Unshackle (Deliver #7) - Pam Godwin Page 0,15

to voice exactly what he thought about the disgusting operation. With Hector dead, he stood toe to toe with the new capo of La Rocha, a man who wore his authority in the harsh lines of his face. This was an opportunity the cartel’s enemies could only dream about.

But.

There was always a but.

Marco only needed to twitch a finger, and an army of guards would pour into the room. Luke had no power here. His next breath depended on the whim of this heartless slave trader.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t on tenterhooks, waiting to be gunned down any moment. The tension strung so tightly in the air he didn’t dare move.

Mexican cartels were a distrusting lot, as they should be. They had more adversaries than allies, and as a result, they treated everyone like a threat. Including their guests.

“I’m a busy man, Mr. La Rocha.” Luke expelled a bored breath as if he weren’t sweating from neck to balls. “If you have something more interesting to sell than the mannequins you’re parading around up there, show me. Otherwise, I think we’re finished here.”

Marco choked on a sharp grunt of disbelief. His eyes flared, shooting his brows to his black hairline. He huffed again and looked around, maybe to see if anyone else shared his shock. But there was only Vera, and she gave no reaction.

“Mannequins?” Marco tugged at his rolled-up sleeves. “What does this mean?”

Whiskers darkened his jaw, making his forty-something face look harsher. His tailored black pants showed wet smudges. Probably blood. The stained shirt hung open at the collar, revealing tanned skin beneath. If he’d been wearing a jacket and tie, both were now gone. What remained of his attire had been loosened and adjusted to do whatever nefarious thing he’d been up to beyond that doorway.

“He wants a lively one.” Vera looked anywhere but at Luke. “One he can break himself.”

“Of course.” No smile from Marco. Not a hint of satisfaction or trust.

Not good.

“You want a struggle? A resistant niñita?” The capo stepped out of the doorway and motioned Luke through. “Have a look. Tell me which pussy you like, and we’ll discuss a price. Or choose more than one. We’ll work something out.”

A hot ember sat in Luke’s throat. He let it fester there. No swallowing. No twitchy movements. Expressionless, he strode past Marco and into the darkness.

The doorway led to a corridor that veered sharply around a corner. Another tunnel—this one lined with rooms. Eight chambers on each side. No doors or gates.

The overhead bulbs, spaced too far apart, provided little light. Some flickered erratically, sparking trepidation down his spine.

He knew what he would find in those rooms, and given the fresh blood on Marco’s clothing, it wouldn’t be easy. Even more difficult was the looming task of choosing a girl to purchase and rape.

Any compassion he would’ve felt was stifled. Fucking a girl was part of the plan, a necessary evil to maintain his cover. So he would pick a strong one, drag her upstairs—by a collar and leash if necessary—and use her to fuck with Vera.

Glancing over his shoulder, he expected to find his cartel escort. But only Tomas had followed him into the corridor. Didn’t mean he could let his guard down. Cameras were everywhere.

No more delaying, he made his way to the first doorway.

Inside the cement cell, a dark-haired girl curled up on the grimy floor. She jumped at the sight of him, rattling the chains that connected to hooks in the wall.

“What do you want?” A sob erupted past her trembling lips. “Why am I here? I just want to go home. Please, take me back!”

“How old are you?”

“F-f-fourteen. Are you here to help me? Please!”

“Too young.” He said it for the cameras and ordered his feet to move to the next doorway.

Same story. Same torment.

Room after room, girls cried in shackles, pleading, spitting, and demanding to be freed. Some answered his questions. Others angrily refused to acknowledge him. Many didn’t speak English.

All of them wore street clothes—jeans, shorts, tattered dresses, whatever they’d had on when they’d been abducted. Ages ranging from thirteen to eighteen, they’d come from Mexico, South America, the United States, and several parts of Asia.

Sixteen girls in all.

None appeared to have life-threatening injuries. Bruises and cuts marred their skin from rough handling. But no visible blood.

He backed out of the last room and stood in the dim corridor, listening to their screams. His presence had stirred every chamber into a frenzy of