Deliverance

By AJ Adams

"I'm sending you a girl."

"What?"

"She needs sorting out. I'm talking Exit Strategy."

Exit Strategy. That's what we call deprogramming these days. You might call it brainwashing. It's one of my skills. Give me a man whose idea of heaven is a suicide vest, and I can turn him into a peace loving hippy wannabe.

"She's a white widow?"

"No. Human trafficking victim turned sex slave and mule. She's a mess."

Christ, poor little bint. Now I knew why Suarez was calling me.

 

Colonel Rory "Mac" Mackenzie, covert operations expert, is all set for an undercover job when an old friend lands him with Pepper, a human trafficking victim of a Moroccan-Turkish crime syndicate. Unable to turn her away, Mac now has two missions: to infiltrate a terrorist training camp in the Sahara and to become a Master for Pepper.

 

Complete and stand alone novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen Whyte
• Release date: Jan 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393618836

AJ Adams

AJ Adams writes twisted love stories set in the violent world of the Cartel, Camorra, Belial's MC and Prydain. All AJ Adams novels are self-standing and although some feature the same families, you need not read them all - but it would be awesome if you did. If you enjoy these novels and want to stalk, please know that AJ is the pen name for Ellen Whyte. Ellen married her best friend and moved to the tropics where they are living their own Happily Ever After. When she's not writing, she's cooking and pandering to her rescue cats Target, Swooner and Tic Tac.

Book preview

Chapter Zero: Pepper

Y ou stupid fucking slut!

His punch sent me flying backwards into the wall. Then he stood over me, kicking me in the side. There was a soft spongy feeling and a searing pain as one of my ribs broke.

Master, please! It's forbidden -

He was drunk, high and beyond my pleas. He'd also forgotten that it's forbidden to break my bones. I curled up on the floor, trying to protect my body, and all the time I was thinking that Master Raj would be furious.

Crazy, huh? To be frightened of someone who's halfway round the world rather than the pig who's beating you? But that was my life.

Usually, I'd not even know what I'd done wrong, but this time I knew exactly why Master Delgado was angry: he'd been short-changed on a coke deal. It wasn't my fault, but it meant I couldn't do anything right. Not even a simple blowjob. He told me to go for it, but the second he came, he decided that it had been too fast.

So I got a kicking.

When he stopped, I had a broken wrist. Everything else, the black eyes, the crushed ribs and the bruises, would heal by themselves, but the wrist had to be fixed. That was a problem, because it meant I'd be useless for weeks.

I prayed I wouldn't have to stay with Master Raj again. He scared me so much that I didn't dare hate him. Just a look from him made me want to wet myself. I did once, and he gave me fifty strokes with the cane and then starved me for seven days.

God only knew what he'd do when he discovered I'd not stopped Master Delgado from breaking my bones. I had to face facts: in 24 hours I'd be on a plane to London.

Back into hell.

Chapter One: Mac

Itook the punch to the gut, knowing they'd loosen their grip on my arms. I folded like a tart getting down to business, but when I came up again, I had a blade in my hand. They'd found the one strapped to my ankle, but they'd missed the one built into the heel of my boot. They always do. It sounds like a cartoon spy gimmick, Maxwell Smart maybe, but it's saved my life twice now. Well, three times, counting this one.

I swept the blade up nice and fast, cleaving the bastard in front of me, from nave to chaps as the Bard put it. It sounds good when it's on stage, but gutting someone is a messy job. There was a spray of blood and then a sickening stench as his guts spilled out.

The tough bastard on my left, who had been encouraging his pal to give it to me good and proper, turned away and puked, so I took care of his buddy first by slashing through his jugular. That was messy too, with the arterial spray getting me right in the face. I'm used to that kind of thing, so it didn't bother me. I turned back and finished the spewer.

Seeing the party was over, I tottered over to a comfy chair and fell into it. I put my feet up and took a breather. When you've had a good working over, it takes a few minutes to get body and soul back together.

