The Mercenary

By Victoria Pope

The last person Benjamin Kade expected to find in his interrogation room was someone like Carys Munro...

Kade, a self-proclaimed jackass and militant gun-for-hire, has been working in the same place for the past four years – an island in the middle of nowhere. With only one more year left on his contract, he’s eager to get his life back and leave the island for good. Besides, interrogating and torturing criminals for a living was getting pretty old...

Carys Munro and her entire family have been wrongfully accused and she will do anything to protect them from torture and most certain death, even if it kills her. Her selfless sacrifice begins to melt the cold cage around Kade’s heart, while her beauty revives him in ways he never felt before.

Before he even knows it, he’s helping her escape, sacrificing his own future to save hers. Now they are both on the run, facing the elements and other dangers head-on. But even when almost assured of their safety, Carys and Kade realize they have another obstacle to face: Is their ever-growing attraction just a symptom of their perilous flight from danger, or is there something deeper happening? And if so, can it survive in the real world?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Pope
• Release date: Dec 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311640376

Book preview

Chapter One

My name is Benjamin Kade. Everyone calls me Kade though, mostly because I’m sure I would kill anyone if they knew my first name was Benjamin. It’s not a bad name, it’s just in my line of work, that name is a tad too soft, too sensitive for a guy like me. I’m the kind of guy that does not play well with others. If you’re wondering why, it is no different than any other sob story of a poor British kid forced to grow up way too fast. I was born in Scotland, but no one would really know that. My accent is a little muddled to say the least. When meeting someone for the first time, they cock their head and ask me where I’m from, to which I respond, all over. All over in this case, is literal.

Yes, I’m still a British citizen, that is, if they gave me a passport, but in I had served my time long enough in America, Eastern Europe, China, Sweden and Brazil, that any one of those could be called home. Home was a word that sat in my vocabulary like a dusty worn book, shoved in the back of the shelf to make room for other more useful words such as job, money, power, AK-47, etc.

Some might find it fucked up, but I was perfectly alright with the way I lived. I had a job, they paid me well—not that I’d ever spent a dime of that money—they were powerful people whom I respected, they let me use awesome fucking weaponry, and I got to de-stress by working out in a small gym I set up in my room.

I’m not the kind of guy that would blow smoke up my own arse, but I knew what I looked like and it wasn’t so bad. I towered over the other men on the island, I could out-bench Darcy any day (much to his firm denials, that Irish prick) and not that there were many mirrors around, but I knew I wasn’t exactly bad-looking. Not that it mattered much. I hadn’t seen or spoken to a woman in three years, and she was not my type. What’s not my type, you ask? She was Darcy’s prisoner, and now she’s dead.

Darcy was a character you would expect to find in a Hollywood film about an old-school Irish boxer, like John Monaghan, but totally inaccurate and exaggerate. He was young, happy-go-lucky, tattooed, muscled on top, scrawny on the bottom, swore like a sailor, had a charming smile, and was the most mischievous prick I’d ever met. But we’ll get back to him in a bit.

Officially, Benjamin Kade was dead. When Darcy found me on that rooftop in Minsk, surrounded by helicopters with angered metallic Russian screaming down from wherever the loud-speakers were I knew I was about to breathe my last breath. I dropped the gun and put my hands on my head, as if they wouldn’t kill me no matter where my hands were. The last thing I expected was a second chance. He offered me leniency, a dangerous, unpalatable job in exchange for my life not in prison. He said he worked for the government, which government I didn’t care, and that his boss told him to find me and bring me on board. Within twenty-four hours I was brought to an island—I’m still not entirely sure where I was, but if I had to guess it is somewhere in the South Pacific Ocean—and told me that I had a job to do, and after five years of service, I was a free man.

Given that I do not do well in prison—hate the fucking food—I accepted the offer gladly, telling myself that I actually had a choice in the matter. That was four years ago and I was looking forward to getting off this sandpit and starting again. I worked with Darcy, who was always in direct contact with our boss. I never met the man, but I was told his identity had to be kept secret for all types of political bullshit reasons. It didn’t matter, I was alive, and I had a bed, a toilet, and a shower where I could drop the soap and not worry about bending down to pick it up.

To say that life was good, would be a stretch. I was breathing, it worked for me.

