THE FIRST SIN (21 page)

The ache in my legs and lower back begged me to move so I could stretch.

Hell if I’d break position.

A brilliant spot in the distance, diamond-bright on the water. Adrenaline made my muscles sing, chasing away aches and fatigue.

‘Target in range,” came Special Agent Fowler’s voice. The high-powered scope Fowler used was designed by RED’s technology department.

“Target name confirmed,” Fowler said. “Sweet Cherry.”

About damned time.

We still didn’t move. Donovan and I didn’t even look at each other.

My blood pumped double-time as the yacht sliced through the water. Closer.

Closer. White lights looped in long strands above the deck, so bright it seemed like stars had converged in that one place.

The closer the yacht came toward us, the tighter my grip on my sniper’s rifle, and the more adrenaline flowed through me. I was so ready to hurt these pricks.

Soon the decorations, smorgasbords of food, and even a five-piece band were easy to spot. Yeah, a party. Smart. Wonder if the partyers would have a clue what the bad guys intended to store below decks?

Where were those partyers? Where were the girls? I flicked my gaze around the dock and didn’t see the silhouette of a single agent. We were a part of the night. Every one of our agents came from branches of the military or government or clandestine agencies, and every agent was trained to be invisible.

RED had men and women who were former Special Ops, Navy SEALS, Secret Service, government spies, or trained assassins like me. RED recruited only the best. The yacht slid through the water like a cutter through glass.

Almost ready to dock.

Hurry. I was going to start blowing shit up with my M40 if my body got any hotter. No one could accuse me of patience being one of my virtues. I only practiced it out of necessity. I thought the yacht would never come to a stop, and my chest ached when I finally let air out in a rush. The scraping sounds of the Sweet Cherry docking made my spine crawl, but better that than all the waiting.

A man aboard the Sweet Cherry shouted orders in Swedish. I squinted and got a good look at him. Other men scurried to follow his orders as they secured the yacht. “Limos arriving and parking near the yacht club,” Fowler said through the comm. “Looks like the party’s about to start.” Were the girls in those limos with the partyers? Maybe hidden in the trunks, drugged and kept in enclosed crates with only airholes to breathe through?

The burn in my gut nearly sent acid washing up my throat.

“Civilians out of the limos and approaching target,” Fowler said. “No sign of any cargo.”

Donovan growled loud enough for me to hear. I knew he was thinking about his sister being among the “cargo.” Male laughter and female giggles broke the silence. It wasn’t long before eleven couples approached the yacht. Most of the women leaned against the men they were with as if for support. A few of the women stumbled like they were already drunk. But the giggling didn’t stop. It was as if laughing gas had been given to every woman. Then I saw the guns in the bright lighting cast from the strings of lights. The men on deck were armed with weapons in holsters—which didn’t really surprise me.

But the male partygoers—they wore holsters, too. Why would the men need to be armed?

Something crawled down my spine.

I frowned. Not right. The whole party setup wasn’t right. The women kept giggling and it was obvious the men were keeping them on their feet.

More armed men appeared on deck, and started gesturing and talking.

The women’s slightly dazed expressions as they giggled made everything snap perfectly into place. The female partyers were the auctioned women.

When I looked at Donovan, I saw he’d pushed his helmet back. By his expression when he looked at me, it was obvious he was on the same mental path as me. His gaze snapped back to the couples on board, and for a moment I saw hope and fear mixed with fury on his features.

He was searching for Kristin.

I murmured into the comm, “Yellow Team. When you take everyone on deck into custody, separate the men from the women. Don’t allow any couples to stay together.” Without pause, Fowler said, “Acknowledged. Yellow Team out.”

“Orange Team,” I said. “Hold back the K-9s until Yellow Team has secured the deck.”

“Ready on your order,” Quincy said. “Orange Team out.” “All teams, most of the men are armed.” Donovan said into his comm.

The five team leaders came back with their cool acknowledgments. These agents never made apologies for what they had to do, no matter what it might mean.

“All teams, green light,” Donovan commanded. “Go!” “Police!” Smithe shouted the universal word for law enforcement as RED agents poured from every hiding place they’d been stationed in.

