Authors: Jasinda Wilder
Harris pointed at Alexei. “Alexei, you’re with them, Sasha, you too. You are to maintain direct visual at all times. Guys, I’m sorry, but privacy is going out the window until this is over. Either Alexei or Sasha will be in the room with you twenty-four hours a day. We’ve got the ship refueled and stocked, so you won’t be making landfall anytime soon.”
“Are you going after Layla alone?” I asked.
“Hell no. I’m bringing Thresh with me. I’d rather have him at my side than a dozen other men. Thresh is…well, he’s one of a kind. He makes the Terminator look like a pussy.”
Harris turned to scan the monitors, and then keyed his mic. “
Eliza
, prepare to receive primary. Immediate departure, emergency profile Zulu-Echo-Romeo-Oscar.” He turned back to us. “You guys are gone. Cal stays here. I’ll send an update when I can, but don’t expect word from me for a few days.”
We were out the door in a matter of seconds, Alexei in front, Sasha behind. I glanced back and saw a man lying prone on the roof of the building, holding a sniper rifle.
Harris stood in the doorway, ball cap turned backward. “I’ll get her back.”
“You better.” It was all I could say.
I didn’t even say goodbye to Cal. I saw a glimpse of him over Harris’s shoulder, and he looked pale, even a little green. His usual bravado was replaced with an embarrassed silence.
Layla. God, Layla.
Be safe, hooker. Stay alive. Harris is coming for you.
Part Two:
Layla
9
KIDNAPPING IS FUN
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. I do
not
like being kidnapped. I don’t recommend it.
I’ve seen some pretty gnarly shit in my life, but that scene? I’ll have nightmares for the rest of my life, that’s for damn sure. One second I was sleeping and having a nice little dream about Harris—although I’d deny that if pressed—and then the door was exploding and four dark shapes surrounded me. They tossed a black bag over my head, jerked my arms behind my back and wrapped zip-ties tight around my wrists, and shoved me forward.
The assholes didn’t even let me put on my fucking pants. That’s right, they kidnapped me wearing nothing but a thigh-length white V-neck T-shirt and my favorite red thong. No shoes, no pants, no bra.
Then they forced me into a run, one guy on each arm, pretty much carrying me across the courtyard. I couldn’t see shit, because it was nighttime still and because they’d put a damn sack over my head. This was a legit third-world mafia kidnapping. I heard something behind me go
poppoppop—poppop—poppoppop
. And then there was a wet
thwack
, a grunt and the hands on my left arm fell away. Someone had been shot, I realized. Different hands grabbed my free arm and lifted me, carried me in a flat-out run.
Poppoppop
—
poppop
; this was a different weapon, similar silent clicking, but a different tone. The good guys were getting closer. My kidnappers were firing back with everything they had. Then I heard a gurgle from behind.
“Dane! Shit!” A voice, male, low, American.
That wet gurgle, then the voice of someone calling out to the guy who’d clearly just died trying to help me…nightmare fuel right there.
I felt my feet hit the sand, and I heard the surf followed by the quiet rumble of an outboard boat motor. I was lifted clear off the ground, and a gust of wind kicked up, tossing my T-shirt up to bare my ass cheeks and a good portion of my naked titties.
This was not lost on my kidnappers: I heard them exchanging what I assumed, judging by the tone of their voices and the lecherous laughter, were disgusting guy-comments about how sexy I was. I didn’t need to speak whatever barbarian language those fuckers spoke to understand what they were saying. So I did the only thing I could. I started thrashing and kicking, biting at whatever flesh was closest to me.
“LET ME GO YOU FUCKING FUCKS!” I screamed. I felt my foot connect with bone, and I kicked again, as hard as I could. I heard a grunt and a curse. “I’ll kick all ya’ll’s fucking asses. Put me the fuck down!”
Something hard, cold, and round touched my temple. “Shut up, cunt, or you die. Be still, or you die.” This was in a thick accent, Greek, or Italian, or—who the hell am I kidding? I don’t know one foreign accent from another.