We called the island Satan’s Asshole, or The Hole for short. Not because there was a giant gaping hole in the middle, but because it was the giant gaping hole. Nothing could be seen around us—not even with binoculars—and the air was constantly humid and damp. There was no reprieve from the dampness, made everyone looked lubed up at all times like a fucking Playgirl photo shoot.

It didn’t really bother me that I was on some super Alcatraz, simply because the other alternative was a real prison. There were supply shipments every month that brought too much food and distractions to be consumed by the occupants of the island, and we lived in constant excess.

There were thirty-five permanent residents of The Hole, including me. They were all men, and all had some sort of sordid past that no one really knew about, and no one asked. Twenty of those men had some special privilege, some position in the government that allowed them direct contact with the powers that be, while the rest of us simply did as ordered. There was no animosity between us though, because we were all still stuck on the same fucking island after all.

And despite what I thought would end up being the sequel to Lord of the Flies or Predator, it was a pretty calm environment… unless we had guests. I knew the titles of the other’s positions but I only knew Darcy and mine’s in detail. Questioning and Containment Officers. That was our official title, not that we had business cards or anything. It was something one might put on a résumé, but the more apt title would be, Torturing and Getting Fucking Answers Officers. We were the bad guys to the bad guys. It was almost sad to see the world’s worst begging for their freedom, to see their pompous shells crumble as we played Bad Cop and Bad Cop… but it was part of the job.

Most of the time, we did everything by ourselves, even had a scoreboard going. The record time was held by me, with three minutes and four seconds until my guy cracked and told me everything. We had a rule that if it took longer than thirty-six hours, we would team up and get the bloody job done. Our success rate was nearly perfect. To some, this might sound cruel or sadistic, but the truth was, these people deserved it. There was no room for sympathy for the devil on The Hole.

Once the prisoner cracked under the pressure and told us everything, our jobs were done, and one of the twenty men—who I christened the angels, simply because they were in direct contact with the guys in charge—would take the person away and we would never see them again. Our sessions were always taped, but it wasn’t one of those rooms that you see in cop shows with the mirror that everyone knows is a way for people to look in without being seen. The people who built this compound seemed to have done it in a hurry, so efficiency won over comfort and design. The interrogation rooms, what we called Session Rooms, were damp, dark and mirror-less. We literally had to hook up the small little hand-held cameras to the tripods ourselves. Kind of amateur, but we’d never heard any complaints. So when an angel took away our guests, they’d pop the SD card out and I would never see either of them again. We had stacks of fresh SD cards.

I used to lie to myself, but now I openly admit what I’m sure happens to the prisoners once we’re done with them. I doubted that they would go through all the trouble to get the offenders here undetected and unseen and then return the person alive to wherever it was they came from, so I avoided the fenced off area in the north-east section of the island. I’d gotten close once, read the sign that said WARNING: BIOLOGICAL WASTE, took one whiff and never returned to that part of the island again. The least they could do was bury or burn the fucking bastards.

It sounds evil, but I assure you, these people deserved it. I might have saved your life or the life of your parents or cousins or boyfriend just by getting the information I got from these people. Just think of us as the Guantanamo Bay that no one knows about, the one that actually did legit work.

I guess you could say that Darcy was a half-angel, half-bastard like me. He had direct contact with the man in charge, but he was my partner, so he was sort of in a league of his own, though I wouldn’t go so far as to give him any credit for that. He was my friend on the island… I guess. We made jokes, ate our meals at the same table, and explored the island together when it was slow, but I trusted him as far as I could throw him.

Exploring the island was a fancy term for grabbing a case of beer and sitting on the cliffs on the other side of it. He would say they reminded him of the Cliffs of Moher, and I would argue that they looked like the cliffs at Dunnottar Castle, and we were both wrong. The cliffs were much higher, sharper and deadlier. The waves crashed into the sides, slowly pulling the island down into the ocean. They said the perimeter shrunk about half an inch a year, but they were probably full of it. I didn’t know how much was breaking off, but half an inch seemed too much. Then again, I was no geologist.

That was where I sat, eating my Branston pickle and cheddar sandwich, drinking a Newcastle—they took requests, if you can believe it—when Darcy plopped down beside me. He always grunted more loudly then I knew he ought to, and I gave him a sideways glare. Only old and downtrodden men made noises like that. Darcy didn’t have a bloody care in the entire world.