On the deck of the Sweet Cherry, everything became complete chaos.

Screams. Shouts. Cries.

The RED special agents on the other hand performed their jobs with cool efficiency.

Using the high-powered telescope on my M40, I sighted my first target. The asshole was shooting into the darkness with a fierce expression. Not for long.

He crumpled the moment my bullet pierced his forehead.

Sharp retorts from weaponry tore through the night as men on board shot at agents converging on the yacht. The bad guys dropped so fast they didn’t get off many rounds. Screams and shouts came from the former partyers. Why did people run around in random directions when shooting started instead of literally hitting the deck to stay out of the line of fire? How stupid could you get?

My hands remained steady as I took down two more targets.

I never missed. I never made mistakes—at least in marksmanship—when it came to my former profession as an assassin. That was one part of my life where I’d had no problem keeping calm and not losing my temper. I’d had to in order to make it through every assignment. Would the gunfire never end?

Would assholes with weapons ever stop appearing from the lower decks? No sirens pierced a night that was also empty of flashing emergency lights. RED

had ways of warning off other law enforcement agencies when we made a bust. RED agents systematically took care of business. All of the men who’d been guarding the dock were down. Ah, there. On the deck. One shot of my M40. Former last man standing was history. The rest of the men were cowering on the deck. Believe me, our agents still had weapons trained on every person on board.

I swung my rifle over my shoulder. Time to take care of business.

I kept my Glock in a two-handed grip as I skirted dead men and walked through splatters of blood while I hurried onto the yacht. I had to put bullets into two men who were down but not totally out and who were trying to go for their guns. Yellow Team was already on deck and they’d had the situation under control, the men and women separated, in moments. Green Team remained in place on the dock, prepared to take out any more armed opponents.

When I gave the signal, Orange Team converged on the deck with the K-9s to start searching for humans in places they didn’t belong—like hidden compartments—just in case. Red Team started at the top while Blue Team headed below with Orange Team. All team leaders checked in on the comms as they searched the yacht from top to bottom in a predetermined plan, even though we were certain the “merchandise” was right on deck.

Occasionally gunfire would break the silence as our agents covered the yacht.

As always, I hoped none of our agents were down, but as professionals we went on. We did our job.

Donovan threw his helmet aside and rushed straight for the women. I’d never seen him look frantic, as he did as he checked every one of the women.

And then I’d never seen him look so vulnerable, so full of anguish, as when he finished.

“She’s not here.” Donovan cleared his throat after he returned to me. and he looked into the distance. “Kristin must have been one of the two domestic—

‘sales.’” I was sure I heard a crack in his voice.

I rubbed my chest, over the Kevlar that covered the ache in my heart. That meant Kristin’s nightmare had already begun. These others—their buyers were waiting for delivery, and the girls probably hadn’t been touched. I hoped. But if Kristin had been delivered . . .

Dear God.

Donovan and I stood side by side on the deck, watching Yellow Team finish separating, disarming, and cuffing all of the men who’d been escorting the women. The men who’d survived, that was.

The eleven women looked dazed, yet were still giggling on one end of the yacht.

Donovan and I moved closer to the restrained men. The kidnappers. I could feel Donovan’s rage and desire to kill them all for what they were doing to countless young women—including his sister.

My gaze slid over one of the cuffed men who was staring at Donovan, who’d taken his helmet off. The catch in my breath hurt my throat when I realized it was Schilling. Did he recognize Donovan? Did he recognize me? No way he’d ID me. Puff Cheeks wouldn’t know. I was unrecognizable in my gear.

Wasn’t I?

Schilling stared at Donovan.

“So, it’s ‘Sire Dunning.’” Then he looked from Donovan to me. “And I’d bet behind that helmet and under those clothes is the supposed ‘slave Alexi.’”

Oh, crap.

Donovan made a low growl as he gripped his Beretta in one hand and stepped across the bloody deck. He headed straight for Puff Cheeks, who recoiled.

Donovan clipped Schilling in the head with the grip of the Beretta.

