Deadly Seduction

By Leslie Johnson and Elle Dawson

Complete Novel, No Cliffhangers!

"If I could rewrite my story, I wouldn't. Not if it meant you wouldn't be in it exactly as you are."

Fresh off her bone chilling adventure, Mia just wants to spend time with Jax and the family she's never known. But she's still haunted by her mother's death. So many questions. So many doubts. Can her mother's journal bring her closure?

When she opens its leather bound pages, she steps into 1970 Russia. Her mother's world. Where a young prodigy cellist is caught in the seductive and deadly web of espionage.

If you loved Mia and Jax in Badass: Deadly Target, you'll adore the continuation of their love story in this first installment of Badass: Deadly Seduction, a romantic, historical suspense that will make you re-think everything you thought you knew about love... and second chances.

While it isn't necessary that you read Deadly Target first, you may enjoy a richer experience with this series after doing so.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atrevida Publishing
• Release date: Jun 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540163554

Book preview

Mia

H ow many people have you killed?

The question bursts from me before I know it’s coming, cutting through the cab of Jax’s truck like a knife. He glances at me, then reaches over to take my hand.

I honestly don’t know.

Sitting back in my seat, I grip his hand tighter and realize I believe him… in a bad way.

That many, huh? I force a soft laugh to accompany my quiet voice, trying for humor but failing. I lift his hand to my lips to soften the harshness of my words. Hands that have killed. Hands that have saved. It’s a line that Jax has walked for many years.

He squeezes my fingers. I don’t know because when many people are shooting, it’s not always easy to know which bullet caused the death hit. And we don’t always know who actually died or who was only injured. Things often happen very quickly in combat.

Oh.

I remember killing a man in high-definition detail. Watching his face explode still haunts me, day and night. And even though it was his life or mine, guilt shrouds me sometimes, and I wonder about his mother, his father. Wonder if he had a wife or child. I don’t even know the man’s name or anything about him, so it leaves my imagination to go wild.

I wonder how many people my mother killed over her lifetime. I can’t wrap my head around it. My sweet mother. How could a government use children that way? Initiate girls into becoming seductresses. Send men into their rooms to teach them about sex.

Horrid.

I’m sure Tatiana did whatever she needed to do, sweetheart.

I glance over at him and wish we weren’t driving down the road so I could crawl into his lap and be surrounded by his powerful arms. Then I remember how Mom had no one to protect her. No one she could turn to for comfort, and feel ashamed for my own weakness.

She was only sixteen. A child. A girl thrust into a world no adult should even be aware of.

Jax squeezes my hand harder. We can send a man to the moon, talk on phones without wires, and carry powerful computers in our pockets, but we can’t seem to create a culture of common decency where people are treated as human beings, not chattel.

I nod. He’s right. The abuse of women and children has been taking place since the beginning of time. Hell, it wasn’t until the seventies that domestic violence was treated as a crime, not just a family issue. As a society, we’ve not progressed quickly enough when it comes to equality and decency.

And she wasn’t alone. Those poor girls were ripped from their families, all dreaming of bright futures, their hopes so high as they left their homes to attend this school. Instead, they walked into a nightmare, and on what should have been a wonderful evening, they ended up being forced to take a stranger into their beds. And to be tricked… no, manipulated so badly. I can’t even imagine living through something like that.

Thinking of this will drive you crazy, sweetheart, Jax says, and I nod. I feel crazy, I haven’t been able to think of anything else.

I didn’t sleep last night. Instead, I slipped from our room and went outside to sit on the front porch of the bed and breakfast of the elephant sanctuary, listening to the sounds of the animals in the distance. That’s where Jax found me this morning. Just sitting there, thinking. We ate breakfast, then finished the sanctuary tour to visit the other rescued animals. After I adopted and said goodbye to Maggie the elephant, it was time to leave. I stared into her brown eyes and promised to come back to visit her. It was harder than I thought possible to walk away from those beautiful animals who had been ripped from their homes and forced into the servitude of man.

Like Mom.

My mom had been so brave, even under terrible circumstances. At such a young age, she’d been thrust into a nightmare with no escape. She was a political sex slave, forced to fuck men to gain information for other men, using her body and her talent to open doors.

Lifting my phone, I google sex trafficking, then power down my device after reading for only a few minutes. Over six million search results to sort through. So many children lost into a world with little hope of escape. How is that possible? How can an adult look at a child and feel sexual desire? Then follow up on it by actually abusing that boy or girl, sometimes over and over?

