The Throwaways: Broken Fever

By Tony Suits

Tom Duvall is number two in Creo Vargas's vast criminal empire in Southern California. Vargas orders a clean sweep of a rival's crack den, but when Tom finds a crack mother nursing her newborn child in the den, he kills his crew to protect her and her child. Before the three of them can get away, two strangers appear--a tattooed blonde surfer and a muscle-bound professor. They have come for Tom.

Carla Vega is far from her poor Mexico village. She stays in luxury hotels in Miami Beach and owns a corvette. She also lures young girls into a trade that she was forced into at age thirteen. Lila is just any other little girl, so why does Carla care about her so much that she will risk everything to run with her? Carla's handlers catch them before they can run. Three strangers suddenly appear and prevent her handlers from harming her and Lila, but these same strangers have come for Carla.

Reed Elliott wakes up in a strange studio apartment. Was he drugged the previous night? Reed is happy with his life as a meth dealer in Vegas, but has that life led him to this strange apartment? Reed hears voices coming from an air duct of the apartment, voices from a young man named Tom and a young woman named Carla.

The Throwaways: Broken Fever is a look at the end times through the eyes of three young adults who have all but rejected the love of Jesus Christ. They are brought to the campus, where they witness supernatural events, are taught about their own unique gifts, and experience God's true love, compassion, and long-suffering nature. They must choose a path, one that could lead to prison, destruction, freedom, or salvation. Whatever their choice, their lives will be changed forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9781685707194

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The Throwaways

Broken Fever

Tony Suits

ISBN 978-1-68570-718-7 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68570-719-4 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Tony Suits

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Stay Out of the Forest

Prologue

Author's Note

Part 1

Round 'Em Up

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Part 2

Really Tall Men

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

About the Author

I dedicate this book to my wife and my sons. Baby, thanks for putting up with me all these years. Boys, you are my motivation!

Stay Out of the Forest

It was clinging to the tree like a spider. It was not clutching a branch. It was just sticking to the tree. It was dressed in a long sleeveless white gown. The bottom of the gown stretched just beyond its knees. The gown was something like an ancient Roman or Greek soldier might have worn. The thing wearing the gown was at least twelve feet tall. Behind it, gray wings spread out, at least thirty feet apart from tip to tip. It hadn't lost all its angelic beauty. It was male; its face chiseled with a refined nose and stout square jaw. Its forehead was prominent, but not overwhelming. Its arms were crossed, with giant gray hands clasping both of its huge muscular bare biceps. Its bare muscular calves and enormous bare feet were gray, but its eyes were fire engine red. No pupils. No irises. Just red. And they were looking right at Tom.

Prologue

Hell isn't full of demons. Not yet anyway. There is a bright light at the end of a long tunnel for those ready to enter God's heavenly realm, but the tunnel isn't actually what people think it is. Heaven is not in the clouds above us. It is another dimension—a beautiful one illuminated by God's brilliant glory, warmed by His unfailing love, and dominated by the force of His incredible holiness.

Hell is not a place where the devil tortures lost souls either or a place, as some misguided think, where the wicked in life live it up with wild parties every day and night. Hell is a dimension made by God for those who choose to be separated from Him in life and in the afterlife. Hell is a place where the devil and his demon hordes will eventually find the same fate as the separated people—a very hot fate from the lake of fire referred to in the book of Revelation—a fate full of weeping and gnashing of teeth. Right now, the devil and his demons dwell in a different dimension—one within the earthly realm.

Adam Lazarus, no pun on the last name intended, never had a near-death experience that allowed him to enter the heavenly realm or the realm of hell, but he had seen both places in his dreams, and he knew the truth about both places, just as he knew that the earthly realm also held more than one dimension—the one people could see and the one they could not see.

You ready, Adam? Professor Dale Prescott asked his star pupil and prized soldier. Prescott's British accent made him sound even more scholarly if that were possible. He marveled at Adam sometimes, understanding that most could not see beyond the tatted, tanned-skin, blond-hair, and blue-eye surfer boy exterior, and knowing that an incredibly special young man was buried under all the dazzling millennial fluff. They were both sitting in the professor's office, the professor behind his large mahogany desk and Adam in front of it. The professor had just finished typing a memo on his laptop.