A group of guests have arrived, his Irish lilt sang. He popped the top off one of my Newcastle beers and took a swig. The angels are settling them into their cells.

Group?

Darcy smiled at me, and I knew an excited glint when I saw one. Four.

Four? That meant two each, which also meant I’d be busy for the next week, thank God. Four was more than what we’d received in a while, the last guest being here only last week, which I didn’t get to take part of at all, which also meant that things on the mainland—wherever that was—were either doing really well, or really bad.

Aye. Looks like it’s goin’ to be an early Christmas. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. I hoped he wasn’t as sick as he seemed to be sometimes.

I guess you could say that the only time I had fun was if the prisoner fought back, but when they crumpled and begged it made me sick to my stomach. If they fought back it meant I had a worthy adversary, if they broke down then it was as fun as kicking a three-legged dog. Which, you might be surprised to know, is not something I consider fun.

Darcy was a different story.

I threw the rest of my sandwich off the cliff and watched its breezy descent into the brackish-green waters below. I wasn’t hungry anymore. Fucking Irish.

Right, I said, lifting myself up to my feet. "Let’s see which lucky bastards get me this week."

Darcy laughed and clapped me on my back. He took one last swig of my beer and threw the bottle into the ocean. Call me a fucking Nancy, but I hated when he did that.

I stood there next to the Office as Darcy got the scoop. The Office was a room with a desk, several monitors showing the feeds from the CCTV cameras around the island, and a slew of satellite phones and shiny buttons that I stayed away from. We were all in charge of helping out, of keeping a lookout, but there was one permanent fixture in the Office, and his name was Mandel. Mandel was a large black man, and no, he was not related to Nelson Mandela, and no, you shouldn’t ever make that joke to him. Mandel didn’t have a sense of humor. Or a personality. He was from a tiny country in Africa, spoke perfect English, French, Afrikaans, Swahili and some Arabic. It was no wonder he was in charge of communications. No one came on or off the island without him knowing about it, and I had a feeling, he’d been there the longest.

He handed Darcy the information, and as always, Darcy made a stupid joke, thanked him and left. I nodded to him, and followed him out. He didn’t like us to linger in there if we didn’t need to.

We walked down the hall, heading towards the guests wing as he filled me in. Names are Lennon, Carys, Elijah and Ian.

I stiffened.

Carys was a woman’s name, last time I checked.

Three years ago I saw what Darcy did to that woman he interrogated, and I vowed that I would never permit him to do that again. I’d never had to make good on that promise however, simply because she was the first and last the island had seen. Call me a softie, a pouf, a Nancy, whatever you like, but there was something inherently evil about the way he enjoyed torturing people, and the thought of him doing that to a female of any age…

I shuddered with anger.

And if he knew she was a woman, he would have called her already. Hence I had to be proactive without setting off an alarm bell in his thick blond skull. I’ll take the first two, you take the last.

He shrugged. Sure.

This female owed me a debt of gratitude, even though she would probably die anyway. What do they need to know?

He looked over the flimsy, laser-printed sheet and gave me the short version, as he always did. It says they are deeply connected with the Reardon family in Glasgow and that they are party to money laundering to the Chinese.

This was hitting close to home. The Reardons were like the Celtic Corleone family, the biggest mob family in Scotland—maybe even all of Britain—and their involvement in all industry ran deep. And I would know, I worked for them. But that was nearly fifteen years ago, when I was a fucking kid, and they had taken pity on me when I begged to leave, begged to look after my mother. They told me to come back after she was dead. She died three weeks later, but I never returned. End of story. Fast forward fifteen years, no, was it 18 years…? How the fuck old am I now? Thirty-two? Three?

Hey Kade!

I blinked and stared at Darcy who was looking at me with the most annoying smile. Didn’t you work for them?

I never told him that, but sure, I guess, he knew more about me than I realized. No surprise. Yes.

Were they working with the Chinks back then?

He must have seen the muscle leap in my jaw for he laughed and patted my arm. For a murdering convict, you’ve got quite the moral compass don’t ye?

Shut up.

We walked into the damp hallway where they kept the guests. The island may be remote, and we may be savages, but we always made sure they were kept fed, clean and rested. We didn’t torture them by withholding their basic needs. I guess that would have been too evil of us, wouldn’t it?

Christ this job was getting tedious.