I inventoried the damage. It wasn't bad: a few cuts and bruises, no broken bones. Even so, I wasn't feeling too good. Time was when I'd have more of a barney down at the pub on a Friday night, but now it occurred to me that I was getting too old for this shit.

I lit a fag and saw my hand was shaking. Yes, definitely getting too old.

I looked around and assessed the situation. There was blood all over the place, but we'd been fairly quiet. It was unlikely anyone would come nosing around. Nobody saw me come in, and it was a big building. I'd bled a bit, but with all the carnage, I doubted anyone would bother sorting out how many bleeders there had been.

On television the police check everything out and make cases based on a single drop of blood, but in real life they've got tight budgets, and they're delighted when the bad guys get theirs. They'd look around, smile a lot, write it up as murder by person or persons unknown and move on to a more deserving case.

That suited me fine. I wiped the blood off my face and hands as best I could with my handkerchief. Thank God I was wearing black jeans and a navy sweater. The blood had soaked in, darkening the material, but as it was night, it wouldn't be obvious.

A forage unearthed a bottle of single malt. I wanted a swig, but I manned up, pouring a generous amount over myself instead. It was a grievous sin that cut me to the quick. I hate wasting good whiskey.

Then I checked myself in the hall mirror. I needed a haircut. I'd been playing tour guide to a couple of adventure rally drivers who wanted to cross the Moroccan desert for a month, and my hair was bleached white and flopping all over the place. I'd meant to have it cut, but the second I got back I had this business to attend to. Now the hippy look would work for me. In a few hours I'd be back to my short back and sides, confusing any potential witnesses.

My skin was still dark from the desert sun, which was another good thing as the bruise on my jaw wouldn't show for a few hours. The tan made my eyes look weird, startlingly blue against the leathered skin.

A cap would hide my eyes, and luckily for me there was one hanging by the door. Pulling on the coat that hung next to it completed the disguise. All anyone would see now was a drunken Scot, reeking of booze and reeling home after a night on the town. I'd been in that state far too often these last few months, so I'd had plenty of practice.

I picked up the briefcase filled with cash, grabbed the backpack filled with smack, and exited. I shut the door using the handkerchief. Nobody would notice the blood smears unless they took a really close look at the handle, and it would mess up any fingerprints on the off chance some busybody dusted it for evidence.

I barrelled down the stairs, pleased not to meet a soul. It was eleven o'clock on a Friday night, and everyone in London was out partying. I took the back door out into the alley beyond, careful not to look up. London is filled with CCTV, and I didn't want someone clocking me leaving. If I kept my head down, they'd just see another anonymous jock in a cap. I'd be one of millions.

Two streets away, I fell in with a crowd of clubbers. We slipped into a bar, and I snagged a new coat on the way through. Leaving through the back and slipping into the back door of the club that lay beyond, I picked up a Chelsea football scarf. At that point, I relaxed. They'd have trouble trying to find me now. Even the best identity image matching software fails if you don't give them a face or body shape to work with.

An hour later, I'd been in and out of two more clubs, and I'd sourced a completely fresh coat and hat. I entered Marylebone Station, dropped the smack into a locker and walked off with just the money. I hopped on a train, travelled to Bond Street and picked up the case I'd dropped there earlier. Now I was ready to go home.

Out of habit, I crossed my tracks a few times before I went to ground. That's actually not unusual for me. Even when I'm home (I've a cottage by Loch Long) I take precautions. In my work it pays to be a suspicious, tricky bastard.

I'd booked into a cheap hotel in Brixton and had paid for a week in advance, but I wouldn't be going back. My address changed the second I topped those three bastards. From now on I'd be at my backup place. I always have a Plan B. If by any chance anyone did put two and two together and came looking for me, they'd come up empty-handed.

The Brixton room was a dump, but the backup place was a luxurious flat in a posh part of London, a stone's throw away from Marble Arch. I reckoned at the time that if it all went pear-shaped, I'd want a bit of comfort, and right now, comfort was exactly what I was in the mood for.

