Heston (In the Company of Snipers #25)

Chapter Twenty-Four

London kept her head down, feigning unconsciousness for as long as she could get away with it. Her poor arms were stretched high over her head. She was hanging by her cuffed wrists, and the cuffs were metal. They’d long ago cut into her skin. Blood tracked down her arms, into her armpits and over her stretched-to-breaking, battered ribs. Whoever’d taken her had tossed the chain between her cuffs over three metal pipes traversing the ceiling. There wasn’t one part of her that didn’t hurt. Her backside, ribs, chest, and gut. Her face, head, neck, and shoulders. Her poor ears. At least two of her front teeth were loose, and her arms were numb.

Some chickenshit had woken her by tying a bag over her head, then by drowning her. He’d aimed a hose at her face, and the cloth bag had absorbed water so quickly that, for a few frightening, disoriented moments, she’d panicked. Couldn’t get a solid footing, not as slippery as her bare feet were on the wet floor. She’d been helpless and scared and sure she was going to die. Still was.

After waterboarding, some asshat delivered a stinging slap to her still-covered face. A punch to her gut followed, then another to her ribs. When one of the bastards called, “Timeout!” she’d foolishly believed Heston or maybe his TEAM were storming the place, wherever she was, and they were going to save her. Not hardly. Not when she’d heard the sound of a cell phone taking a photo. Crap. It’d kill Heston to see her like this. She was such a failure!

“Why are you doing this to me?” she’d asked between the next breath-stealing blows.

“Where is he?” The brute who’d hit her had an Irish accent or brogue or whatever it was called.

“W-who?” she’d asked, turning her face away so he couldn’t make direct contact with her bleeding lips again.

Jerking her back around, he bellowed in her face, “That cocky bastard, Alexander Stewart, you shite! You know where he took her! Where is he?”

Another round of backhanded cuffs made one thing painfully clear: Alex and his wife were no longer in that hospital in Washington, and this guy, who had to be the Irishman that Alex hated, didn’t know where they’d gone. Interesting. The Stewarts were safe. Good for them. London planned to make sure they stayed that way.

“Stop,” she’d begged. “I don’t know where h-h-he is.” Because she didn’t, and she’d never tell this jerk if she did. Alex was living through the most desperate time of his life. The last time London had seen Kelsey, she was lingering at death’s door, and this bastard wanted her to rat out Alex? Never.

The harder the hits, the more determined London became. She was stubborn. She could beat this Neanderthal at his own game. And she did, just locked her brain down and refused to save herself at the Stewarts’ expense. Alex loved his wife. They needed to live happily ever after, damn it. And London would make sure they did, even if it killed her.

After the Irishman gave up, another jerk came in. He didn’t ask London anything, just slapped her until she spun with every hit. The cuff’s chain didn’t allow a complete rotation. It jerked her wrists each time she reached the end of it. The force of each blow sent her back for another slap. Neither man touched her breasts, though, which she’d thought unusual—then.

The second guy took the hood off of her when he left. Not like it mattered. By then, her eyes were swollen shut, and she couldn’t see. The overwhelming sting of fertilizer in the air made it hard to breathe. Stifling. Broken ribs and swollen, bloodied lips sucked.

She had no idea who’d kidnapped her, but suspected the Irishman who’d just beaten her was behind everything. Or Obermeyer. Or Keane. Maybe Devon Bates. Couldn’t be Malloy. She was pretty sure he was the dead guy in that trunk. It made sense it’d be one of the others. Or all of them. They’d already gone to great lengths to silence her for something she’d supposedly seen or heard in DC. Sure’d be nice if she’d known what their big secret was back then. Because she was pretty sure she knew now. Which also explained why her breasts hadn’t been beaten along with the rest of her.

Despite her pounding head, she’d heard muffled voices coming from the room behind her. Frightened women’s voices. Young girls’ cries and sobs. An occasional bang, something slamming hard against metal. Like steel doors closing. Bars ramming. Locks clanking. Big, heavy, industrial locks that secured massive doors. Like the ones on semi-trailers and containers. The kind loaded onto ships and stacked five high and twenty deep.

Obermeyer and Keane were involved in human trafficking. The sex trade. That was why there were women and children in the next room. If this were a container, which the hollowness of every sound convinced her it was, the chance of it being offloaded with her and those women and children onto a ship headed somewhere overseas was downright frightening.