Conveniently, my guests were set up on the right side of the hall, while Darcy’s was on the left. I looked through the glass window of the first door to see a young man huddled on his cot, sporting a bloody nose. The guy could not have been older than twenty, wearing a Chelsea jersey and Converse high-tops. I wasn’t too sure how teenagers generally acted—having never really hung out with anyone my age when I was a teenager—but surely if this little shit was in deep with the mob, he would look slightly less terrified.

What the…

I saw my reflection in the glass as I tried to understand what was going on. I turned and looked back at Darcy who was making stupid faces at his first guest. What. A. Fucking. Arsehole.

I took a deep breath and walked to the next door, peering anxiously inside. She was sitting on the edge of her cot, her forehead resting on her hands, her long tangled auburn hair covering her face. I couldn’t vouch for her face, but the rest of her was uncomfortably attractive. Slim calves and ankles, black stilettos, a tight navy-blue skirt that skimmed above her knees, and a white blouse that hugged her curves and blasted naughty secretary fantasies into my brain. My mouth went instantly dry.

Fuuuuck.

Every celibate bone in my body came to attention, and I backed away from the door, fearing what I would do or say if I saw her face. How in the world did this happen? Who were these people, and how long would I be able to hide her from Darcy? Torture was an art, with lots of foreplay, and I could tell just by looking at her that she would crack under the slightest pressure. Darcy would not, nor could he ever hope to be as delicate as that. I turned instantly and joined him at his second prisoner’s door, hopefully showing disinterest in my own.

I tried to appear indifferent as I stared through the square glass window at another young man. He was wearing what looked like scrubs, and he too sported a bloody nose. Again, what the fuck? This had to be some kind of mistake, these were civilians, I was sure of it. The only scumbags that came through these doors were just that, scumbags. Not football fans or doctors… or women. I was fairly certain the men in charge of this island were old-school dickheads, and these were not the types of people they would take interest in.

"Who are these people?" I whispered involuntarily.

Darcy, ever-the-sensitive, shrugged his shoulders. Who cares?

The doctor started to cry. He held his face in his hand and that was when I saw the wedding ring on his finger. It was uncomfortable as a man to watch another man’s shoulders shake with grief and I had to look away. There was something about this that didn’t seem right. When Darcy began to laugh, I turned and walked away.

I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard him ask, what about your guys?

I turned and feigned boredom. Whatever, I’ll see them tomorrow.

Darcy stuck out his bottom lip and sauntered casually to Door Number One. The sight of a kid was even strange to him for his brow creased in confusion. Really?

I walked toward him, and turned around, angling my body between him and Prisoner Number Two, shrugging my shoulders. It will be an interesting week, to say the least.

He nodded, happy with that revelation, but his eyes looked over my shoulder at the next door. What about that one?

I shrugged. More of the same.

He smiled, and shrugged. I would call him a pacifist if he wasn’t such a sadistic prick. Groovy. Let’s go get dinner, I’m fecking starving.

I actually laughed with relief and following him out of the guest’s hallway.

*****

I lay awake that night, the sheer thought of torturing that woman making it hard for me to sleep. Call me old-fashioned or chauvinist or whatever the hell you want, there was just something not right about it. No matter how guilty she was. And she was guilty. I had concluded that it was an absolute fact. There was no other reason to come this far, to this island, unless you were extremely guilty. Despite what the family looked like, despite how much they cried, they were guilty with a capital G. As was everyone else.

The thought of the prisoner had me thinking of other women I’d known in my life, and my thoughts landed on my mother. She was long dead, but try as I might to forget that alcoholic wreck, she was ever the voice of reason in my head, a slurred, hiccoughing voice. She only became an alcoholic once her boyfriend left her and she lost her job at the factory. The last few years of her life were by no means graceful.

I growled and punched my pillow.

Two hours later I was glistening with sweat, pumping my body up and down on the chin-up bar in my room, and I could feel my muscles straining from lack of sleep and over-exertion.

I fell asleep with a towel wrapped around my waist.

Three hours later, feeling surprisingly energetic, I sipped on my Folgers coffee, reading my book. Reading was the only entertainment, other than my occupation, on this island, for we didn’t have cable or newspapers, and those fucking angel twats hogged the X-BOX. Once in a while they would bring a box of used books in with the food supplies, and I’m sure they would have stopped long ago had me and D’Angelo, one of the maintenance crew, stopped asking for them.