I took the back stairs, went up an extra flight and took a peek through the hole I'd drilled in the floor when I'd first checked the place out. Nobody was hanging about in the corridor below; I was safe. I let myself into the flat, dumped my bloodstained clothes in the washing machine with a dollop of evidence-destroying bleach, dug supplies out of my kit and settled into a comfy chair with a generous helping of single malt.

I looked at that glass for about ten minutes, wondering if I should drink it. I'd been hitting the bottle a lot recently. Not while on the job, that's for sure, but in between work I'd been downing the good stuff by the pint. About six weeks before, I'd woken up one morning in Birmingham of all places, uncertain of where I'd been or how I got there. The lassie in bed with me was a stranger, too.

When I realised I'd been on a three-day binge and didn't remember a blessed thing, I got dressed, made my way back to London and swore not to have another drop for at least a month. I'd seen too many men go sour because of the booze, and I didn't want to go down that path.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, I told the girl she was a cracker, discovered with immense relief that I'd been too plastered to do more than pass out in her bed, and left, never letting on for a second that I didn't have a clue what her name was or where I'd run into her.

Now I wondered if I'd have the balls to have one or two and not empty the bottle. Some things you can puzzle out, and some you need to test. If I were an alcoholic, it would probably mean a quick death. With one thing and another, I've got some enemies who wouldn't mind taking me out. If I were permanently pixilated, I'd be a dead duck pretty quick. A small voice in the back of my head said that wouldn't be a bad thing. After all, I've got no family left, not since my dad died, and it's not like anyone would miss me.

At that point I just drained the shot. I mean, if you're going to be maudlin, you'd better have a drink. Also, it had been a pretty good day. In return for a bit of a going over, I'd come out with £50,000 and the key of heroin, too. The plan had been to take the cash and leave the smack, but I wasn't unhappy with the turn of events as it wouldn't affect the mission. I didn't regret the deaths; London was a much safer place without them.

Actually, if certain people heard about this, I'd come out of it looking pretty damn good. A quick text to a bulletin board online made sure the right party would get the news and a second, much more discreet message made sure that the drug squad would collect the smack. That made it a two for two as far as I was concerned - if the buggers at the Met didn't sell it themselves. Some of those coppers are bigger dealers than the mafia.

By now it was almost two in the morning. I was stiffening up, and not in a fun way, so I had a steaming hot bath, tossed back another double and crawled into bed. Putting the bottle away was easy, thank God, so I clearly wasn't a total alcy. It was a tremendous relief, but I was so shattered that I didn't really have time to think it through. I was out like a light - for less than an hour.

I was dreaming about a fire bell going off, so it took me ages to register that my phone was ringing. Unknown number. This might be it.

Mac?

It had been five years, but that quiet American drawl was one I'd never forget. Suarez.

My phone was brand new, the number unlisted, but it didn't surprise me that Suarez had found me. We were in Afghanistan together, me in the Special Air Services or SAS as most people call it, and he in the Marines, America's finest. They pushed us into a joint mission, planned by a committee and approved by a panel of politicians, so it was a fuck-up from the word go. Luckily Suarez was given command, and he's no fool.

He took the orders, saluted, and then quietly took me aside. Hey Mac, let's dump this shit and get the job done right, okay?

I'm listening.

We put a plan together, and 48 hours later we left our team sitting safely in a cave while we two slid into enemy territory on our bellies. We sneaked right past the guards, slipped into the mess hall and poisoned the dhal curry that was sitting there. Then we set a couple of mines in their communication centre and exited. We were ten miles away when their transmitter tower went up. By the time they started keeling over from their breakfast and then dying in a frightening and revolting way from total organ failure, we were halfway back to Kabul.

When we went to report, Suarez saluted, blasting, Conditions on the ground were significantly different from reported, Sir! We followed protocol by adjusting the orders.