I went completely still and let them set me in the boat, cold, hard, wet rubber under my thighs. The gun barrel was pressed against the back of my skull, digging in hard. It hurt like hell as the boat was shoved into the water, and then the outboard motor kicked to life and I was thrown to the side as the pilot pulled the craft sharply around. We hit a wave and I was tossed airborne, only to slam back down with a slap of flesh on rubber and a curse, which only earned derisive laughter from my captors.
I had no way to brace myself for the next wave, not being able to see, or grab onto the sides of the Zodiac. So I was tossed like a rag doll as the boat hit wave after wave, and the farther we got from shore, the larger the waves got. This was a tiny boat, I sensed, and we were heading out into open water. I wondered how far they were taking me, and why, and where, and who, and how soon I could expect to raped, tortured, and killed.
Thank you, Kyrie, for the terror-inducing warnings as to what I could expect if these dick-nuts got hold of me.
Well, they’ve got hold of me. So now what?
The worst part about being tossed around in the stupid little boat was that with every slam of the boat bottom on the water, cool salt spray hit me, soaking my face and my T-shirt. Did I mention my shirt was white, and that I was naked underneath it? No bra, and a tiny little thong. I mean, that thong barely covered my hoochie-coo in front, and didn’t cover a damn thing in back. I like to both look and feel sexy, but not for the benefit of goons like these.
Also, I had been kinda hoping to let Harris get an eyeful of what I’ve got going on—which didn’t happen, obviously. What can I say?
So…
slam
, slide down a wave, rocket back up, airborne—
slam
…and I’m wetter and nakeder. More naked? I don’t know. Grammar isn’t my strong suit under the best of circumstances and certainly not when I’m under duress. I’ve almost got a college degree, so I can put together a coherent essay on pretty much any topic, but it takes some effort to make sure I’ve edited the ghetto out.
It wasn’t cold out, not by a long shot. But being three-quarters naked and wetter by the second will leave you shivering regardless of the temperature. So my teeth started chattering, my skin was covered in goose bumps, and my nips could cut glass.
None of this was lost on my captors. More than one pair of fingers pinched my nipples, hard enough that I ground my teeth together to keep from whining about it. I wasn’t about to let these fuckers see me hurt. Let them pinch. Let them see me in a wet white T-shirt. I had one goal from here on out, and that was to stay alive. Dignity, virtue—heh, who am I kidding? I ain’t got none of that anyway—privacy…none of that mattered. Men had died. This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a prank or a joke. Real bullets had been fired, and real blood had been shed. Someone named Dane had gotten shot because of me. He was probably dead trying to protect me.
I spread my feet to brace them against the sides of the boat, leaning forward as we slid down a wave, then felt myself leave the bench and slam back down. God, my tits hurt from the constant bouncing. I’m stacked as hell, and I do mean
stacked
. I’m not saying my tits are my best asset, because I’ve got a pretty bangin’ ass too, but dem titties? Big, juicy, and bouncy. All natural, of course. Which meant that without the support of a bra, they were flopping all over the damn place with every slam of the boat onto the water. I’d have killed for a bra, or even to have my hands free to keep ’em pinned down.
All the while, the men were talking about me. I heard two voices, one deep and gravelly, as if he had a cement mixer in his voice box. The other had a smoother voice, but his had a more worrisome tone. Calm and quiet, but even though I couldn’t understand a word, I could tell he was talking about me. He leaned close every now and then and muttered in my ear. His fingers pinched my nipples, traced my kneecap and up my thigh.
I fought to keep still: he still had his gun pressed to the base of my skull.
Let him touch. Let him say whatever filthy bullshit he was saying. Honestly, the fact that it wasn’t English made it easier to ignore. I still knew he was talking shit, though, because shit-talk sounds the same in any language.
And then he dug his hand between my legs, under the hem of my shirt, and jammed his finger against my opening. Which, considering how negligible the thong was, meant he got a good two knuckles deep into me, by virtue of the little patch of fabric over my pussy slipping aside to let his finger in. I kept still, didn’t squeeze my legs shut like I wanted.