I was in the middle of Satanic Verses when Darcy plopped his Irish ass down in front of me, making me jump involuntarily. Top o’ the mornin’ to ye.

You’re already Irish, you already sound Irish, and you already act Irish, why do you do that every-goddamn-morning?

Darcy laughed and shook his head. "I don’t know. Why are you in such a bad mood?"

I sighed. I couldn’t sleep.

He looked at the cover of my book. Scary stories?

I rolled my eyes. Sure.

Well, we’ve got a busy day ahead of us. Better drink your coffee, take your dump and be down to the Sessions by 10:00, he laughed at the expression on my face then walked away, humming to himself.

If I wasn’t so indifferent towards everyone else, I wouldn’t have chosen him as my friend. Everyone else had their own little cliques and picked the same table to eat at for every meal. It was a natural grouping, for the men who worked together obviously knew each other better. There were those in charge of the operations of the island and they had their directives, other bosses to report to. There were even some that I never saw outside the small mess hall. All of them seemed as apathetic to me as I was to them. Darcy gained title of friend by default.

*****

It was only when I reached that dank hallway that I remembered I had to interrogate a female. How could I have forgotten that? I still hadn’t figured out what to do about Darcy, so I decided to start with Lennon and play it by ear from there. I set up the camcorder in the Sessions Room, took out my tools, made sure they were clean and headed towards Lennon’s cell.

Elijah’s cell was open, so I figured Darcy had already gotten started, and I wouldn’t see him until later on that evening. Believe it or not, we sort of had office hours. All work was to finish by 6:00 for that’s when they served the food, and the kitchens closed at 8:00. Any snack had to be checked out.

Surreal was a word that entered my mind, sat on the shelf of useful vocabulary, the shelf that towered over the used or extinct words, such as home.

My AK hung from my back as I opened Lennon’s door and entered. I was met with the fetid stench of waste and sweat, and I wondered how scared this guy must have been to shit himself when the toilet was two feet away. If I held my nose or gagged it would greatly embarrass him, something of which I had never worried about. On principal alone I made sure to gag audibly. There’s no toilets where you’re from?

He shivered, I could see it from where I stood and he bowed his head. Jesus Christ. I swung my gun around and held it in both hands. That’s right, my big black cock, as I thought about it. It was more that than a fucking gun. It was law.

Get up. Come with me.

He rose instantly on shaky legs, and I tried not to grimace when I saw the backside of his jeans. Yep, he’d definitely shit himself. Why the hell didn’t we give our prisoners uniforms? Big bright orange uniforms so we could see them if they tried to get away—which would never happen—so that we could avoid situations like this. I already knew the answer to that though. The prisoners weren’t here long enough to warrant the extra costs. I guessed the bloke was too nervous to wash himself.

He tripped as he exited his cell, and instinctively I reached out, only to pull my hand back. He could get his bloody self up. He did, after a few minutes, and it was like watching Bambi walk for the first time. Remember when I said I only enjoyed torturing information out of people when they fought back? Well I could already tell that this day was going to be monumental crap.

When we finally made it to the Sessions Room I told him to sit down in the chair, which he did immediately. It was almost excessive, tying his hands and his legs, but it was my job. I walked towards the door to close it, when I saw Darcy peeking in.

Hey, he smiled. That’s the kid?

My jaw clenched. The kid with ears. Yes.

Pfft, you’ll mop the floor with him. I’d say there was no way of beating your record if my guy wasn’t so upset about his kids.

I bristled. What kids?

He shrugged.

I smiled tightly and closed the door, wanting to get this thing over with.

I went to the camera, placed the SD card in the slot and pressed record. State your name for the record.

Lennon M-Munro. Jesus. Had his balls even dropped yet?

I’m going to call you Lennon, I began.

W-what do I call you? he stuttered.

My name is Kade. But it doesn’t matter, because after I get the information from you, you will never see me again.

He shivered and bowed his head again.

It is quite simple Lennon, I said, sitting down. I ask you a question, and you answer it. If I deem your answer inappropriate, incorrect or too vague I will have no choice but to force the truth from you. Please acknowledge that you’ve understood the rules.

His eyes squeezed shut and he nodded. Okay.

Please detail for me your involvement in the Reardon’s family business.

He blinked. "The what?"

I repeated myself.

He looked panicked. Not the type of panic a guilty man would have, but the type of panic one with no answers would. I slapped him sharply on his face.