Another adjustment? his general asked wearily.

Mission accomplished with zero casualties, Sir! Suarez bellowed.

And mission accomplished it was. The enemy had no idea that we'd been in and out at first. They thought saboteurs had blown up their communication centre. Being dumb bastards, they'd immediately started a witch-hunt. By the time they realised they'd been had, the dead bodies piling up from their own executions and our breakfast special showed them up as incompetent as well as paranoid arseholes, which lowered morale even further.

Suarez's general knew, but he was eyeballing us suspiciously. He scented rebellion, and he was right, too.

Suarez resumed his parade ground roar. Communications are down, and enemy numbers severely reduced, Sir! If we strike now, the enemy will be a walkover. We are good to go, Sir!

Everyone there knew we'd disobeyed orders, but as we'd done the job, and done it right, they pretended not to know, and we got away with it. We were congratulated, and then we went to see my Rupert.

Everything go according to plan, Mac? he asked.

Thankfully no, Sir. We parked the men in a safe place, and Suarez and I got the job done, with no bones broken.

Very good. Carry on, Mac.

That's the difference between us and them, see? Our seniors know that optimal results come from hands-off management, and we don't need to shout. That's why we're the best.

After that, Suarez and I partnered up whenever we could. We were like brothers, but you'd never guess it by looking at us.

Suarez is a big, scary-looking bastard: a six-foot-two devil with pale grey eyes. When he walks into a place, everyone gets edgy straight away. And once they learn he's the Yanks' top unconventional warfare boy, the edginess turns to near panic. Suarez is one mean motherfucker.

Me, I'm the total opposite. I'm five-foot-ten, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, and wiry rather than muscled - a typical Scot. When I walk into a place, nobody notices me. And if anyone ever heard a rumour about my being our top unconventional warfare boy, they'd laugh. Funny that, because it's the truth. I'm an evil motherfucker, too, but I am low key.

Suarez and I worked well together, but when he left Afghanistan, we lost touch. That was about five years ago. I'd heard he'd moved to Mexico and joined his brother, who's a big wheel in one of the cartels there. It didn't seem like Suarez, but he'd had some trouble that had soured him a little. It happens to the best of us.

He'd emailed a couple of months ago, asking for a book on mind control, and now he was on the phone, a blast from the past, sounding relaxed like always. It meant little - apart from his parade ground bellow, we're quiet people, Suarez and me.

I heard Fatima went back to her people.

That hurt. Still. Yes.

By my voice, he knew. Fuck. Sorry, Mac.

Yeah.

That was, what, four years ago?

Five.

Got anyone new?

No. Why?

Remember After Hours?

After Hours. That took me back. It was a Yanks-only mission that had gone totally pear-shaped. Suarez had gone on what was supposed to be a friendly meet-and-greet and instead had found his team surrounded by the Taliban. Six Marines against a dozen of the enemy.

Luckily, Suarez is a wily bastard. He broke through the lines, drawing the enemy away so his team could make it out in one piece. They made it, but they'd seen Suarez take a couple of bullets. They'd left him for dead, but I knew better. I went looking for him and found him walking home, one bullet in his chest and two in his arm, charting his way by the stars and remarkably foulmouthed about the Ruperts who'd sent him into an ambush.

I'd driven him back to Kabul, shoved him into hospital, and that was the last I'd seen of him. They'd fixed him up as best as they could and then sent him stateside to the people who could repair the rest of the damage. Suarez had sent me six cases of single malt, pretty nifty considering he did it from a hospital bed in Quantico, but we hadn't talked, and neither of us is the letter-writing type.

I'm sending you a girl.

What?

She needs sorting out. I'm talking exit strategy.

Exit strategy. That's what we call deprogramming these days. You might call it brainwashing. It's one of my skills. Give me a man whose idea of heaven is a suicide vest, and I can turn him into a peace-loving hippy wannabe.

She's a white widow?

No. Human trafficking victim turned sex slave and mule. She's a fucking mess.