They made her into a sex slave, I tell Jax and watch the muscle in his jaw tighten. How could they do that? I don’t understand.

There are many sick fucks on planet Earth, Mia. Like I said, it will drive you crazy if you try to comprehend it. A normal mind can’t. His thumb taps on the steering wheel. There are people who see other human beings as only assets, just like you would see your computer or sofa as assets. They look at a person only to assess the value. How much they can gain from the association.

I swallow hard. How much do people pay to have sex with a child?

He shakes his head. It’s a large range, running from sixty to nine hundred dollars an hour, depending on region and the beauty of the child, the level of innocence.

Level of innocence. The hair raises on my arms as I consider those three words.

Statistics show that the average trader makes between one hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand dollars per child, per year.

In growing horror, I do the math in my head. So by… I swallow hard, selling five or so children a year, they’re millionaires.

He glances over at me. Yes.

My head is shaking back and forth, as if that very gesture can deny all that I’m learning. And an adult will pay nine hundred dollars to have sex with a child?

Yes, Mia. They will. And trafficking doesn’t always involve sex. Some are sold for their organs. Some become forced labor and work sixteen hours a day for food and board. Some are sold and used as suicide bombers. Some are used in snuff videos. Pornography.

My heart squeezes. Did you say snuff videos? Organ harvesting?

The muscle in his jaw tightens again. Yes, sweetheart, often one child or adult can be a trifecta of income for a trader. He glances over at me. Are you sure you want to hear this?

I shake my head no, but whisper, Yes.

They can use a child for prostitution and/or pornography, then once that child is used up, kill them in a snuff video and immediately harvest their organs for the black market.

Bile surges to my throat, the acid burning a path that makes it nearly impossible to swallow back down. Tears spring to my eyes as I fight my body’s reaction to the cruelty of the world. Cruelty I hadn’t known about — no, hadn’t paid attention to — until a few weeks ago.

To add insult to the child’s life even further, everything is videotaped, which becomes its own income stream for perpetuity.

I don’t have words for that. I don’t have the heart to attempt to understand how watching anyone die could bring someone joy. And torture? How can watching any person — child or adult — be tormented so brutally create any sort of gratification, let alone sexual pleasure?

I want to clamp my hands over my ears, close my eyes tight, and hum a happy tune in my head so I can pretend that none of this exists. But it does. My own mother is proof.

Turning to Jax, I ask, What can I do to stop this?

His head jerks in my direction then he glances in the mirror and pulls off to the side of the road, thrusting the vehicle into park. He releases his seatbelt and turns toward me, his hand resting on the back of my neck. His blue eyes are serious as he examines my face. I look back at him just as seriously.

There are many ways you can help. You can donate to organizations committed to—

I shake my head. No, something bigger than that.

He slides his hand around my head to cup my cheek, his thumb tracing my eyebrow. You can become an educator and go into schools to increase awareness about trafficking and encourage them to include modern slavery in their curriculum.

I lean into his hand. I like the idea of that, for starters anyway. I nod. I’ll need to study everything I can. Maybe attend some conferences. See what others are doing.

Jax smiles, and the dimple I love so much winks at me. And who knows… maybe someday we can talk to Tate about creating a human trafficking division at Black Shield. When we get home, I’ll get in touch with some buddies and find out which are the most worthwhile conferences for you to attend.

I kiss his palm. So you’re alright with me going in this direction?

The dimple disappears. Mia, you never, ever have to ask my permission for anything, but for the sake of this conversation, I’ll just say that I think you’re a perfect advocate. You have a very powerful story to share.

I link my fingers through his. I want to be more than an advocate. I want to make a difference. I want to help the women and children who’ve been hurt so badly.

And boys, Jax adds. Men. Most people don’t realize it, but nearly fifty percent of those trafficked are male.

My heart squeezes. Those poor little babies.

When victims are found, what happens then? Are they reunited with their families?

The blue eyes dim and Jax looks down at our linked fingers. Sweetheart, it’s often the families who sell their children. They sell them to traffickers or even serve as their pimps.

My stomach rebels, and I press my hand to it. Why?

He lifts a shoulder. Greed. Drugs. Evil. Continuation of a cycle of abuse.

That’s horrible, I whisper, my