It wasn’t manly, nor was it honorable. That was being nice.

It was a warning, and I told him so.

His lips, which barely covered his braces, began to quiver.

How old are you? I asked. It wasn’t pertinent to the investigation, but I needed to know.

S-seventeen.

I immediately left the room so he wouldn’t see how I reacted to this news.

I went in the hallway, pacing back and forth as I thought this through. This couldn’t be legal, I thought. This had to break all types of Geneva laws or some type of UN code of conduct when it came to prisoners. Who the fuck was I kidding, nothing on this island followed any type of rules other than what was set out for us. Seven-fucking-teen years old. One look at him told me he wasn’t the type of fuck-up that would ever even dream of being brought to this asshole piece of land.

When I came back into the room, he looked contrite, like he’d done something bad. Not terrorist bad, but like, snuck liquor into his dormitory type of bad.

I sat down and stared at him. After a few seconds I reached my right arm up, out of view of the lens and stopped recording. I needed to know more information, information that would be deemed imprudent to the questioning. Every little bit counted in my opinion.

Who are you? Why are you here? I demanded.

He shrugged his shoulders and sniffled. My name is Lennon Munro. I don’t know why I’m here. They just grabbed us out of nowhere.

I admit I was taken aback by his direct answers but they meant nothing to me. Where are you from?

I was born in Aberdeen, but we live in Glasgow now… me and my da.

Aberdeen was only half hour drive from where I bloody well grew up. I might have even gone to school with his family. But it didn’t matter.

Do ye know the others that are here wit’ ye?

Christ, where did that come from? Two minutes with a Scot and my accent comes back. I held my breath as he eyed me with curiosity.

He took a deep breath and nodded. My whole family is here, but I haven’t seen them.

I nodded. Elijah had to have been his father, Carys and Ian, his brother and sister. A fucking family reunion on this godforsaken rock.

Why are they here? I asked. I wondered if I should have turned the camera back on, but waited for his answer.

He shrugged his shoulders. I don’t know, he whined breathlessly. I haven’t seen my sister since last year, and my brother moved to Liverpool to work in the hospital. It was just me and my da at the house. We were in the kitchen when they came in and… took us.

He looked at me, expecting sympathy or pity and I slapped him again, much harder this time. It would not bode well for either of us if he expected anything other than pain from me.

Fucking Christ.

We’re done here.

I pulled him along the corridor, towards his cell and thrust him inside. The look of horror on his face let me know that he finally got the message. I was not to be trusted.

Lunchtime was odd. My stomach was twisted in a knot, and I knew I was hungry, but I couldn’t swallow any food. When Darcy sat down at the table, I noticed a blood stain on his sleeve and glared at him. In a hurry?

Darcy smiled. I’ve got a record to beat, don’t I?

I smiled without humor. And how’s that coming?

He shook his head and scooped cardboard potatoes into his mouth. It’s not. The man insists he’s innocent. I think I’ll use the new file on him this afternoon.

The file he was referring to wasn’t a piece of paper stuffed in a manila folder. It was literally a large steel Emory board, made of microscopic diamond and sand shards. It could tear your skin off with one stroke. Just thinking about it made my balls shrivel.

What about you? he asked, mouth full of food, any luck?

I smiled half-heartedly. He’s still in shock.

Darcy smiled again. Sick bastard.

I don’t know why I volunteered this information, but I did. I think I’ll try my hand at Prisoner Number Two this afternoon.

*****

I waited until Elijah was safely locked in Session Room 1 before walking toward Carys’s door. When I looked through the glass I couldn’t see her and I stepped forward to get a better look inside the room. When I saw her on the toilet, black panties around her ankles, I quickly pulled away.

I let out a gush of air. That was unexpected.

A moment later I heard the faint sound of water flushing and I gave her a couple more seconds before entering the room.

She stood next to the sink, her hands still wet from washing them. My gaze went upwards, from the four-inch heels, up her slim calves, tight navy skirt, up her blouse, past her generous tits, and finally resting on her face. My first thought was, oh shit.