Christ, poor little bint. That's why Suarez was calling.

The Taliban talk a load of shite about family and honour, but the truth is that they are major human traffickers. They cream the most beautiful women and children from their territory and sell some of them in Pakistan as slaves. They keep the others to service their soldiers.

Fatima had been one of their victims. I came across her one night when Suarez and I were delivering a little terror. We'd slipped into a camp at dead of night, and we were killing every third man we came across, severing their heads. It's a Gurkha trick that scares the living daylights out of their buddies who find them the next morning.

Anyway, I came across two blokes who were supposed to be on guard duty. They were amusing themselves by making a sandwich out of a captive. They'd tied her tight and gagged her, too, but I think she would have stayed silent without all that. Fatima had pride. Lots and lots of pride.

She saw me coming and didn't even blink when I dispatched the one who was on top of her. When I moved her head aside and took the one underneath her out with a blade in the neck, she just closed her eyes, thinking I'd finish her, too.

I did no such thing. I got her on her feet and sneaked her out of there. Suarez paused when he saw her but didn't say a word. She was pretty messed up, so we took turns in carrying her back. Both of us made our reports without mentioning her, because neither of us wanted to see her being debriefed. She'd been through enough.

Trafficking victims aren't my field, I specialise in political ideology, but we weren't exactly spoilt for choice. It was me or nothing.

It took me a month to get her back together physically, two months before she'd talk, and six months to get her to where she could be around people without falling to pieces.

All that time I never had her, not once. When a girl has been raped, the last thing she wants is romance. But when she was finally on her feet again, I asked her to marry me. I'd grown fond of her, you see. She refused and asked me to send her back to her people. She'd overcome her fear of men, but she never wanted to be intimate with one again. Fatima wanted to go home and be an aunt to her nieces and nephews.

While I understood, her plan worried me. I wanted to set her up with a shop or some other business, in Kabul or in London if she preferred, but she convinced me that her family would welcome her back.

I went with an armed escort, and an imam who explained to the village that she mustn't be punished for being kidnapped and raped. If you think victim blaming is bad in what we like to call the civilised west, you should see how they treat the girls in Afghanistan.

After 24 hours of debate and prayer, her family promised to look after her, and we left. A week later I heard she'd been stoned to death on the orders of the village elders. They had met with one Abdul Gadahn, a Taliban-trained terrorist from Pakistan, who had insisted on the honour killing. So they buried Fatima up to her neck in the ground and then threw rocks at her head until she died. It wasn't quick, and it wasn't painless.

It took the heart right out of me. After that, I would have set fire to the whole fucking country. Frankly, I was half homicidal and half suicidal. Everyone knew about it, and of course nobody wanted to be with me when I finally blew it. I could see their point. No point in dying because Mac has lost it, is there?

At that point I was in charge of a rendition team. Basically, I went after the bad boys, Taliban mostly and Al Qaeda, although we also nabbed a serial killer and a Russian Mafioso selling counterfeit medicines. It meant chasing them all over the country and occasionally into other places, too.

It's illegal to cross borders, but my sense of direction's always been terrible, and more often than not we'd done the dirty deed before we realised we'd overstepped our boundaries. It's not like fishing where you can throw them back, so it seemed best to just leave quietly with our target.

Occasionally it went a bit pear-shaped, and we'd have to leave in a hurry, egged along by bullets and on one amazing occasion an attack helicopter, but on the whole we did okay. My team collared twenty-three of the fuckers, and that's a record I'm proud of.

About a week after I heard about Fatima, I got unlucky chasing after number twenty-four. I stepped into a building, looking for him, and found the clever bugger had put landmines under the floorboards. As one of them went up, I got blasted into the air. As they made the building from wood, it went up in flames.

I was in the clinic for a fortnight with burns and a bust shoulder. It wasn't serious, but the medics fussed, so it meant I couldn't go about my usual business.

