Tears of Tess (10 page)

I
didn’t think. My body just reacted. I slapped him as hard as I could; my palm
burned, but it was nothing compared to my happiness at the red handprint I
painted on his cheek. I’d caused grievous bodily harm and enjoyed it.

I
was more dangerous than I thought.

He
glared.
“Estás muerto.”

I
knew that word: die.

Before
Leather Jacket could touch me, two men grabbed him, carting him out of the
room. His voice raged as they disappeared.

The
remaining men backed out of the room, pointing guns until the lock snapped securely.

I
spun slowly in the centre of the dungeon, looking wide-eyed, at the women. Some
held sheets to their throats, some gawked open-mouthed.

What
did they see when they looked at me? A feral woman who signed her own death
sentence, or a fierce warrior who saved herself from rape?

The
pretty Asian girl with long black hair, dropped her sheet and clapped. “I’ve
wanted to do that since they stole me from the nightclub with my friend.” Her
voice trembled but the glint of fire in her eyes reminded me of myself. “We’ll
be free again,” she added.

I
stared, startled and silent, as a voluptuous black girl joined her clapping.
One by one, the ladies clapped and smiles stretched unhappy faces.

One
by one, fire lit in their gaze.

One
by one, they rallied, and I knew we wouldn’t be passive anymore.

We
were right, and they were wrong.

Righteousness
would set us free.

*
* * * *

The next day, I
was taken by rope leash to shower again. I’d learned to live with the pain in
my joints and muscles—they reminded me of victory, not weakness. A badge of
honour.

Once
I was clean, Jagged Scar pulled me down the corridor and up a flight of stairs.
This part of the house, factory, trafficker hotel—whatever it was—was
different. Ugly artwork graced the walls, and the room he shoved me into was a
normal study. Glass windows with an industrial view, a desk, chairs, and a man
reclining, stared at me.

He
was as white as me with blond hair, tanned skin, and blue eyes—the same bright
blue as Brax.

My
heart twisted.

Jagged
Scar forced me into a chair, but I never took my eyes off the man in a business
suit.

“Who
are you?” I rasped.

The
man narrowed his eyes, placing palms on the desk. Jagged Scar retreated to lurk
by the wall. Tingles of fear darted down my back, but I refused to bow to terror
any longer. I’d drawn blood—that counted for something.  

“I’m
the man who holds your fate in his hands.”

“I’m
the only one who owns my fate. Not you. Not your guards. Not your sick
operation. No one.”

He
chuckled. “Ignacio was right. You’re a fighter.” He leaned forward, twirling a
pen. “Being a fighter is what gets you killed. You should let go. Let us guide
you.”

Ignacio?
Was that Leather Jacket? I twitched in anger. “Let you guide me to my death by
rape and mutilation?”

He
leaned back as if I slapped him. “Stupid girl. If you behave, you will be sold
to a gentleman who will treat you like a prized possession. Lavish attention on
you. Buy you whatever you want.”

My
mind ran crazy. I was right. I was to be sold into sex slavery, into bondage.

“I
am nobody's possession.”

He
shook his head, smiling. “Ah, but you’re wrong. You already are. Sold.
Contracted. The deed is done.”

My
heart tried to claw its way out of my throat, but I sat frozen, brave. “You
won’t get away with this.”

He
stood and threw a package into my lap. I caught it on reflex, horrified to find
my photograph on a fake American passport, and papers written in Spanish.

“Already
have, pretty girl.” He came to the front of the desk, stopping in front of me.
He trailed fingertips along my cheek, just as gentle, just as adoring, as Brax
used to. “What is your name?”

“You’re
not worthy of my name,” I snarled, trying to bite his fingers.

He
stepped back, laughing. “Well, I hope you are worthy of the client who bought
you. I don’t do refunds.” He nodded at Jagged Scar, who’d snuck up behind me.
“Do it.”

My
world ended as hands smothered my face, pressing a rag, reeking of chloroform
against my nose and mouth. I tried not to breathe, fought to get free, but the
fumes stung my eyes, entering my bloodstream.

A
fog descended, whispering and stealing.

Unconsciousness
claimed me.

*Nightingale*

M
y
ears popped on descent.

I
instantly recognised the hum of aircraft engines and gentle thrum of metal. I’d
been on a plane only a week before. Had it been a week since I’d been a
prisoner? It felt much, much longer. I’d changed so much. My life no longer evolved
around exams and when I could get Brax naked. Now, all I focused on was survival.

The
black hood rested over my head, and I tried to remain calm. Freaking out
wouldn’t help.

My
ears kept popping as the airplane left the clouds, returning to earth. Where
was I? They’d given me a passport for a reason, so I must be overseas somewhere.

Time
ceased to have meaning as we landed, then taxied a fair distance. Finally, the
engines ceased and abrupt silence hurt my ears.

As
I sat there, with hands bound and head aching from being drugged, I mentally
prepared for the worst. The next stage of my new life. I had to protect myself.
Be ready to fight and run.

I
couldn’t think about regrets and my past. I couldn't think about Brax.

And
I definitely couldn’t think about what was in store for me.

A
sad smile graced my lips. If someone asked a week ago what I was most afraid
of, I'd have said crickets. Those damn flying grasshopper creatures scared the
bejesus out of me.

