“Very well.”
A tense moment passed, coiling with the hum of tires on pavement. Their destination might have only been five minutes from the hangar, but he wouldn’t put it past the cartel to drive around for an hour to safeguard the compound’s location.
Without warning, a small body straddled his lap and lifted the hood to his forehead. His vision filled with a flash of Tomas’ leg beside him, the opulent interior of the limo, and the girl’s face an inch away from his own.
Not Vera. But no less gorgeous. Christ, her eyes alone made his skin heat and shiver. Huge, gray, and feathered with thick lashes, they blinked at him with gut-hardening vacancy. Innocence. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen.
A seductive, practiced smile stole across her features but didn’t touch her gaze. Not even a little. She was probably drugged. And brainwashed.
Holding the hood to his brow, she reached between them and unbuckled his belt.
Most trafficked victims came from homes with little supervision and even less love. A distinguished, wealthy stranger could saunter into an impoverished town and lure neglected teenagers with a silver tongue and mouthful of lies. Promises of a new home, money, loving attention, education, and above all, passage to the United States turned desperate kids into easy prey.
Luke would know. Eight years ago, he’d been one of them. Hard-up, naive, and broke as fuck, he’d fallen right into Van Quiso’s trap.
It had been eight years since his life irrevocably changed. Nine years for Tomas. Even longer for Ricky and Camila. In total, they were nine ex-slaves, collected one by one, sexually trained, abused, and united in misery.
Luke was damn proud of what they’d become. Vigilantes. Freedom fighters. An inseparable family. The only family he had, and he would take a bullet for every single one of them.
Beyond the tinted windows, luxurious estates dominated the Orange County landscape. The limo headed east, away from the coastline and commercial clusters.
Canting his head, he locked onto the man sitting across from him.
“Is she too cooperative for you?” Dark aura and oily eyes—the desperado scowled at Luke’s grip on the girl’s arms. “You like them to fight? Is that it?”
“I forwarded my specifications.” Luke pushed her away. “You know what I want.”
She returned to her seat without argument, and the hood fell back in place, blinding him. On instinct, he reached up to lift it.
“Leave it.” The man clucked his tongue. “When we arrive, you’ll be pleased with the selection. We have exactly what you requested.”
Early twenties, brown eyes, black hair, slender build, golden complexion. Luke didn’t have a type, but those were the attributes that had been sent to the cartel because they matched Vera Gomez.
Best case, she was enslaved at the compound and available for purchase. He would buy her and get her the hell out of there.
But he was prepared for the worst.
Unbeknown to the cartel, Van Quiso had made this meeting possible. Van, the notorious slave trader from Texas. Van, the dead man who had been shot by his partner, Liv Reed, six years ago.
Only those connected to the Freedom Fighters knew he’d survived. Over the past month, Van had dug up some connections from his old trafficking life and reinserted himself into the underground network as an interested buyer named John Smith.
Within days, La Rocha Cartel had taken the bait.
They’d vetted and trusted the information Van fed them. And why not? Van had contacts that could only be obtained by powerful, scum-sucking rapists.
Because Van had been one of them.
He’d done a lot of atoning since then. Enough to make him seem almost… Empathetic? Accountable? Human.
It was strange to admit—no one ever said it aloud—but Van had become a trusted friend among them. A Freedom Fighter. Family.
The bastard was still a cocky prick. But Luke no longer held a grudge for the unspeakable weeks he’d been raped and tortured as Van’s captive. If he were honest, Van had done him a favor.
Luke had a purpose now, a reason to fight. Many reasons. He had friends who cared about him. Because of Van, he’d escaped a lonely, meaningless, dead-end life.
Because of Van—and the obscene down payment wired to the cartel—he was on this blindfolded ride to an unknown destination, where he would be expected to sample the merchandise and purchase a stolen girl.
For a wealthy, sexually depraved monster, it was a dream vacation.
For Luke, it was a chance to exact justice.
Silence thrummed for nearly an hour. The hood eliminated eye contact and the awkward need to make conversation, but the tension mounted. It was coming from him, knotting in his shoulders and making every second unbearable. Reality setting in.
He was on his way to La Rocha Cartel’s secret compound. Without a weapon. Without a tactical team of Delta operatives. Without federal agents who did this shit for a living. It was just him and Tomas, working outside the boundaries of the law.
If they succeeded, Hector La Rocha’s four sons and their despicable operation would be eliminated. Vera would be returned to her sister, and countless slaves would be freed.
If they failed, he and Tomas would be gutted, dismembered, and never seen or heard from again.
You volunteered for this. Trained for it. You know what you’re doing.
It wasn’t working. His heart refused to abandon its frantic sprint around his ribcage.
Eventually, the limo slowed, motoring in stops and starts, presumably through gated entrances manned by armed guards. Then the engine shut off.
“Have a look, Mr. Smith.” His escort shifted, creaking the seats as the doors opened.
Luke dragged off the hood and caught Tomas’ expressionless stare before turning his attention beyond the windows.
Parked in a massive, extravagantly landscaped courtyard, they were surrounded by opulence and money. A lot of fucking money.
Stone archways and monolith columns supported red-tile roofs that stretched between Mediterranean-style buildings. The compound formed a sprawling, symmetrical circle around him. A towering, open-air fortress, broken up by breezeways and multilevel turrets to create individual living spaces with wrought-iron balconies and stucco exteriors.
The travertine driveway snaked through a portico and curved out of sight. Patterned pavers drew walkways in every direction, leading under covered arches to smaller courtyards, lush gardens, fountains, and pools.
Less conspicuous, but no less excessive, was the security detail. Cameras and guards covered every corner and entry point. Weapons weren’t in view, but they were there, hidden under oversize jackets. Anything else would’ve made guests uncomfortable.
This was a resort designed to entertain depravity. A compound built on indulgence and the blood of innocents.
The limo emptied, leaving him to exit last. The unforgiving California heat baked into his black suit as he stepped out and joined Tomas. His gaze landed on the row of cars in the courtyard.
A Ferrari FXX-K, Lamborghini Centenario, and holy shit, that was goddamn Pagani Huayra. He blinked. And blinked again. One of only a few hundred in the world, that hypercar had taken over two years to build by hand. Look at all the carbon fiber. Complete with gull-wing doors, red leather upholstery, and a 720hp AMG Mercedes engine. Un-fucking-real.
He dragged his eyes away only to choke at the sight of the Koenigsegg Agera parked next in the line. Sexiest goddamn thing he’d ever seen. And fast. The rear wing adjusted at the push of a button for optimal speed. Not that it needed the help. It held the production car speed record of 278 mph.