Things in the spirit realm are heating up, Professor, Adam said. My dreams are getting more and more vivid. He did not need to answer the professor's question about being ready. Adam Lazarus was always ready for anything. He had been ready ever since he could remember, and Prescott, professor of combat training at the campus, knew this already. His question had been perfunctory.

Yes, Prescott replied. Things are heating up in that realm, which is precisely why I requested you for this little finding mission. As I said before, we may have found another special one.

But not Nephilim?

No. Not Nephilim.

One like me, you mean?

The professor chuckled. I'm not sure that there are any quite like you, Adam. Perhaps like your brothers and sisters in the upper classroom, but I would prefer to leave it at that for now until we have had a chance to see him in action.

Adam smiled at his mentor, the man who had been his father figure since his own father had died. Prescott was a terrible liar. Adam knew of fifteen others at the campus like himself, but none of them was as skilled as he was. If Prescott was not concerned that this newly found prospect was not close to Adam's level in talent, then the professor could have selected anyone of the others like him for this mission. This was the first time that Adam had been asked to go on a finding mission. Adam did not think himself above the others at the campus with similar talents. He just understood that each one like him had his or her own strengths and weaknesses, but that his particular strengths far outweighed those possessed by the others like him at the campus.

I read his file, Adam answered, deciding not to challenge the professor's coyness. He's dangerous.

Which is exactly why you are coming along to look out for me and the finder.

Adam smiled at Prescott. He was a man who needed no one to look out for him.

We think it's us, but it's God's hands that direct our paths

and change our minds. He who can move mountains can

change a man's heart in the skip of one heartbeat.

—Author Unknown

Author's Note

Although the University of Nevada, Las Vegas and the cities that I mention in Colorado, California, Nevada, and Florida are all real, I have taken certain fictional liberties with them. So if you live in any of these places, don't look for your house. It's later than it has ever been.

Part 1

Round 'Em Up

Chapter 1

Tom Duvall tried to blink it away, but the moment was too strong. He couldn't figure out exactly when it happened, but that didn't matter. It happened. Maybe it was walking in on the mother and child when the baby was suckling from one of his mother's breasts. Maybe it was the way the sunlight shined through the dirty cracked open curtains on both, lighting their faces with that angelic countenance.

The infant was a newborn, perhaps a few days old at most. Mama couldn't have been a day over twenty-one. Her dark, curly hair was sweaty and matted down to her head and the sides of her face. Her brown skin was oily, while her lips were dry. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she was shaking from not having a needed fix. Yet she was breastfeeding her baby boy, a son who was born not only into sin but also into addiction.

They were in a crack den. The place smelled like death, urine, feces, and a body odor that was obscene. Vargas had ordered a clean sweep. That meant everybody inside the den had to die. Tom was used to death. He'd been a killer since he started working for Vargas at the age of eighteen. Three years it had been. Tom supposed that he'd always had the killer tucked away deep down inside him. Vargas had just brought it to the surface. But Tom had never killed any women or children before. This particular den wasn't known to be frequented by women, and he certainly hadn't expected to find a baby in this filthy place.

Stone-faced, Tom didn't even turn toward Ricky. The big diesel muscle-bound brother standing next to him wouldn't care about how the light shined down on the mother and child to give them that angelic countenance. Ricky wouldn't care about Tom's recollection of his own mother, those precious few memories remaining in the back of his mind before the woman who bore him had abandoned him at age five. She'd been a crackhead too. And a prostitute and an abuser. But she had been all he'd had in the world up to that point, and he loved her or at least the memory of her to this very day, even though she wasn't worthy of much affection.

No father to remember, but that was okay. Tom Duvall (and his last name was the name assigned to him by the orphanage because it was called Duvall Home for Children) had done all right for himself. Blood money or not, he had a lot of it, and he was careful how he spent it. Only twenty-one years old, Tom had a cool two million in a Swiss bank account and another five hundred thousand in cash in the iron safe of his Long Beach, California townhome. Thug or not, Tom Duvall knew how to make and keep his money. Only now, he was about to put everything he'd ever earned at risk. He was about to put his own life on the line for a crack fiend and a baby that would have probably ended up in a trash dumpster in another two days if not for Tom stumbling upon him and his mother in this filthy place. Who knew if one of the guys they'd already killed in this hellhole was the daddy to this infant? Before today, Tom wouldn't even have given that scenario a second thought. They'd used silencers, or maybe she would have heard the gunshots and gotten the hell out of here.

