Unshackle (Deliver 7)

Like a dungeon.

His palms slicked with sweat. Cameras hung from the corners, always watching, so he quelled the urge to look at Tomas.

Relaxing into his apathetic mask, he measured his breaths and followed Vera through the tunnel.

A steel door greeted them at the end. Another card reader. Only those with access could enter. And exit.

“Do you bring all your guests down here?” He leaned a shoulder against the wall.

“Yes.” She glanced at him sidelong. “We prefer to do it on the day of their departure.”

Like a souvenir shop at the end of a tourist attraction. After they admired the art and enjoyed the rides, they took a walk through the shop and purchased a parting keepsake. A memento in the form of a sex slave.

“You haven’t tried very hard to spruce up this part of the attraction. That’s intentional, isn’t it? If a man can’t handle a walk down a crude hallway, he won’t be able to deal with what waits on the other side of that door.”

“You seem to be coping just fine.”

“I appreciate beauty in its rawest form. Unrefined. Wild. When you strip away the savagery of nature, polish it up, and make it behave, it loses its appeal.”

“You say that while looking rather polished and well-behaved in your dapper suit.”

“I assure you, Vera, I’m unapologetically primitive beneath the threads.” He leaned in. “Open the door.”

Her lips parted on a soft intake of air, her gaze fixed on his.

He’d give anything to know her thoughts, her secrets. Christ, if he just knew the coordinates of this rotten place, he would make an excuse to leave. They would blindfold him and transport him back to the hangar, where he could call in his team and tell them where to attack.

But if he had to guess, not even Vera knew how to find her way back to this corner of hell.

She opened the door.

The din of a television reached his ears, playing a commercial with a catchy jingle in Spanish. Otherwise, the room within lay quiet. The sort of eerie quiet that sent a chill along his scalp, at odds with that happy jingle.

He didn’t want to enter, but he forced his feet forward, grateful for Tomas at his back.

The space was vast and empty, except for an old couch in the corner and a hard-looking man perched upon it. A small flat-screen TV hung lopsided on the wall, holding the man’s attention.

He didn’t even spare a glance at Vera as she strode past and poked her head into a dark doorway.

“Marco?” She jumped back. “Oh! There you are.”

A tall man emerged from the shadowed depths, his brown eyes instantly locking onto Luke.

Splatters of blood stained his collared shirt. That would’ve been disturbing on its own, yet everything about Hector’s oldest son radiated violence, from his menacing stare and tense jaw to his hard-set shoulders and wordless greeting.

“This is John Smith and his assistant.” Vera gave them a nod. “He’s ready to make a purchase.”

“Are you leaving tonight?” Marco spoke around the cigarette dangling from his lips, his accent straight out of Mexico.

“Just looking.” Luke ambled forward, speaking confidently through the lie. “If you don’t have what I want, then yes. I’m leaving tonight.”

“You don’t enjoy the accommodations? Not having a good time?”

Oh, how he wanted to voice exactly what he thought about the disgusting operation. With Hector dead, he stood toe to toe with the new capo of La Rocha, a man who wore his authority in the harsh lines of his face. This was an opportunity the cartel’s enemies could only dream about.

But.

There was always a but.

Marco only needed to twitch a finger, and an army of guards would pour into the room. Luke had no power here. His next breath depended on the whim of this heartless slave trader.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t on tenterhooks, waiting to be gunned down any moment. The tension strung so tightly in the air he didn’t dare move.

Mexican cartels were a distrusting lot, as they should be. They had more adversaries than allies, and as a result, they treated everyone like a threat. Including their guests.

“I’m a busy man, Mr. La Rocha.” Luke expelled a bored breath as if he weren’t sweating from neck to balls. “If you have something more interesting to sell than the mannequins you’re parading around up there, show me. Otherwise, I think we’re finished here.”

Marco choked on a sharp grunt of disbelief. His eyes flared, shooting his brows to his black hairline. He huffed again and looked around, maybe to see if anyone else shared his shock. But there was only Vera, and she gave no reaction.

“Mannequins?” Marco tugged at his rolled-up sleeves. “What does this mean?”

Whiskers darkened his jaw, making his forty-something face look harsher. His tailored black pants showed wet smudges. Probably blood. The stained shirt hung open at the collar, revealing tanned skin beneath. If he’d been wearing a jacket and tie, both were now gone. What remained of his attire had been loosened and adjusted to do whatever nefarious thing he’d been up to beyond that doorway.