Manipulate (Deliver 6)

Was Tula still standing at the bottom of the stairs? He’d heard her voice amid the shouting but couldn’t see her.

He didn’t want her anywhere near this shit show. He couldn’t protect her. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything but fight for his life.

He fell into a zone, locked in tunnel vision and moving on instinct. Arms, legs, the core of his body—his muscle groups worked together to defend his most vulnerable areas and keep that hairy prick away from his mouth.

Until they flipped him over and shoved his face against a concrete stair.

Multiple bodies dove onto his back and legs, smothering him in the ripe stench of unwashed armpits. The rest of them restrained his arms above his head.

He was fucked, and in a few seconds, he was going to be fucked in the literal sense.

Never mind the diseases he would contract from the grotesque erection jabbing at his ass crack. He would probably survive the rape. He’d endured this before with Van.

It would be an agony that rivaled death, but that wasn’t what terrified him the most.

If they won, he would have to endure it again and again. It would earn him a label no prisoner wanted in Jaulaso. For the next three months, he wouldn’t be able to freely walk the halls. They would drag him out of his cell and sell his body for a can of soup.

He couldn’t let this happen.

Renewing his efforts, he fought with all his strength to escape the thick press of bodies.

The noise from every direction was deafening—inmates yelling, stomping, and slamming fists. The stairwell was as hot as Hades, dampening his skin and making it easier to slide out of sweaty grips.

But there were too many men who outweighed him. He was overpowered.

The moment he felt greasy fingers separate his buttocks and expose his anus, he knew it was over.

Countless hands prevented him from moving. Sweltering breaths pommeled his neck and back.

He closed his eyes and tried to squeeze his glutes together, fighting the vise of fingers between his buttocks.

The stab of hard flesh pressed against his opening.

No, no, no.

He dug deep and summoned another surge of strength. If he could…just…pull…his legs free—

A gunshot rang out, reverberating in his ears and ricocheting through his chest.

Stunned silence gripped the stairwell for a millisecond. Then chaos broke loose.

The men around him flew to their feet, and the weight on his back tumbled off. The grizzly man’s head landed next to his, and he came face to face with a bullet hole. Right through the temple.

His heartbeat convulsed, thudding slowly, thickly through his veins before speeding up and losing control.

“Don’t fucking move,” Tula screamed.

She stood above him, eyes wild as she waved a gun at the crowd.

Oh, God. Oh, fuck. What had she done?

She shot one of them. She fucking killed a cartel soldier in front of his army.

Weapons appeared in every hand, all of them aimed at her.

He yanked up his pants as he rose in front of her, blocking her body from the Uzis trained in her direction.

She hadn’t thought this through. There wasn’t a man in this stairwell who would let her walk away after interfering in their business and killing one of their own.

He pressed in and circled his arms around her back, unable to shield her from all sides. He didn’t obstruct her ability to fire her gun, but she would only get off one round before they were both dead.

His pulse thundered. Then it redoubled as Martin appeared behind her, with his chest against her back.

With a grimace, Martin blinked through the pools of crimson in his eyes. Blood gushed from everywhere, coating his hair, face, mouth, and chest. Fucking hell, he looked horrible.

But he was alive. For now.

The prisoners stood in a stand-off with their fingers all over the fucking triggers. As soon as the first shot fired, every gun would go off. It only took one dumbass to sneeze or twitch, and the entire stairwell would light up like fireworks.

He met Martin’s blood-drenched eyes, and his heart sank with dread. They weren’t going to survive this.

“Lower your weapons,” someone said calmly in Spanish.

Ricky turned his neck toward the unfamiliar voice.

The sea of inmates parted on the stairs, and Hector La Rocha stood at the bottom, staring up at the crowd.

Then one by one, every gun descended, dropping out of view and tucking into waistbands, including Tula’s.

Heads bowed in respect, and tense silence crept in.

Garra leaned against the wall behind Hector, his posture deceptively casual. Ricky didn’t miss the small gun tucked in the curl of his fingers. Or the bandage taped across his broken nose.

Hector clasped his hands behind his back and swept his gaze over his soldiers.

He reminded Ricky of Fred Rogers from Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. It wasn’t just the thin cardigan, buttoned-down shirt, silver-streaked black hair, and warm expression. There was a gentle frailness about him, a sense of unruffled patience in his demeanor.