The rule was that there were always at least two to sweep a small area and three to sweep a large one. Tom had instituted this rule, as he was second-in-command next to Vargas himself. This den had both large and small areas. It was an old, dilapidated stucco house on Main Avenue. No basement, but there were five bedrooms in the house, a big living room, three bathrooms, a dining room, a kitchen, a sizable family room, and a three-car garage. Including Tom, there were five total in the group he had brought for the job. Miles, Joey, and Stevie were on the main floor. They'd killed all the junkies on the main floor while he and Ricky had finished off the ones on the upper floor—all but the mother and child in the last bedroom remaining in their sweep.

This war was between Creo Vargas, the west side drug lord, and Tony Rigotti, a Vegas Mafioso who had come down to Long Beach to try to recruit Vargas to his father's organized crime family. Vargas had a reputation for knowing how to make a lot of money through drugs, gambling, and prostitution. Diversity was the name of Vargas's game, and as his wealth and legend grew, suitors came a calling.

Things had been going well between Creo and Tony until Tony had killed one of Creo's call girls after a night of what Rigotti called fun and games. Rigotti had a taste for cruelty when it came to dealing with women, and though Creo didn't care about the abuse of his girls, he couldn't allow someone to permanently damage his property. It was a matter of respect.

Creo would have killed a lesser-known man for what Rigotti had done, but killing Tony would have brought Rigotti's father down on Creo's head. Creo was bold, but not that bold. Not yet anyway. So instead, he had killed one of Rigotti's soldiers as payback for the call girl. Daddy Rigotti was staying out of it for now. But the younger was plenty furious. War on. Tony Rigotti's men then burned down one of Creo's gambling establishments with ten gamblers still in the joint. Now it was Creo's turn to strike back by destroying this den, which belonged to Tony Rigotti. Tag, you're it.

You take care of the baby, Ricky said as an afterthought, and he took a couple of steps forward and started to take off the belt of his jeans. He had it in mind to make a little time with the nursing mother before he disposed of her. Tom had allowed Ricky to indulge before, probably too many times. But Ricky had a way with the soldiers. Tom was a highly skilled fighter. He could recall never losing a fight. He always seemed to be just a little faster and smarter than were his opponents. However, he preferred thinking to bloodshed, negotiating to physical violence. Tom was a strategist. He was extremely intelligent, logical, and tactical—all the reasons why Vargas had made him second-in-command at the tender age of twenty-one.

Ricky was purely brawn, brutality, and violence. The men feared him. Vargas had the money and the power. Tom had the know-how. Both Tom and Vargas were respected and feared, but both needed Ricky to maintain that fear, and Ricky knew it.

The mother finally looked up from her nursing infant. She saw the two men but didn't understand what they were doing. Despite her being off the crack for over a day, she was still in a drug-induced fog. She noticed Ricky taking off his belt. She'd given her body to men for many things in her young life. She considered that maybe that was what this was all about. Perhaps these two were going to bring her the next fix, and she needed to give them something in return.

Tom noticed her big brown eyes when she looked up at them. Though her eyes were bloodshot, they were still beautiful. She was not meant for this life. Why he cared, he couldn't fathom. But for a rare moment in his life, he cared about someone other than himself, and it felt really good.

Sorry, Ricky, Tom said with a coolness that stood up the hairs on the back of Ricky's neck. It was already too late for Ricky. He was two steps in front of Tom with his back to him. In this business, you couldn't afford to trust anyone. Your friends were the ones to set you up. Your colleagues were the ones to put a bullet in the back of your head.

Ricky froze in place, knowing that Tom was capable of killing just as well as he was, but realizing for the first time that the mastermind of Creo's crew had a soft spot beneath his hardened exterior.

Seriously? Ricky whined, wanting to understand why Tom even cared about the crack fiend and her addicted child. That was the only word Ricky got out before Tom put two in the back of his skull. Ricky was dead before his body hit the floor.