Oh shit, because she wasn’t just some woman. She wasn’t the sixty-five-year-old Colombian woman Darcy had tortured three years ago, or Lai, the woman I had once married and promptly divorced a lifetime ago. And I didn’t know whether it was because I had become a fucking monk or if I truly had impeccable taste, but she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

Long, wavy, dark auburn hair framed her oval face, piercingly dark blue eyes framed by elegantly arched eyebrows, high cheekbones and a mouth that gave me an instant hard-on. Her lips were generous and pink, the bottom lip slightly fuller than the top, and I imagined sucking on it. Imagined her sucking… Fuck!

This wasn’t good.

She looked at me, bewildered, scared, and one-hundred percent more coherent than her brother. Her look was slightly defiant, and even though her clothes were somewhat tattered, her skin dirty and bruised in some areas, she was haughty, and it made my cock twitch even more.

I almost bent down and thanked God for letting me be the one to interrogate her. Rape was not a thing that had ever happened on this island, I was sure of it, but I knew too damn well how fucking twisted Darcy could be.

Carys? I winced inwardly at my question. Like I fucking knew her.

She stepped back half a step.

Come with me.

Who are you? she trembled. Her voice was deep and thick and full of emotion that would get her nowhere fast.

I didn’t answer but waited for her to take a fucking hint and walk the seven or so feet out the door. I couldn’t rightly tell if she was scared or defiant and without wanting to stare I couldn’t figure out her deal. When I became tired of waiting for her to move I hardened my resolve and levelled with her.

Walk or I carry you.

Chapter Two

Of all the bloody bastards who could have been charged with interrogating me, they had to send in bloody Clark Kent. His sweat-glistened biceps covered in tattoos, his tall dark frame and dark hair filled the doorway and I stared at him in surprise. He was more like Rambo in some ways, with all that sweat and muscle, but something about him was definitely Superman. I laughed inwardly, knowing how crazy it was to think about that since he didn’t obviously seem to care which one he was or how attractive he might be.

I wanted to ask him how a man like him could ever be in a place like this, but I didn’t. I didn’t know who he was, I didn’t know what type of man he was, nor did I know where the hell I was.

The way he stared scared the shit out of me.

I hadn’t had much contact with anyone since I’d been grabbed out of nowhere, thrust into the back of a van, blindfolded, gagged and tossed about like a sack of dirty laundry. Other than the hands I felt on my arms, legs and hair, his was one of the first faces I’d seen, and despite the fact that it was an attractive face, it was not welcome.

Nothing here was welcome. I had visited clients in places comparable to Newgate that were friendlier than this. It wasn’t necessarily dirty, but the air was so moist and thick that it was hard to get a deep breath, and I just knew that no matter what time of year it was, England just did not get this humid. I was afraid that I was somewhere else entirely.

I didn’t know where my brothers and father were, and I had been wearing the same underwear for three days straight. All in all, not a good week.

I had seen enough movies, read enough books to know I was in some type of holding cell, and that I would undoubtedly be questioned for something. What it was I had no freaking idea, but I wasn’t deaf, and that other asshole that came into this hall sure seemed excited about it all. I was going to sue once they figured out they took the wrong people.

I probably seemed calm to him, like I knew why I’d been brought here. My defense mechanism, a mechanism which had crept into my personality since my mother died when I was fourteen, was to pass every problem off like it was nothing. And even though I told them, screamed at them until I was bloody blue in the face that they had the wrong family, they didn’t listen.

I knew when it came to fear, my mind and my body worked independently of each other. I could feel that I was scared. I could feel it in my shaking fingers and my erratic, shaking breath but I held my head high, ready to tell them whatever it was they wanted to know, so we could get the bloody hell out of here. I couldn’t wait to get back home. I was so busy at work, and Mr. Lithgow was counting on me to help him through the tough times. He really needed that vacation. Explaining this absence was going to be incredibly complicated.

I moved my jittery legs towards the door and out of the room before he made true on his threat to carry me. Making sure not to trip over the portal—my sore feet wouldn’t survive it—I stepped as gracefully as possible into the hallway. He grabbed my elbow, turning me down the concrete corridor. His grip was firm but not uncomfortable, and I was humbly aware that even with high-heels on, his towering presence dwarfed me.

I passed a room on my left, a room I was sure held one of my family members, and I tried to peek in as I walked by, but he held me tightly against him. Last night had been dreadful. I’d never known so much panic in my whole life, and despite my tears, despite how much I shivered in the heat, the sound of Lennon’s panic sent me into protective-sister mode, and I knew it was up to me to save everyone. I’d not seen my dad or