Now,
if someone asked me, I’d say three little words.

Three
little words that terrified, stole my breath, and made my life flicker before
my eyes.

Three
little words:

I
was sold.

Noise.

The
cargo door of the airplane opened and footsteps thudded. My senses were dulled,
muted by the black hood, and my mind ran amok with terror-filled images.

Male
voices argued and my arms were wrenched painfully as someone pulled me to my
feet. I flinched and cried out, earning a fist to my belly. The blow landed on
a particularly tender part, and suddenly, everything was too much. I’d been so strong
and it hadn’t changed my future. Tears streamed down my face. The first tears I
shed, but definitely not the last.

The
wetness on my cheeks wasn’t cleansing, it made me feel worse.

A
cold wind whipped, disappearing up the baggy brown sweater I wore. Icy fingers
of winter said I was no longer in Mexico. 

I
kept moving until one set of hands released and another set secured me tight,
dragging me against a hard torso. “This is for Mr. Mercer?”

“
Sí.
Our boss hopes he enjoys this one. She’s got spirit. He should have fun
breaking her.”

My
stomach twisted, threatening to evict empty contents.
Oh, God.

“Pas
de problème.
I’m sure he will.”

The
French words pricked my ears.

With
a harsh pull, my new captor marched me forward. I had no choice but to do as he
requested. After a while, he jerked me to a wobbling stop. My rib twinged, but
I stood straight and tall. Hunching would show cowardice and uncertainty. I was
none of those things. The moment the hood was off, I was running.

A
rope looped over my head, catching my ears through the black cloth. I tossed my
head, feeling like a prized pony; a thoroughbred ready for the glue factory.

Manly
voices murmured, warbling with deep tones and gruffness. I strained to hear,
but the wind snatched the vowels before I could comprehend.

The
screech of aircraft engines grew louder as another plane landed. We had to be
at a commercial airport, but I must’ve been smuggled in via cargo. I couldn’t
see anything, but I knew we hadn’t been in a cabin with soft seats and
air-hostesses. It had been icy cold and dreadfully uncomfortable.

I
stood, shivering, while men talked. The tears I shed froze on my cheeks,
reminding me to keep my frosty exterior to survive. I had to become an icicle—cool
and impenetrable, sharp and deadly.

A
hand looped around my bound arm, guiding me forward. I tottered with them,
blind and disorientated. The twine around my wrists burned with every jostle.

Why
couldn’t they invest in handcuffs, or something not as rudimentary? After all,
selling women must be a profitable business. What did I fetch? How much for a
non-virgin Australian woman with an unfinished bachelor in property
development?

I’ll
buy back my freedom.
Bubbles of manic
laughter tickled
.  I’ll walk into a bank and ask for a loan to buy myself. Because
I’m such a good investment.
I snorted. Oh, God, I was losing it.

We
didn’t walk far. We stopped and I stood with my heart thumping, waiting,
waiting, waiting.  

A
sharp tug on my wrists, then I was free. My shoulders ached as I brought my arms
forward, rolling, working out the kinks.

I
was free.

In
a wide-open space.

I
could run.

Someone
behind removed the rope around my neck, along with the hood. I looked left and
right, investigating the new surroundings.

Three
muscle men stood in a triangle around me. All in black suits, looking very
Men
in Black,
dark haired, and rugged. The night-sky glittered with a
pepper-spray of silver stars. A crescent moon sliced the black velvet. I wanted
to stare in wonder.

“Get
on board,” a man ordered, eyes hidden by shades, even in the dark. His accent
was thick, wrapped in masculine authority. Placing hands on my shoulders, he
pushed me toward a private plane.

The
white fuselage glowed, looking sleek, modern, dripping with wealth. Initials
Q.M.
scrawled in fancy calligraphy on the tail and wing tips.

Was
this the man who bought me? A wealthy owner of a jet who bought women like a
pair of new socks? If he was so wealthy, he didn’t need to buy willing
partners… unless… I swallowed hard. Perhaps he had sick fetishes. Liked to hurt
and indulge in sadistic pleasures.

How
long would I survive?

I
wasn’t about to find out.

“Go
on. Climb the steps.”

It’s
now or never, Tess.

I
bounced on the balls of my feet, pretending to obey. My body revved with energy
and I pivoted in thigh-high socks. I’d always been a runner. I used to run
track for school, and jogged every day on the treadmill to get in shape for the
holiday with Brax.

My
body knew how to flee.

I
shut my mind off and instinct took over.

I
flew.

The
cold tarmac bit my feet as I pushed harder. Men burst into action.
They’ll
probably shoot. I don’t care.
A bullet to the head might be a better choice.

“
Arrêt!
”
a man shouted, followed by “
Merde!
”

I
sucked air—it whistled in my lungs. I had no clue where I headed. Hangars loomed
like gaping mouths. Sparkling lights of the main terminal looked like the gates
of heaven, too far in the distance.

The
words
Charles De Gaulle
were bright and gaudy, taunting with hope and
safety. Too far. I could never run that distance. Not with the suited hounds on
my tail, quickly gaining traction.

Men
closed the distance and I added another burst of speed. If only I could truly
fly. Perhaps I could get free.