The mother screamed. The baby started to cry. There was no turning back now. Tom turned and headed for the stairs. He moved quickly. Acting without hesitation was the only thing that would keep him, the young nursing mother, and her infant alive now. The odor of gunpowder now permeated the lower level to overpower the other spoiled odors of the crack house. Soon there would be the smell of gasoline and smoke. Vargas had ordered them to burn down the den after sweeping it. This was one of Tony Rigotti's newest crack dens. Vargas wanted to make a statement.

The nerve of Rigotti trying to move in on Vargas's territory. Vargas had been incensed when he'd found out that Tony had taken up residence in Long Beach. Even if Vargas eventually brought down his own house by forcing Rigotti's father to intervene, Tom knew that Vargas wouldn't stop this war. He could not allow his territory to be infiltrated, and after Tony killed one of his call girls and burned down one of his gambling establishments, Vargas had no desire to join the Rigottis. Vargas had far more men in his army than Tony or his father knew about. There were hundreds of Creo's men on the streets, hungry-for-power men, and they were all killers. Vargas just needed a little time to organize all his men on the streets for the onslaught. While he organized, he would order strategic strikes such as the assault on this den. This war was going to be long and bloody.

Where's Ricky? Stevie asked, and he knew he'd wasted time with the words. The three of them could all hear a woman screaming and a child crying, and Ricky was nowhere in sight.

Tom was still on his way down the stairs when Miles went for his gun. Miles wasn't fast enough. Tom was an expert shot and lightning quick on the draw. He delivered one bullet to the head of Miles Keene, then he put one in the chest of Joey Austin, and though Stevie Johnson got off three shots, he was not a good aim. Stevie still had a dumbfounded look on his face when one bullet from Tom's gun punctured his throat and the other tore off part of his jaw.

After descending the stairs, Tom made his way to Miles first. Miles was dead. Joey was unconscious, but still breathing, so Tom put two more in his forehead. Poor Stevie was still breathing and still conscious. Tom walked over to him. What was this? He actually felt pity for the young man. He had liked Stevie. Stevie was a go-getter. He had ambition and was smart. Brains in this business were not always easy to come by. You had soldiers and commanders. Stevie had had potential to become a commander someday.

Shaking his head, Tom made it quick. Stevie was already dying. It was only a matter of pain and time. It's not personal, Stevie. You had potential. Rest in peace, my brotha. Tom put two more in his chest.

After putting his own gun into his shoulder holster, Tom located the supplies bag on the old half-broken-down dining room table of the crack den. He gathered the guns of the three fallen men on the lower level of the den and stuffed them inside the supplies bag. With the bag slung over his shoulder, he quickly walked back upstairs. The woman was no longer screaming, and her child was no longer crying. The house was eerily quiet.

He gathered up Ricky's gun and put it into the supplies bag. Ricky's lifeless body was still lying face down on the filthy carpet. Tom found the mother with her baby hiding in the closet of the bedroom where he and Ricky had originally found her nursing her son. Crackheads were terrible at hiding. I'm not gonna hurt you, Tom gently said. He was surprised at the gentleness of his own voice under the circumstances. It's time for us to go, he added while holding out a hand to her.

She was the color of milk chocolate. Her filthy hair had a soft texture to it. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and up this close, Tom saw that her face was dirty. But there was beauty beneath all the filth. She was clutching her baby. She smelled awful, but Tom had breathed in worse odors. The infant boy was swathed in a dirty blue blanket within her track-marked arms. She was a multiple-drug user.

She managed a smile. Her teeth were amazingly free of decay. They were a bit yellow, but not particularly unhealthy looking, meaning that she hadn't been in the life for very long. Tom was very handsome. He had charcoal-colored skin, and his eyes were gray. He was tall and muscular, though not bulky as Ricky had been. Tom had a slender but well-defined frame. At first glance, women found Tom adorable. Even when they got to know him and understood what he did for a living, they still flocked to him. He had a gentle and kind side to him. These were qualities that he just couldn't afford to show his colleagues, but with women, he was different. She finally took his hand.