Recognising my rage would get me and my team killed on rendition runs, my Rupert sent me to work in the Salt Mine, a complex just outside Kabul. You may not have heard of it, as it's our version of Guantanamo Bay. If we think you're the enemy, we take you there, and we rip out every blessed bit of knowledge you have. And when I say rip, I mean it. As you might expect, working there gave me the chance to work out some of my issues with the local Taliban.

The thing about that kind of job is that it has a high burnout rate, so they limit you to two years. After I'd done my bit, I took stock of my options and decided it was time to pack it in. What with the cutbacks and me having put in fifteen years, I secured my release easily. Then I went home. I looked at the job market and decided a nine-to-five gig wasn't my cup of tea. So, I became a mercenary, a specialist.

If your ex has taken your kid out of the country illegally after a nasty divorce, if one of your execs is being held for ransom by a paramilitary group, or if you need to get somewhere fast without leaving a paper trail, you hire me. It's not the most exciting work, but it pays the rent.

I figured I'd be dealing with scum part of the time, but I thought it would mean I was done killing. Unfortunately, that didn't quite work out, either.

Things came to a head when I took on a job in Kinshasa. I don't like to think about that time, because I crossed the line. I realised I was working for the very people I'd been fighting all my life, and it made me sick to my stomach. Still does, actually. I think I'll always be ashamed of what I did. Anyway, after that I went a bit wild.

I was on the piss for weeks on end, and after I woke up in Birmingham, I went back to my London office. I hung around a day or so, and then made an appointment at Credenhill, intending to sign up again for the Service. I ran into Lennox a couple of hours later, in my local pub of all places.

I heard what went down in Kinshasa, Lennox said abruptly. Nasty business.

The job had been a covert one, but it didn't surprise me that Lennox had picked up on it because it was his business to be in the know. His outfit is like MI6, but you won't have heard of them because they work in complete and total secret.

If you're looking for some decent work, I might have something for you, Lennox murmured.

I knew the second he'd walked into my local he had something in mind because people like Lennox don't run into you by accident. He'd heard of my call to Credenhill.

We weren't exactly buddies, but we'd met up twice back in Afghanistan when I'd handed over my rendition targets. They might have been his undercover people, or maybe he'd simply wanted to have a word with them off the books. I hadn't asked because with black ops it's best not to know.

If you're asking me if I want to hunt the bad hats again, I'm listening. 

Well, now you mention it, Lennox grinned. I have a job you're going to love.

We had a good chat, and at the end of it I was back in harness. I'm working deep undercover now, but as far as the rest of the world knows, I'm still Mac, ex-SAS and loose cannon for hire.

As I had lots of background, Lennox threw me in at the deep end. Twelve hours later he sent me on a humdinger that meant I could make some amends for the job in Kinshasa. It's how I sourced the snazzy apartment as well.

Lennox was chuffed. We setting up a special job, overseas, but it'll take a couple of weeks to come together.

Terrific. But secretly I worried I'd be back on the sauce if I didn't keep busy.

Lennox isn't daft. I got you a job in Morocco. It's part of the background for the next mission. Take the two blokes on a nice desert drive and moan a lot about being poor. Oh, and smuggle back a key of heroine. I'll explain why when you get back.

I'd followed orders and now here I was, about to start the job of a lifetime. Suarez gifting me with a millstone around my neck couldn't have come at a worse time.

While I felt sorry for the girl, I would have turned it down even if I had been looking for work. Trauma counselling is tough. Listening to Fatima talk about her experiences with the Taliban was one of the hardest jobs I'd ever done. Even five years later, the memories enraged me. This lassie would be the same, and I didn't trust myself to listen without disappearing down the neck of a bottle after.

So, I turned Suarez down. I can't help you. Fatima was my first and my last.

She's got nowhere to go, Mac.

Bloody Suarez trying to push my buttons. I ignored the appeal to my pity. Call Adam Gibbs. He's got a place in Kent. He's a specialist, and he's had some excellent results. Some. And some failures, too. It's heart-breaking work.