She rolled her tired neck at the very real possibility that she, those women, and the poor children had already been sold into prostitution. Or worse. The pain and confusion in her poor head made London consider her place—her station—in life. Was it only to serve men, like so much of the world thought, in order to stay alive? Was it to bow and scrape like uneducated people used to do? Like Black slaves before they’d learned to read? Like women who, in many parts of the world, were still considered chattel, owned by a man at birth, then bartered away for a couple goats as wife to another man she hadn’t chosen?

Hell to the fuckin’ no. London would die before she’d let any pervert defile her. No way would she ever—ever!—submit willingly.

The problem was how to get both feet on the floor and out of there. She had no cell phone or strength. Her poor head hurt. Everything was muddled and her focus was spotty at best. Thinking was difficult, and logical planning was damned near nil. Which meant concussion. No shit.

But wait until she felt better to escape? Wait for someone to come rescue her? Might as well curl up and die. That stupid solution earned itself another, “Hell, no!” Which didn’t come out of her mouth with as much venom as London intended.

Man, she was in the worst situation ever.

One thing she knew about sex traffickers, they were all ugly, sweaty pigs who got off on slapping women and children around. They were sadists, into slavery, bondage, whips, and chains. Into rape. Some were so morally bankrupt, they killed the women and children when they were done fucking them. Then there was the porn industry. Slasher and snuff films. Femicide. Some princes, kings, and presidents participated in the perversion. Some might look handsome, suave, and debonair on TV. They might smell good and dress to the nines—if any man dressed to the nines. She had no idea if guys did that or not. But guys who dabbled in the industry, lied to make their country and constituents think they were good and decent. When they weren’t.

Damn. London dug a thumbnail into the back of her little finger to get her mind back on track. Hysteria served no purpose. She had to stay calm. Her wrists were bleeding, and she had no idea how much blood she’d already lost or could stand to lose. She’d give anything to be sitting on the metal chair in the corner over there. The one with the big rusted wheel chained to its front legs. She couldn’t remember when or how it happened, but the toes on her left foot were mashed and bleeding. She might’ve been made to sit in that chair, she had no way to know. The jerk who’d beaten her probably dropped the wheel on her bare foot and laughed. Asshat.

And who cared how pedophiles smelled or dressed? She didn’t. They were all worthless lowlifes. All selfish bastards who deserved to have their balls cut off with a dull knife and shoved down their throats. While they were still alive. And screaming. That’d be a nice touch. Though screaming might be hard to do once they started choking on their nuts and—

Damn. It was hard to stay on track, much less focused on the essential task of getting out of those cuffs, then out of this place, wherever it was. Trembling at her helplessness and shaking from the cold, London forced her thoughts to Heston. He’d be awake by now, probably wondering where she’d gone. Was he looking for her? Was he worried? Or worse, did he think she’d run off and left him again?

She lanced her little finger again, harder this time. No. Just no. Heston had proven his love a thousand times over. He’d be pissed at her for leaving so early, sure, but by now, he’d know something was wrong. He’d be looking for her. He wouldn’t just forget her. She wasn’t worried about that. Only about what would happen to her before he found her. The bad guys were sure to come back. What would they do to her then?

Sucking in a deep breath of chemical-laced air, she strained against the unyielding cuffs. But damn. She was too weak to lift her weight, and her wrists were torn and raw. Okay then. What else?

Think, London. You can do this. Wouldn’t these jackasses be surprised if they came back and she was gone? God, that’d be something. Or maybe she’d hang around and be the one who castrated them. With a rusty knife. Only…

Swallowing hard, she scuffed her bare toes against the cold, wet floor in a silent fit of nerves. Her vision was compromised and her range of motion sucked. To castrate anyone, she needed a knife, and a way out. Not in that order. Shit, she might need a white knight after all.

Dropping her chin to her heaving chest, she squeezed her poor puffy eyes tighter and prayed for her life and the lives of the poor women and girls trapped with her. “Heston,” she whispered, salty tears coursing over her cheeks and down her neck. “I didn’t leave you this time, honest. I’m here, and I… God, I need you, Hes. Hurry. Save me. Please, hurry.”