her shoulders, I lift her easily, and in less than five minutes, she’s unconscious in the back of my truck. I cover her over with a blanket and climb into the driver’s seat.
“Any problems?” Baron asks, running a hand through his blond hair, his blue eyes questioning.
“No.”
I move the stick into drive and, under cover of darkness, snake back onto the main road. Baron twists in his seat and stares at our new captive, but as I catch him out of the corner of my eye go to touch her, I snap my hand around his wrist.
“She’s not for you.”
He pouts in a childish manner, which causes me to grind my teeth. I was set the task of mentoring Baron a couple months ago, and this is our third pickup where I’ve allowed him to shadow me. The jury is out on whether he has the right temperament for this job. Our role is to source, watch, and take the women who fit the strict criteria we’re given. Sometimes there’s a demand for skinny brunettes, and other times, buxom blondes. This time I was asked to find a willowy redhead. I’m not the only one who does this. There are several of us in each region where The Elite operate, but I’m the best at it. I haven’t yet received an order I couldn’t fulfill.
Our role is not to sample the goods. Not even a taste, a lick, a brief touch of tight, youthful skin.
The Elite would take great pleasure in making our death a slow and painful one if we laid a single finger on these women. There would be no escape, nowhere to hide that these powerful men couldn’t unearth. Once you step out of line and break their rules, that’s it. You’re done.
“Spoilsport,” Baron says with a grin.
I don’t respond, and once he realizes that, he falls into a petulant silence.
Yeah, I’m definitely having a conversation with Viper, the head trainer at The Elite facility here in Denver. It doesn’t matter how much mentoring and guidance Baron receives from me; he doesn’t have the right attitude for this gig. I know what that means for Baron, but it doesn’t concern me. He knew what he was getting into. It’s not my fault he can’t hack the requirements to excel as an Elite Tracker.
It takes us more than two hours of careful, law-abiding driving to reach our final destination on the outskirts of the city. Baron holds the door open while I carry the woman inside. She’s still deep under the influence of the sleep agent I gave her, and probably will be for a few more hours yet. I prefer to err on the side of caution and give them enough to cover unforseen circumstances such as a wreck on the highway that might hold me up for a decent stretch.
I head straight underground to the medical facility, Baron hot on my heels. The doctor greets us and directs me where to put her down. There are ten beds in this ward, and eight of them are already occupied, the women in varying states of consciousness, but none are fully with it. They’ll be kept under some form of sedation, although fully cognizant of the examinations they’ll undergo. Those who are discovered not to be virgins—it happens, although not often, considering the amount of time given over to selecting the right kind of target—are immediately packed off to a brothel. The Elite have contacts all over the globe. The women could end up five miles away from here, or five thousand miles. Not that it matters. They’ll never see the light of day again.
The average success rate—that is, a woman who makes it through the trials one of The Elite will put her through—is thirty percent.
My personal success rate is sixty. And it’s all because I am diligent, detailed, hypervigilant, and I do my fucking homework. I’m not perfect. No one is. I can’t tell just by stalking a woman whether she’ll have a high pain threshold or if she’ll be able to withstand the brutality of being fucked by one of The Elite Trainers in every hole she owns, for hours on end. The only way to find that out is to