She'll be with you in a few hours.

Now wait a minute!

Suarez cut through my protest. Mac, I heard you need funds, urgently, and this is a job. It's not fucking charity, so shut the fuck up. She's arriving First Class British Airways in Gatwick at oh-five-hundred hours. She's with a minder, Herrera. He'll call you when they hit town. He's got her papers, and I'm sending you $100,000 as a fee.

But -

Mac, she's got no one, and from what I hear, she's beyond repair. I'm not asking you to fix her. I want you to assess her and find her a good home with someone who'll understand her.

She's not a bloody dog, you arrogant bastard! She's a human being!

Suarez just laughed. See? You're involved already.

Suarez, I can't take her on. I'm busy.

There was a brief pause. Your poker debts.

I can deal.

Right. He knew something was up. He wouldn't ask, though. We were on a secure line, but old habits die hard. Look, Mac, she's already on her way. Do me a favour? Meet with her, check her out, and if you think she needs to go to your specialist, set it up.

That, I can do.

Tell them to bill me. The fee is yours.

Suarez -

He cut me off. One last thing. I took care of her Master. He's out of the picture.

I see.

That cheered me up. I hate men who abuse women. Also, knowing Suarez, he would have made sure the fucker didn't go easy. Still, the girl might not agree. The human mind is strange; abuse victims can become hooked on the violence and fall for their abusers. If this one worshipped her Master, the news that he was dead might devastate her.

I'd meet with them, tell Herrera to locate Gibbs, and it would be job done. I'd also return the fee, but this wasn't the time to say so. Even on a secure line, I didn't trust my phone.

Suarez could tell his call was ill-timed. Mac, do what you have to do with the girl. I'm going to give you a number. Call it 24/7. I still owe you for After Hours.

No, you don't.

I've changed. I'm in a position with lots of reach. In some unlikely places. And so's Arturo.

Arturo, his brother. Suarez was working for the cartel. I'll keep it in mind.

Right. And by the way, her name is Pepper.

Chapter Two: Pepper 

They locked me up in a little room. There were no windows, but there was a light, high above me in the ceiling. It never went off, but sometimes they dimmed it. Maybe that meant it was night outside. Or maybe not. It didn't matter, because I finally felt safe.

It wasn't too hot or too cold, and best of all, they hardly ever came in. There was a doctor who came to take off the plaster, and after that they just slid food through a slot in the door. Wonderful food, too. Real vegetables, and sometimes meat or fish. Better than anything out of a dustbin and none of it drenched in castor oil, laxatives or any other stuff to make me sick, either. I prayed they'd leave me there forever.

It didn't last, though. One day the door opened.

Get dressed. He tossed me a pair of jeans and a tee. ‘Hurry up, slut."

It was Master Antonio Herrera, a courier who'd taken me on several trips. I smiled, hoping he'd understand that I wanted to be good. He didn't smile back. With terror, I wondered if he knew what I'd done. As nobody had asked about it, I hoped my secret was safe. I prayed it was one of the rare times I escaped punishment.

Even if this man didn't know, he was one of the bad ones. Master Antonio had a hairtrigger temper, and he liked to hurt. My fingers curled involuntarily, remembering how he'd burned the backs of my hands with his cigarette whenever I pissed him off.

Come with me, Master Antonio snarled. And don't speak, you hear?

I followed him, looking as humble as I could, but inside, I seethed. I wanted him to go up in a puff of smoke - to die screaming in flames. If I had supernatural powers like Carrie in The Rage, he'd have gone up right there and then.

I pinched myself, willing the bad thought away. Rebellion was dangerous. Even a hint of it invited punishment. I'd learned the hard way that it was safer not to think at all when they were about. I would keep my head down, obey and hope to God he wasn't in the mood to hurt me.

We went through lots of doors, the guards unlocking each one when he showed a pass, and finally we left the prison. It was warm and humid