Unshackle (Deliver 7)

“He wants a lively one.” Vera looked anywhere but at Luke. “One he can break himself.”

“Of course.” No smile from Marco. Not a hint of satisfaction or trust.

Not good.

“You want a struggle? A resistant niñita?” The capo stepped out of the doorway and motioned Luke through. “Have a look. Tell me which pussy you like, and we’ll discuss a price. Or choose more than one. We’ll work something out.”

A hot ember sat in Luke’s throat. He let it fester there. No swallowing. No twitchy movements. Expressionless, he strode past Marco and into the darkness.

The doorway led to a corridor that veered sharply around a corner. Another tunnel—this one lined with rooms. Eight chambers on each side. No doors or gates.

The overhead bulbs, spaced too far apart, provided little light. Some flickered erratically, sparking trepidation down his spine.

He knew what he would find in those rooms, and given the fresh blood on Marco’s clothing, it wouldn’t be easy. Even more difficult was the looming task of choosing a girl to purchase and rape.

Any compassion he would’ve felt was stifled. Fucking a girl was part of the plan, a necessary evil to maintain his cover. So he would pick a strong one, drag her upstairs—by a collar and leash if necessary—and use her to fuck with Vera.

Glancing over his shoulder, he expected to find his cartel escort. But only Tomas had followed him into the corridor. Didn’t mean he could let his guard down. Cameras were everywhere.

No more delaying, he made his way to the first doorway.

Inside the cement cell, a dark-haired girl curled up on the grimy floor. She jumped at the sight of him, rattling the chains that connected to hooks in the wall.

“What do you want?” A sob erupted past her trembling lips. “Why am I here? I just want to go home. Please, take me back!”

“How old are you?”

“F-f-fourteen. Are you here to help me? Please!”

“Too young.” He said it for the cameras and ordered his feet to move to the next doorway.

Same story. Same torment.

Room after room, girls cried in shackles, pleading, spitting, and demanding to be freed. Some answered his questions. Others angrily refused to acknowledge him. Many didn’t speak English.

All of them wore street clothes—jeans, shorts, tattered dresses, whatever they’d had on when they’d been abducted. Ages ranging from thirteen to eighteen, they’d come from Mexico, South America, the United States, and several parts of Asia.

Sixteen girls in all.

None appeared to have life-threatening injuries. Bruises and cuts marred their skin from rough handling. But no visible blood.

He backed out of the last room and stood in the dim corridor, listening to their screams. His presence had stirred every chamber into a frenzy of keening sobs and gutting pleas.

His rage stretched on the brink of snapping, but he kept it bottled.

“Might I suggest the one in there?” Tomas pointed at the room two doors down. “She seems the best fit for you.”

The pretty black American girl with blazing eyes and a fuming temper.

At eighteen, she was the oldest. She also appeared to be the strongest, physically and mentally. Even now, her voice rang out above the rest.

“Motherfucker!” she shouted. “Bring your sorry ass back here and let me go! Swear to God, I will find you and cut you for chaining up girls!”

Yeah, she was the best choice. If she held onto that fire, she had the best chance of emotionally surviving what he would do to her.

At least, that had been his own experience. Van had broken his body, repeatedly violating him in ways he’d never imagined or wanted a man to touch him. But, week after week in that attic, he never stopped fighting. Never let his mind surrender or give up.

If he could survive Van Quiso, that girl could survive him.

“Yes, I agree she’s…” He went still, certain he’d heard something in the distance. “Do you hear that?”

Tomas cocked his head, eyes narrowed at the unlit bend in the corridor, where they hadn’t ventured. “Are there more rooms?”

There were no lights beyond where they stood. But there was definitely something…or someone down there.

“Help.” The voice trickled into a weak moan, coming from nowhere and everywhere. “Help me.”

Tomas straightened. “Another girl?”

Luke held up a finger as a frail cry whispered around them, so soft, so fucking strained with pain. His stomach hardened. His heart pounded, and every muscle turned to stone.

He followed the sound.

The whimpers rose in volume, growing closer as he reached the bend in the pitch black. Tomas touched his back, guiding, pushing him forward. With every step, his legs felt heavier, laden with dread.

As his vision adjusted to the absence of light, the stench of rot and fear invaded. The tunnel opened to a room, the shadows so dense he couldn’t breathe.

His head filled with sounds of slapping flesh, his lips cracked and crusted with blood. He heard Van’s voice. Demanding. Lustful. Chains clanked. A haunting nightmare.