I should have thought of that.

Schilling slumped onto his side.

When Donovan returned to me, I looked at him through my helmet’s shield.

“I understand him recognizing you. But me?” Donovan scowled as he stared at the man he had just knocked the crap out of. “Hate to break it to you.

Steele, but you have the kind of body a man doesn’t forget easily.” My jaw dropped as I looked up at him. Say what? He folded his arms over his chest.

“I think it was a natural guess, judging by your height and the fact that you’re with me.”

I gestured toward the out-cold Puff Cheeks. “We’re in deep, aren’t we?”

“Nah.” Donovan stared at the man. “We can keep him restrained.”

“How about dead?” I tested the weight of my Glock in my hand. “Can’t identify me if he’s in the big porn house on the other side.”

“Bloodthirsty little thing, aren’t you, Steele?” Donovan shook his head. “He might just be the break we need to get to the top.”

“Yeah.” I holstered my Glock and immediately missed the feel of it in my palm. “I can put a bullet in his balls, followed by one in his brain, after we get the man we’re really going for.”

I glanced at the women. “Time to do a little interviewing.” I sighed. It was going to be a friggin’ long night. “I’ll take the girls, you go after the dickheads.” Donovan stared at the women for a moment and I could sense how badly he wished his sister was one of those girls we’d saved.

Then he seemed relieved to not have to talk with the women. Like it would be too painful. He started toward the men. “You got it, Steele.”

The women looked pitiful as they slumped on the deck. I’d bet a box of Dixie’s treats and face the calico cat’s wrath if I was wrong. It wasn’t going to be easy interviewing them when they were so obviously high and dazed. More than likely we’d do our interviewing after they’d been in RED’s infirmary for a while.

I went to a woman who looked like she was coming down from the drug. Her chest rose and fell as she took harsh breaths. Fear sparked in her gaze and she tried to scrabble away until I took off my helmet and she saw I was female. “You okay?” I asked, keeping my voice low and trying to sound comforting.

The terror in her brown eyes made me feel like someone had jerked my guts straight through my belly button. “We’ll get you all someplace safe,” I said,

“and then we’ll talk, okay?”

She didn’t say anything. I didn’t expect her to. It wasn’t the drug that had her scared out of her mind. I was positive she’d been threatened with any number of punishments if she talked.

Yeah, we’d have to work on her and the other women later, once they’d had a chance to realize they were okay. This job really sucked sometimes. Most of the time. Even when we saved the women from captivity, we couldn’t save them from their fear.

One thing that kept me going on this assignment was the fact that I would help countiess women once I got to the top of that awful ladder and found out who was the scumbag running the entire show. The major player calling the shots. The other things that kept the fire burning inside me were finding Kristin Donovan, and killing every asshole involved in murdering Randolph.

March 17

Sunday, two weeks ago

The hangover from hell. Usually she was too doped up to feel anything, but right now her head felt like an ice pick was piercing her skull again and again. Hopefully it wasn’t a migraine coming on.

Kristin opened her eyes to dimness, flat on her back, and started to rub her temples. Her heart jerked. She couldn’t move. She went from sleepy to alert as she tried to wiggle her wrists and her ankles. She was spread-eagled on a soft mattress, completely naked. Warm air brushed every part of her exposed body.

These days fear only came to her when she hadn’t been shot up, and right now every organ inside her was twisting so tight it felt like she might die.

She wasn’t in a roach-infested room. She wasn’t shot up. She was in some kind of bedroom, with rose-colored walls and furniture that looked like it might be made of cherrywood. A feminine-looking room. She was lying on a fourposter bed—which was convenient for her to be chained up. Everything in the room looked rich and luxurious, from what she could see in her spread-eagled position. Kristin swallowed as goose bumps chilled her skin. The transaction must have been completed. She’d been delivered to the buyer.

And she was now someone’s slave. Sex slave.

Tears burned her eyes. How long ago had she’d been working on her graduate paper in abnormal psych at Harvard? Then one mistake. Taking a drink from a stranger. And now she was someone’s property.