A fourth face pops up on the screen, turning the three boxes into a square of four.
“Good morning, team.” The icy blue eyes of our fearless leader stare out of the screen. Forest Summers, the visionary behind the Guardians, joins our pre-mission brief. “What have I missed?”
“We’re going over their aliases.” Mitzy takes over and gives a rundown on what we’ve covered so far.
We don’t know how thorough the background check will be on Maxwell Sage, but even here, we go for overkill.
As for the women Maxwell Sage assaulted over the years, Mitzy’s got that covered. We have people to help with this kind of thing, a network of previously rescued slaves more than willing to help the cause.
If contacted, each of them has information about me and the details surrounding our purported relationship. They also received detailed information about my tattoos and where they’re located.
“Have we secured the invite?” Forest’s deep voice rolls through the speakers and settles deep in my chest, where it resonates with restrained fury.
He’s not happy about the connection between Julian Townsend and John Snowden, the man who terrorized him and his sister, Skye, when they were young.
Snowden’s dead. But there’s a new player in town. Not unexpected, but Forest’s enraged.
The invitation is the last piece of the puzzle. Julian Townsend described, in exquisite detail, the steps required to secure an invitation to The Retreat. He gladly offered to make a referral after a little push from Griff.
In my honest opinion, he would’ve sold his soul if it meant Griff ceased the interrogation. Griff’s like a dog with a bone, and nothing holds him back when he’s got a prisoner with secrets to spill.
Until this mission is done, Townsend remains on an extended personal vacation, locked up in a cell where he will never be found.
Eventually, we’ll release him.
Maybe.
Over the next four hours, we continue the strategy sessions, going over every scenario.
My eyes sting from lack of sleep, too much caffeine, and not enough pizza. I catch myself dozing off when Mitzy’s voice jolts me to attention.
“Well, isn’t this perfect timing.”
“What is?” I stretch and yawn. Scrubbing at my eyes, I try to force myself to some state of awareness beyond sleep-deprived.
“We have a photo.” Mitzy’s screen blanks out for a second, then pops up with a picture of Evelyn Deverough sitting on a chestnut mare with a smile on her lips.
“What the fuck?”
“It’s a photo, dumbass. And it’s outside.”
“I see that, but what the fuck is she doing on a horse?”
“Don’t care about the damn horse. It’s an outside shot, idiot. Outside. You know what this means.”
It means Evelyn isn’t locked in a dungeon with chains around her wrists and ankles.
I’m not sure what enrages me more. The thought of someone locking her in chains, or the proof that she’s not.
Something funny is going on.
My phone chirps with an incoming email. With my mind spinning over that photo, I read the details and feel as if my heart has been ripped out of my chest.
My Evie and I welcome you to a week of fun and recreation at The Retreat. Please refer to the body of this email for important instructions to secure your place at this week’s exclusive event.
I toss my phone on the table.
“Townsend came through. I got my fucking invitation.”
Thirteen
Max
On my way to a place called The Retreat, tension mounts in my shoulders and knots in my neck. Reality sets in as I accept the gritty truth. Masquerading as a wealthy businessman, I’m on my way to a secret compound where women are routinely sold to lecherous men.
I tense with revulsion; everything about this disgusts me, but what pisses me off most is how this whole despicable place is touted as a grand gentleman’s retreat.
All manner of activities are provided for the guests’ entertainment: ATVing, skeet shooting, fishing, horseback riding, and more. The Retreat is billed like a goddamn resort, with the ultimate pièce de résistance, an auction at the end with satisfaction guaranteed.
Makes me want to hurl.
But going undercover is my idea. I signed up for this knowing there will be things I must do that violate my moral principles. I’m a protector, a Guardian, yet for the next week, I’ll do vile things under the pretense of doing good.
It’s an odd mental space and I’ve got less time than I’d like to wrap my mind around it. Soon, I’ll be at my destination.
I’ve been searched. No weapons of any kind are on my person. The bastards even took my three-inch pocketknife and my fingernail clippers. What kind of damage can I do with those?
The only thing I have on me is my phone, which I’ve been told will be confiscated upon my arrival. They cite security concerns, and I don’t doubt it. No way do they want photos of what goes on in there getting out.
After trying to make light conversation with my driver, I give up after he responds in monosyllabic grunts. Every second of the drive is unbearable, but I don’t show any unease. Instead, I lean back and pretend I’m enjoying the ride.
For now, I’m comfortable. The vehicle’s air-conditioning blows cool air in my face. This is probably the best it’s going to get from now until the end of the week.
My attention remains focused outside the SUV. I stare out the window, taking in the local terrain as I cement landmarks to memory. Being over-prepared is a requirement in this line of work.
We have plans, contingencies, and backups to those. Doesn’t mean shit won’t still hit the fan. When that happens, resilience and adaptability are my best friends.
We travel outside the city, heading inland toward what appears to be deep jungle. It’s been well over an hour, with no signs we’re close to approaching our destination.
Appearances, however, are deceiving. Despite the thick foliage, there are plenty of buildings alongside the rugged road. Ragtag structures that try to beat back the encroaching jungle—a battle they’re destined to lose.
Columbia’s a poor country. More people ride bikes than cars, although there are a fair number of motorbikes zinging along. The farther we get from the city, the more the bicycles and pedestrians predominate over cars and trucks.
Rusted hulks of cars line the road. Thick vines weave through open windows and up and through hoods and roofs.
Without my team, I feel unsupported, but this was the final decision. Not that I’m completely alone. Maxwell Sage does not travel without a bodyguard. I still have Knox.
Sage is not my real last name, but Maxwell is my real first name. A precocious name for a little boy and far too stuffy for a Navy shipman. It is, however, a name I’ll answer to, especially under duress. Some of the best lies are those which incorporate the truth. So, I keep my name.
As for my bodyguard, Knox sits upfront with the driver, the proper place for the muscle that will keep me safe. Like me, he memorizes the route, marking important landmarks.
I don’t like going in without the support of my team, but it’s the best we could do on short notice. Not that they aren’t spinning up. Once inside, Knox and I will complete our reconnaissance. That information will aid Alpha team in determining the best breach points for entry when the time comes.