“You said they didn’t send a photograph with this last demand?”
“They didn’t.”
“Well, at a minimum, you need proof of life. This last request is for ten million.”
“Yes.”
“That demands some concessions.” Maybe we can get that photo for Mitzy. If not outside, the geo-tagging will give us the most up-to-date information about her current location. It wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine they’ve moved her around more than once.
Knox sits beside me and dips his finger in his drink. He slowly twirls the ice inside, making it clank against the glass. He’s silent on purpose, putting that amazing auditory recall of his to work. We’ll go over this conversation several times, pulling out all we can from it, before moving on.
“Do you have a way to contact the kidnappers?”
“No.”
“They initiate?”
“Yes.”
“Through what means?”
“My cellphone.”
“Give it to me.” I hold out my hand.
Deverough hesitates a second before handing it over. “What are you going to do to it?”
I turn the phone on, then hand it back to him. “Unlock it, please.”
Deverough lifts the phone to his face and unlocks the phone. He hands it back to me and I pass it over to Knox.
Knox takes the phone and gets to work establishing access for Mitzy. She and her team will download whatever it is they do to mirror the phone and trace all incoming calls, texts, emails, and anything digital: past, present, and future.
“When’s the drop?” I ask.
“I told them I needed time to get that much cash together. They gave me a week.”
“They want cash?”
That’s pretty old school and doesn’t make sense. Extracting that much cash always sends out alerts to various governmental agencies. Not to mention logistics about cash drops, which exposes the person collecting it more than the one dropping it off. Honestly, if true, it makes our job a thousand times easier.
“That’s what they said.”
Maybe they want Deverough to alert the authorities? That’s an interesting twist.
Knox hands back the phone. Deverough doesn’t look at it before placing it back in the inside breast pocket of his suit. If someone handled my phone, I’d be checking out what they did.
I tap the arm of my chair and stand. Knox follows suit.
“Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch.”
“Wait. That’s it? What are you going to do? How are you…”
“Mr. Deverough, the less you know, the better.” I point to his phone. “When they call, keep them on the line as long as possible. Demand a photo of your daughter. A video would be better. Tell them you want to speak to her. It’s the only way to know you’re not being fed an older photograph.”
That’s not true, but he doesn’t need to know that. I thought all kinds of things like that until I met Mitzy and her crew. Fucking amazing what they can do.
“Like I said, we’ll be in touch.”
My phone alerts with an incoming text. Our team is inbound and will be here within the hour.
I can’t wait to hear what Griff discovered after his conversation with Julian Townsend.
Eleven
Eve
It’s a few days before our guests descend on The Retreat. Tonight, Benefield will hold court with his men.
The girls are to be tested, and I get to sit front and center beside Benefield as he determines which will be offered to his guests and which will go to his brothels.
Benefield’s depravity knows no bounds, and this is yet another test of my commitment to stand by his side.
I’ve doomed myself. In saving myself from being turned into a slave and auctioned off like a piece of meat, all I’ve done is traded one horror for another.
So damn stupid.
I thought I was buying time. I thought I was smart, gaining his trust while I worked out a way to escape.
Once free, I dream about returning to this horrible place with avenging angels by my side—righteous men hell-bent on destroying men like Benefield.
But really? It’s a fantasy. I’m in the middle of Colombia. All the local police are in Benefield’s pocket. How far does that corruption extend? How am I going to find anyone willing to go up against such men?
I don’t even know if it’s the FBI or the CIA that would care. Who would I even call? And if I can work my way through that bureaucratic red tape, how long is it going to take? How many more girls will be sold around the globe before I can get anyone to listen? To act?
My aspirations are unrealistic, hopeless, but they’re all I have. I cling to those when my mind turns down darker paths.
Maybe I’m the one who’s deeply flawed? Creating this fantasy in my head about, not just a rescue, but a complete dismantling of this whole wretched industry.
What terrifies me the most is that I created this fantasy to justify the actions I took, and continue to take each and every day.
Stand beside Benefield?
What the hell was I thinking?
The truth is I’m selfish and deeply flawed, looking out only for myself. I’m no hero. I’m simply another monster. I’m willing to stand by his side while others suffer in front of me.
I hate myself.
I join Benefield for lunch and then spend the afternoon with him in his office reading a book and listening to music through my earbuds while he conducts last-minute business.
He sits with one of his captains, Lucian Torget, going over the guest list.
“An interesting repeat so soon.” Benefield hands a dossier to Lucian. “Was Mr. B unhappy with his prior purchase?”
My ears prick up, absorbing everything the men say. If I get out of here alive, there’s no telling what little bit of information will be the one that hammers home the last nail in Benefield’s coffin.
No matter what, I will see this monster taken down.
“Exactly the opposite.” Lucian clears his throat. “He’s very pleased with Lisette, but interested in acquiring an additional slave.”
I look up at the exact moment Lucian glances in my direction.
Benefield follows Lucian’s gaze and the muscles of his jaw tick. I squirm in my seat, uneasy with the subtle non-verbals being exchanged. Mr. B is a wretched man, disgusting on so many levels, and showed too much interest in me when he last was here.
“Interesting,” Benefield flicks his fingers, demanding the dossier back. He flips through the pages, looking through the list of financials and other things. “Repeat customers are good for business. I don’t see where he’s referred any clients.”
“He has not.” Lucian shifts on his feet.
“Finalize the invitation.”
Referred clients? I suppose that makes sense. This kind of wretched business probably only works through word of mouth. It’s not like they can advertise on the internet. Or can they?
I honestly don’t know where Benefield finds his clients, although it appears referrals provide a base.
“Yes, sir.” Lucian retrieves the dossier and places it on the smaller of two piles. He hands the next to Benefield. “Mr. S, a first-time client, referred by Mr. T.”