I mean, I could have broken his wrist if I’d wanted to—I knew some basic self-defense moves, and a good bit of groundwork I’d learned from an ex-fuck-buddy who was an MMA fighter. He’d shown me how to do leg locks and wrist-breaks and takedowns and shit like that, all courtesy of his black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Of course, he and I had practiced naked and always ended up doing the nasty on his apartment floor, but I’d learned the moves. Point is, I could have wrapped my leg around his arm, twisted in place, and snapped it like a twig. But with a gun to my head? Nope. Let him cop a feel.
But then something odd happened: cement mixer voice guy barked something sharp in whatever language they were speaking, and the hand fell away, but not without what sounded like a petulant curse from Groper McDicknuts. We slid up another wave, crested, slammed back down with a wet splash. By now my shirt was absolutely soaked, probably totally see-through, plastered to my skin.
I’m not shy, not by any means. I’ve got no problem with nudity under most circumstances. Feed me tequila at a party, and I’m the girl who might end up flashing the room just for kicks. It drives my more straight-laced best friend Kyrie batshit crazy, because she thinks I should have more—I don’t know…decency? Prudishness? Concern for my image? Maybe so, but that’s not me. I don’t give a shit. Tits are tits; you’ve seen one pair of boobs, you’ve seen ’em all.
But what I don’t like is having the choice taken away. If I want to flash a roomful of horny drunk dudes, I will. Because shit, if I do, I’m likely to get a good bang out of it, and that’s never a loss. But having the choice to cover up taken away,
that
pisses me off. Not that I could do anything about it under those circumstances, but I was still pissed off about it.
At least anger gave me something to focus on besides fear and worry.
Scary-smooth voice whispered something else to me in his language, which I ignored. And then he spoke in English. “Maybe we stop the boat, yes? Have some fun. Yuri, he follows the orders. Me? I think boss won’t know difference if we stop and have a quick fuck of you.” Something sharp touched my breastbone, right at the apex of the V of my shirt.
He had a fucking knife to my skin while we were in a boat in the middle of the fucking ocean? Crazy dumbass. I fought fear, fought the urge to scream, to beg. I didn’t want to be cut open. I didn’t want to “have a quick fuck of me.”
Cement Mixer said something, again short and sharp, a command.
The knife slid down between my breasts, dull edge to my skin, sharp edge slicing open my shirt. Down, down. The tip nicked the inside of my thigh, and I flinched as it pricked me, loosing a trickle of blood. My shirt flapped open in the wind now, leaving me bare to the air.
I kept still. Clenched my teeth, shut my eyes inside the black bag over my head. Bit down on the whimper as salt spray stung the knife-prick on my thigh.
The motor cut out, and Cement Mixer repeated his command, and this time he accompanied it with the distinctive sound of pistol slide being pulled back and released. I knew that sound. Yes, I’ve hooked up with drug dealers too, and gang-bangers. Even an on-duty detective, once, and he pulled the slide on his piece with the same exact motion as the drug dealers. I can see the movement: arm held out straight, piece tilted at an angle, jerk the slide, and let it go.
Smooth Voice said something, but it was placating and rebellious at the same time. I felt him move slightly, folding the knife maybe, or sheathing it? I wasn’t sure. But then he cupped my boob, gripped it with a hard, cruel grip, laughing. I kept still, ground my teeth together and held my breath.
BLAM!
I was splattered with wetness, hot and sticky. Something heavy hit the rubber at my feet, and I smelled iron.
I kept still. Cement Mixer muttered to himself, grumbling it sounded like. I smelled him as he moved past me, cigarettes and salt spray and body odor. I felt the boat rock, heard him grunt with effort, and then the boat was rocked again violently, followed by a splash.
I heard velcro ripping, and then something heavy and scratchy was tugged over my sack-covered head and jerked down roughly over my torso, crushing my breasts to my chest. He didn’t fasten the vest—his bulletproof body armor, I assumed, and didn’t untie me to let me put my arms through. But I was covered.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Shut the fuck up.” He said this angrily, greatly irritated, in accented English.
“Okay, then.”
The motor coughed to life we set out again, up and down, up and down, for long minutes I couldn’t count. We had to have traveled more than a mile at least, judging by how much time had passed. I had no way of judging our speed, but it felt like we were traveling pretty damn fast.