The Prey

Mara wrapped her arms protectively around herself, leaning forward, elbows on her thighs to hide her nudity as best she could. She looked toward Dan Wallace. “Please,” she begged, “there’s been some kind of horrible mistake. I’m here for a job interview for a management position. You must have me confused with someone else.”

“No confusion,” Wallace said with a cold smile. “At least not on our part. Admittedly, you were brought here under false pretenses”—he shrugged dismissively—“but that’s your problem, not ours. Go on”—he gestured again toward Alex—“tell the little lady what the score is.“

Mara looked to Alex, both desperate and terrified to hear his explanation. “Keeping it short and sweet for now, you’ve been abducted, Mara. Your former life is over. Your apartment will be emptied, your car disposed of, your life erased. You are now the property of Pirate Island, to be used and enjoyed as we see fit. Your life is quite literally in our hands.”

Mara stared in speechless, horrified confusion at the man who stood and stepped back from her. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening.

Alex nodded toward Ronaldo. “Let’s get her up. Take her to the girls’ quarters for prep and then on to Dr. Morgan for her exam.”

The men converged on her and Mara was forcibly lifted from the chair. Her arms were yanked behind her back and something cold and hard clicked over her wrists, cuffing them together. “No!” She struggled against the men. “You can’t do this! Help me! Help!”

A sudden, sharp slap to her face stunned her into silence. Alex leaned close, so close she could smell the whiskey on his breath. “Keep that pretty mouth shut, Mara. There’s no one to appeal to. We own this island and we own you. The sooner you can acclimate yourself to your new circumstances, the better off you’ll be. If there’s one lesson you need to learn quickly, it’s this: good girls get rewarded; bad girls get punished. Severely.”

He nodded again to Ronaldo as he stepped away. Ronaldo wrapped a strong, heavily muscled arm around Mara’s shoulders. He propelled her from the veranda and back through the house toward the door.

You are now the property of Pirate Island… Your life is quite literally in our hands… Bad girls get punished…

The words whirled and smashed in a menacing cacophony in her brain as Ronaldo led her outside and pushed her roughly into the passenger seat of the golf cart. He leaned over her, pulling a thick, sturdy seat belt she hadn’t noticed before over her chest and waist and clicking it into place. The cuffs had ratcheted painfully tight around her wrists from her struggles, and they cut into her skin.

“Please, please, please,” Mara begged, crying. “I don’t know what’s happening. Please don’t do this. Take me back to the plane. Let me go home.” She turned to Ronaldo, who stared straight ahead, her voice beseeching. “I have money. I can get you money—whatever you want. Please, don’t do this.”

Still without looking at her, Ronaldo shook his head. “Save it, chica. It won’t do you any good. I get paid very well by Mr. Wallace. He is a very powerful man, not someone I want to cross.”

He glanced at her, and she thought she saw the tiniest spark of sympathy before his face hardened once more. “In case you haven’t already figured it out, you’re involved with some very bad men. If you keep your head down, keep your mouth shut, and do as you’re told, you’ll be okay. If not, if you fight them…” He shrugged, not completing the sentence. Mara’s fevered imagination filled in details too horrible to contemplate and she shuddered.

They drove along another path that wound between a profusion of small trees and foliage, pulling to a stop in front of a long, single-story windowless building. Ronaldo jumped from the driver’s seat and came around to Mara’s side. He released the seat belt and hauled her from the cart. “Let’s go,” he said, placing his heavy arm over her shoulders. Mara could barely walk, her legs like rubber, as he half-guided, half-pushed her toward the entrance of the building. This time, rather than ringing a doorbell, Ronaldo punched numbers into the small keypad below the knob and pulled the door open.

Mara held her breath as the door swung inward, trying to prepare herself for the dark, stony dungeon that awaited her. Instead, they entered a sunny, bright entrance hall filled with natural light streaming in from multiple skylights in the ceiling. She stared in confusion at the airy, pleasant surroundings. The floor was made of sand-colored stone tile, the walls painted a soft blue. Two white wicker chairs and a loveseat with plump teal cushions were arranged near a credenza, on which sat a laptop and a vase of fresh flowers. Where was the prison, the dungeon?