CHAPTER 3
A chill crept over Tate’s scalp. Aside from Cole, every person in the room had endured their own personal hell at the hands of a kidnapper. As unease vibrated between his friends, he wanted to shelter them from it.
He turned to Liv. “I can take this conversation elsewhere.”
“How does it work?” She asked Cole, ignoring Tate’s concern. “Are they trafficking humans?”
“No. Badell leads a gang that targets tourists, missionaries, Venezuelan middle class, anyone who is too ignorant to avoid Kidnap Alley and not wealthy enough to travel in armored vehicles. He grabs people off the street and gives their families three days to cough up the ransom. If payment isn’t received, the victim is murdered.”
Lucia was part of this? It didn’t make sense. How could she go from being abducted and sold into slavery to working for a man like Tiago Badell?
He was certain he wouldn’t like the answer, but he asked anyway. “What does she do for him?”
“You won’t believe me unless I show you.” Cole clicked on a video file and hovered the mouse over the play button. After a moment of hesitation, he leaned around Tate to speak to Kate. “It’s graphic.”
Tate twisted at the waist to see her face. She’d watched Josh kill her buyer and had spent weeks, bloody and broken, beneath a whip. She didn’t look it, but the girl was tough as hell.
She wrapped a tiny hand around Tate’s bicep, shoulders squared. “I can handle it.”
Cole pushed play.
On the screen, a naked man lay on his back on a concrete floor. Eyes swollen, nose busted, and chest heaving, he jerked against the ropes that restrained him. He was skinny, pale, and hard, his engorged dick pointing heavenward, and he didn’t look happy about it.
Whoever held the camera handed it off to someone else, changing the angle to show at least two other men in the windowless room. The footage stayed below the necks, capturing dust on black boots and blood stains on pants. Assault rifles hung across their torsos, their tattooed fingers resting on the trigger guards.
“Who are they?” Tate asked.
“Badell’s men. And that”—Cole pointed at the screen as a woman walked into view—”is Lucia.”
The camera lowered, keeping her head out of the frame. A tight miniskirt exposed the curves of her perfect figure, and a black bra bared her flat stomach. Her hair was either pulled up or cut short, putting all that satiny, bronze skin on display. Her shoulders, arms, chest…every inch of her was toned, smooth, flawless.
No, not flawless. He leaned closer to the image. “Is that—?”
“A scar.” Cole paused the video and zoomed in on her abdomen. “See how it zigzags like that?” He traced it on the screen, following the jagged white line from the bottom of her breastbone to her hip. “Blunt force trauma. It’s pretty faded. Old.”
“Eleven years old?” He inhaled sharply. “Is it from the crash in Peru?”
“Yes. She barely survived. Badell’s men pulled her out, and his personal doctors saved her. I know there were multiple surgeries because I’ve heard Badell discuss it with her. But the details are unknown. It’s strange, because his doctors keep meticulous medical records on every person they touch, yet there’s no record of her.”
Goosebumps blanketed Tate’s arms. “Why did his men save her?”
“From what I’ve gathered, they happened to be in the area and pillaged the crash site for survivors. Easy targets for ransom. They found her and patched her up just enough to keep her alive, only to discover—”
“She has no living family.” Tate’s chest tightened. “No one to pay his ransom and compensate him for his trouble.” His pulse sped up as everything clicked into place. “Instead of killing her, Badell made her work for him? Since he saved her life, does he think she owes him?”
“It’s more complicated than that.” Cole returned to the laptop. “Watch the video.”
When he un-paused it, Lucia strolled across the screen and straddled the naked man’s torso, facing his feet. The camera operator kept her face out of view, honing in on her hands as she wrapped them around the swollen erection.
A pained wailing sound came from the man, his body bucking beneath her. “No, please. I’m married. I don’t want this.”
She preceded to stroke him. No hesitation. No apparent prodding or force by the others in the room. It was as if she was orchestrating it.
The video panned to a black painted wall, where words had been scratched with chalk.
200,000 bolivars
72 hours
No money, he dies
“Ransom,” Tate breathed, his stomach filled with lead. “This is a kidnapping.”
Cole nodded. “The video was sent to the victim’s wife with a bank account linked to it.”
Tate was about to ask why Lucia was molesting the poor guy, but the camera angle returned to her. She stood over the man now, a pistol in her hand, aimed at his legs.