With the baby cradled in one of her arms, Tom led her by the hand from the bedroom through the hallway, down the stairs, and through the main floor of the house. She was silent the entire time while Tom navigated them past all the bodies. The rising morning sun hit them both like a slap in the face when he opened the back door of the house. Early morning was the best time to sweep a crack house in a drug-infested neighborhood. Nighttime was when the freaks came out. Few if any in this neighborhood were up between the hours of 4:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m. Tom's crew had arrived at the den at 4:30 a.m., and it was 5:03 a.m. now. Tom wanted to be out of the house and watching it burn from the rearview mirror of his car within the next fifteen minutes.

Tom took the woman and her child to the back alley and helped them into the passenger side seat of his sleek black Mercedes S-Class. She noticed how nice the car was when she sat inside it, her baby still cradled in one of her arms.

You stay here, Tom gently told her. I'll be right back. She managed another smile, this one a little on the crooked side, and then Tom shut the passenger side door. She was going to need another fix soon. He could feel the first bite of the summer heat start to rise on this early California morning. It felt good to be out of the stench of that house. He let the sea air fill his nostrils before putting the supplies bag filled with guns in the trunk of his car. Then he headed back toward the crack den. If anyone was up at this hour and happen to see him, he doubted that they would think any of his actions suspicious. Not in this neighborhood. Crimes occurring in broad daylight went unreported in this neck of the woods most of the time. Murder was something else, but other than the strung-out mother, no one alive had seen him murder anyone. And no one in this neighborhood, where memories were selective, was going to remember his face after the burned remains in the crack den were discovered.

The gas can was full and sitting on the kitchen table just feet away from the back door. The two men were standing next to the table. One was about six feet tall and powerfully built, probably around forty years of age. He wore glasses that gave him a scholarly look. Tom would place him as a college professor if he were a betting man. Despite his disregard for violence and his affinity for the streets, Tom had a goal to get out of the business someday. He was attending an online junior college. He'd seen plenty of professors teaching the online classes. He knew one when he saw one.

The other man was much younger and tall like Tom. He was nearly Tom's identical build. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and a surfer tan. His tanned arms were tatted up much like Tom's arms. Most surfers around these parts were tatted up. Most surfers around these parts were harmless, happy-go-lucky fellows whose only beefs in life were overcrowded beaches and beginners who got in their way. Tom had a talent for sizing up people within seconds of seeing or meeting them, a talent that had kept him alive these past three years in the business. He understood quickly that the younger man, despite his surfer boy appearance, was most definitely not harmless, and his piercing blue eyes said that he had a beef with the guy who had just walked back into this house.

Tom had no delusions about his ability to go back to Creo Vargas and make up some story about how they'd gotten ambushed while sacking the crack house. Torching the den to finish the job was a final gift to Vargas and a way to buy time for Tom. Burning down the den would create a larger and longer investigation. Vargas might just think that Tom's entire crew for this job had skipped town for a while until things cooled off. Tom had already made up his mind to empty his bank account and his safe, pack up anything special he owned, and hightail it out of town to his sister's place in Arizona, where he could get some help for the crack-fiend mother and her addicted child. His sister was a nurse, and she would know how to help the nursing addict mother and her addict child. And no one else knew about his sister because technically she wasn't his biological sister. Her name was Hanna, and she and Tom had become like siblings at the orphanage because neither one was ever adopted. Hanna was the religious type, a born-again Christian, and she despised how Tom lived, but she had a heart of gold, and he knew that there was no way she could turn away anyone who truly needed help. Tom would figure out his next step after getting the crackhead and her baby to his sister's place. Perhaps, he would be getting out of the life a little sooner than he had planned.

He doubted that the two men in front of him standing by the kitchen table where the gasoline can stood were Tony Rigotti's men, not unless Rigotti was suddenly recruiting muscle-bound professors and dangerous-looking surfers. These guys certainly did not belong to Creo Vargas either. Life was full of irony. No delusions, but he was indeed being ambushed.

Please allow me to introduce myself, the professor started to say in a well-educated British accent, but the surfer boy did not wait for introductions and neither did Tom. The professor groaned with disapproval, as the two younger men were already moving toward each other, neither with any hesitation and both moving lightning quick. Tom considered going for the .9 millimeter in his shoulder holster, but these men were not visibly armed, and though at least one of them meant to do him harm, something inside Tom held him back from going for the pistol. It wasn't honor because Tom knew nothing about honor. It was something else. Call it curiosity. Tom was almost overpowered by his curiosity about who these guys were and why they were here.

