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Hopelessness weighed down on me. How could two small women ever get free from a houseful of violent, armed men? And that didn’t even include the fact that Cat was doped up on H most of the time and would be of little help in our escape.
I wouldn’t stop fighting, but deep down I knew we were screwed. Jag was our only hope of ever leaving this house alive.
But would he come in time? Would he come at all?
* * *
The next morning, the door opened and Raoul lumbered in. Cat was gone, off getting her dose, I supposed. He was here for me. I shrank back on the bed as the huge man crossed the room, his dark glittering eyes never leaving mine. The way he was looking at me, it felt… different—personal, creepy, dirty.
Raoul grinned and pulled a length of rope from his pocket. I was cornered, nowhere to go, nowhere to run. He grabbed one of my ankles and yanked me down the bed. I screamed and reached for the headboard, kicking at him with my other foot.
“Fight me, puta. I like it better that way.”
Raoul laughed as he circled the bed and seized my wrist. Before I knew it, it was bound to the thick iron bedpost. He grasped my other wrist and reality crashed down. When I figured out what was happening I screamed until my throat felt like it had been seared with a blowtorch. Raoul continued smiling as he tied my other arm to the opposite post, then both feet, legs spread wide, were firmly attached to the footboard.
“Don’t! Please!”
I twisted and bucked on the bed. This wasn’t my life. This wasn’t happening to me. Of all the horrific, sick, nauseating things I’d done to survive, this was by far the worst. Taken brutally against my will.
“You are quite the little combatiente, aren’t you, whore?”
Raoul reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a knife. The blade touched my throat and I froze. His arm moved quickly, cutting my shirt open from the collar to the hem. Another flick of the knife between my breasts and my bra fell apart. Two more and I was divested of my shorts and underwear. Naked and exposed, with no way to cover myself, I turned fear into anger.
“Fuck you!”
He threw his head back and roared with laughter. Raoul removed his jacket and placed it gently on the back of a chair. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and shed the rest of his clothes, carefully folding each item and adding them to the pile. I scanned his naked body and shuddered in disgust. He was huge and muscled, but clearly loved his food. A layer of fat covered his large bulk. My rapist was more linebacker than wide receiver. Dense, thick, heavy. Black hair sprouted from his wide chest and trailed down his belly. I gasped when I laid eyes on his rigid cock, surrounded by a thick nest of pubic hair. His cock was just as monstrous in size as the man himself. Vomit began to rise and I had difficulty holding it back.
Raoul dropped a meaty hand and began stroking his uncut dick. “I’m going to split you in half, bitch.” My insides shook and my mind began to fracture. Raoul rolled on a condom and I must have stared at him strangely, because he spit on the floor and sneered. “You are a disgusting whore. I don’t know where your nasty cunt has been.”
So the condom was for him, not me. I couldn’t care less why he wore it. I was just thankful for this one small mercy in the midst of a nightmare. Raoul climbed on the bed, situating himself between my legs. As he grunted and began to shove his enormous cock into me, my mind retreated into itself, leaving my body to absorb the pain. It hurt so much less that way.
I closed my eyes and allowed myself to float far, far away.
Maybe this was how it felt to go insane.
Jag
The sound of thousands of insects chirping filled the night air. Their songs surrounded the gazebo where I sat on the swing. The very same swing where Miri attempted to seduce me a lifetime ago. I closed my eyes and relived the moment, imagining her light scent, the softness of her lips on mine, the heat of her body pressing down on my groin, her small, perky breasts brushing against my chest.
Fuck. I was losing my goddamn mind knowing the atrocities she was suffering. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t fucking think of anything but those horrific images, flipping behind my eyelids over and over, burned on my brain forever.
Six days and nothing. No sign of anyone from Los Guerreros. Why would El Cuchillo kidnap Miri, pick up his organization, and leave San Antonio? Anyone, including me, could storm the city and take his territory.
He wouldn’t abandon what he worked so hard to maintain. The bastard was way too power hungry and a greedy motherfucker.
Which meant, someone was watching over his territory for him. Running the operation on the down low with minimal numbers of men on the streets. It was the only course of action I could think of that made sense. Cuchillo would never leave his area vulnerable to a takeover.
His hubris was what I was counting on. It would be his downfall, I knew it. Despite the low visibility of his men in San Antonio, they were there and my guys would eventually find someone. One was all I needed. Just one man. One man to break and I’d know where Miri was being held. I closed my eyes and prayed that Miri had the physical strength to survive until I could get her. She had the mental strength to make it—I’d seen her tireless spirit many, many times.
But would my fiery girl fight long enough? Or would she fall victim to hopelessness. Would Cuchillo break her with his physical abuse? Would I ever even find her? And if I did find her, would she be the same girl?
“Boss!” Sarge’s deep voice pierced the night air and nature fell silent. “Boss!”
“I’m in the gazebo,” I replied, distracted, my mind still fixated on my sweet Miri.
“Boss… We got one of them.”