Tom threw a straight right, then a left, then an uppercut, but all were met with a defending block by the surfer boy. He was quicker than anyone Tom had ever faced. They circled each other while hurling punches, kicks, knee stabs, and elbow smashes. The surfer threw punches and retracted with precision and speed, but Tom was able to avoid all the contact so far with his own set of blocks. There was a gleam in the surfer's eyes, something akin to respect. Tom held the same look in his own eyes. Tom had been in so many fights as a child that the orphanage had put him in taekwondo, kick boxing, judo, and aikido to discipline him. It worked, at least until the time Tom got out of the orphanage and started working for Creo Vargas. Tom was a black belt in each martial art, and he had never lost a sparring match, competition, or a street fight, but surfer boy was unreal. He had similar training, if not more extensive training than did Tom.

Tom barely blocked the surfer's front roundhouse kick. The kick was so hard that Tom's left forearm zinged with pain. His forearm wasn't broken, but it was deeply bruised. The surfer's assault picked up, and Tom did all he could to stay with the guy. A right cross from the surfer caught the left side of Tom's jaw, and then an uppercut knocked him back, but as he flailed backward, he jumped and front kicked the surfer, catching him square in the face, stunning him.

I don't believe it, the professor managed to get out through his disbelief. It was the first time he had ever seen Adam hit by another person. This Tom Duvall was as good as advertised. The kitchen door kept Tom from going to the floor as he crashed into it, breaking the square glass panels upon impact. Tom thought about the young woman and her baby in his car. He had to get back to them. He had to survive for them right now. He didn't think she could make it another day or maybe not even another hour on her own without a fix. The baby definitely wouldn't make it in this world another day if mama didn't receive some help soon.

No more Mr. Curious, Tom went for his gun, but the professor was fast. Maybe even faster than the surfer if that were possible. The blast from the Taser hit Tom in the chest before he could even get his gun pointed. He went down on the floor, flailing uncontrollably. The surfer stood over him with a bloody-tooth smile. Tom had caught him in the mouth with that kick. There's a first time for everything, Professor Prescott, Adam Lazarus said, still smiling.

Is our finder safe? Prescott asked.

Yes, she's in the van.

Lazarus looked down at Tom, still smiling. Then he punched Tom in the face. The world went dark.

Chapter 2

Carla Vega took two deep breaths and then steeled herself for what was coming. She hated this part. Get a grip, Carla, she whispered to herself. Her Latin accent wasn't as thick as it used to be. She'd been in Miami for three years now, and her accent was fading by the day, as was her resolve to play the human sex trafficking game. Closing her eyes for a moment, she softly bemoaned the mantra, The game is always the same. Lure them in with kindness, make them comfortable with hospitality, and then feed them to the sharks. Softly shaking her head, she added something not in the mantra. So why is this time any different? Taking another deep breath, she opened her beautiful green eyes, her mother's eyes. The relaxation technique wasn't making her feel any better. I'll tell you why, Vega, she said, pausing to look in the rearview mirror one last time to double-check that she hadn't been followed and to make sure that she would look presentable to Lila when she got back to the hotel room with the girl's birthday cake. Because this girl is only thirteen years old and you're selling her soul as much as you are your own. For God's sake, she just turned thirteen.

Stepping out of the cherry-red Corvette, she shook her head and activated the car alarm with her key. The car was hers, and it was paid for with flesh money. Why…because you don't want it to be you again, Carla said and denied herself any tears. She carried the pink box with Lila's cake in it. Inside the box was a pink-and-white ice cream cake with the words happy birthday, lila written on it with violet-blue frosting. Pink, white, and violet-blue were the little girl's favorite colors.

What kind of monster are you? she whispered to herself but refused to lose her composure. Alejandro and Reynaldo would be at the hotel in less than ninety minutes, and she could ill afford to show emotion now. Besides, tears might spook the runaway and send her running again. Lila would end up being somebody's property, and Carla knew it. Thirteen-year-old girls didn't know how to make it on the streets on their own. Still, knowing that the girl would have been doomed on the streets even without her doing did not make her feel any better.

Carla passed a group of young Latin men on her way from the parking lot into the hotel lobby. They tried to talk to her, but she gently let them down. My husband is meeting me here in a little while, boys. Sorry to let you down. They groaned out but smiled. Carla was even wearing a wedding ring. It was a huge rock given to her by Reynaldo. The diamonds in it were real, but it was not her wedding ring. It was something she wore when she was luring in the girls. Married women are more trustworthy, Reynaldo always told her. She went through the automatic doors into the hotel lobby. The air-conditioning soothed her hot skin. Summers in Miami are steaming hot.

Carla was only nineteen years old, but she already knew how to handle regular, nice, normal young, middle-aged, and older men. She had been used to men of all ages holding her in awe since she was thirteen. Carla Vega was a stunningly gorgeous young woman with olive-brown skin, long black hair, and incredible emerald-green eyes. She did her Zumba workout daily, but she had a naturally gorgeous figure from genetics.

Pulling the burner cell phone from the front pocket of her shorts, she saw that she had no messages on it. Any messages? she asked the young male desk clerk on duty as she slid the burner back into her shorts pocket. Her skin was still perspiring a little, and he could not take his eyes off her.

N-n-n-no, Ms. Rosales, he stuttered. Aleah Rosales was the alias she'd used to check in. She had three different aliases with three different phony IDs and passports. The people for whom she worked were very smart people who knew how to create phony identifications. She smiled at the desk clerk and made her way to the elevator. She wore white shorts, a yellow blouse, and white sandals, nothing flashy, but every man in the lobby stared at her as she sauntered by. Normal men were easy. Unfortunately, she worked for men who were far from normal. She worked for a bunch of cruel, calculating sharks that considered women to be property and nothing more…men who had no sense of value for a woman or sense of decency toward females.

Riding the glass elevator alone and in silence up to the fifteenth floor of the luxury hotel, Carla sighed. There was a gorgeous view of downtown Miami from the elevator. It was dusk. The long shadows of the skyscrapers loomed over the nearby suburbs. The slow descending sun casted a dull orange hue through the haze of the city smog. It was a beautiful scene to Carla, as was the rest of Miami. Compared to the small poverty-ridden village in Mexico where she had come from, Miami was practically paradise. She longed to be on the beach right now, letting her guilty conscience be swept away by the rising tide. She was an avid surfer, and surfing always took her mind off everything horrible in her world.

In the near distance, she could see the beach and the thousands of people enjoying their Saturday early evening pleasures on the sand and in the ocean. Sailboats and yachts crooned about the waters in the distance, while other ocean enthusiasts sliced through the waves on Jet Skis, surfboards, parasails, and other kinds of water toys.

They're oblivious, Carla thought. They know nothing about the underbelly of corruption that permeates through this town and hundreds of others around the globe. They know nothing of little girls from villages all over Central America, South America, Asia, Russia, and even right here in the US who are sold into sex slavery daily. They know nothing or they simply don't care to know.

The elevator bell rang, and the elevator came to a stop. Carla just wanted to stand there and stare at the dying light of day. She could have stood there until the sun slipped into the ocean for the night, even with a cold box of melting ice cream cake within her bare hands. But there was work to do. Paradise had a price—at least for little girls who came from poor villages.

Lila's smile was almost as big as the cake when Carla opened the box on the table. The little girl wore a pink ribbon in her long dark-brown hair and a white dress that made her golden-brown skin glisten in the fading light of the day. The drapes of the balcony were open, and a view of downtown Miami that was as spectacular as the one from the glass elevator lay before them. Lila was Dominican and Norwegian. She had blue eyes and European facial features with a Latin skin tone. She would grow into a woman even more beautiful than was Carla.

Thank you, Ms. Aleah, Lila squealed as she dug into her cake. This is the best day of my life! Carla hated not being able to tell Lila her real name. The deception was so thick and so wrong.

Carla's stomach tightened up, and she felt like she might get sick.

First this dress then my pretty sandals. Lila kicked one of her feet out away from the chair to admire the white-and-brown sandals that Carla had bought her, along with the dress, for her birthday. Carla had even painted the little girl's toenails and fingernails after taking her to the beach. Now this cake!

First we eat dinner, sweetie, Carla said with a mothering tone in her voice that she had never noticed using before with any of the others. Lila put down the piece of cake that she had bitten into already. She