“No! No!” His high-pitched shouting crackled the speaker. “We’ll pay. Please—”
She squeezed the trigger, and his knee exploded in a splatter of red. The camera jostled, lowering the view to focus on the pooling blood and gruesome injury.
No faces. No voices. Just the man’s yowling screams. Then the video cut off.
“Christ.” Tate leaned back, sick to his stomach.
His friends didn’t move, their faces pale as they stared at the black screen.
“His wife wasn’t able to collect the money in time,” Cole said. “His body was dumped in an alley a mile away from the compound.”
“Did Lucia kill him?” Liv closed a hand around Josh’s bouncing knee, stilling him.
“No. She doesn’t do the kidnapping or the murdering. Her job is to inflict physical and emotional pain. Torture. Sometimes she rapes them. Sometimes she causes non-fatal injuries, like this.” He gestured at the screen. “When the victim is female, Lucia operates the camera while one of the men puts on the grisly show.”
“How did you get the footage?” Tate asked, his throat dry.
“I dropped a hack on her burner phone and—”
“Don’t you have to have physical access to the device to do that?”
“Juice jacking.” Cole’s eyes lit up. “I tampered with her charging port, turned it into a data connection. When she charged her phone, I copied everything she had on it, including this video.”
“Hang on.” His neck went taut. “You were in her apartment? Why didn’t you just take her?”
“Yes, I accessed her apartment.” Cole scowled at him. “I didn’t just take her, because I’m not in the business of kidnapping.”
“It’s not kidnapping if—”
“She’s not being held against her will, Tate. She makes no attempt to flee, and there are plenty of opportunities. She knows the city, knows how to evade the gangs. In eleven years, she would’ve succeeded in an escape.”
“Or died trying.” He knew that denying the truth didn’t make the facts go away, but maybe Cole had missed something. Something glaringly important. “The woman in the video… You’re certain that’s Lucia? There were dozens of women in that crash in Peru. What if you followed the wrong trail?”
Cole opened another photo on the laptop—a wide shot of a woman walking along an urban road in daylight. He maximized the view, bringing her face into beautiful clarity. Her hair hung like a shiny black curtain to her shoulders, emphasizing her delicate, ethereal features.
At first glance, she looked like Camila with short straight hair. Her huge brown eyes, warm complexion, stubborn chin—every familiar detail made his chest ache for the sister he’d spent the last six years with.
The woman in the photo had a narrower face and slimmer build. Too slim. Her bones jutted sharply, pressing against her skin. The smile he’d memorized from Lucia’s childhood photos was missing, yet her beauty remained. A dangerous kind of beauty, like if he got too close, he would become hypnotized. Infatuated. Totally fucked.
“Still have doubts?” Cole asked.
“That’s Lucia.” Tate blinked, forcing himself to look away. “But the anonymous woman in the video—”
“Has the same scar.” Cole re-centered the image, moving the focus from Lucia’s face to the faded wound beneath the cropped shirt.
Identical scar. Same toned stomach and body shape. The evidence was there, undeniable. Lucia had aimed that gun and shot an innocent without flinching.
Ice filled his veins. He wasn’t naive, and as much as he hated it, he could accept the fact she was a coldblooded criminal. The question was, what the fuck would he do about it?
“Can you still copy her phone?” he asked. “Wait. Do you have the number? I could call her.”
What would he say to her? Hey, you don’t know me, but Camila escaped her kidnapper. She’s alive and misses you. How about you come home, and we’ll pretend you never tortured innocent people?
“The phone was destroyed the day after the video was taken,” Cole said. “As of yesterday, she still hadn’t replaced it.
“The man she works for, this Badell guy… He must be blackmailing her. I mean, she’s not working for money if she lives in a slum.”
“They all live in the slum, outside of the law. It’s their kingdom, where they make their own rules. She eats dinner with Badell every night. Goes in and out of his compound freely. She is watched and never leaves the city. I’ve seen his guards trailing her, but he puts guards on all his high-ranked officials.”
She’s a high-ranked official? For a street gang? Camila would be heartbroken if she knew this.
“What about the police?” Tate rose from the couch and paced through the room. “We could turn over the video and any evidence you have against him and shut down his entire operation.”
“You’re not getting it.” Cole propped his elbows on his knees, pulling in a deep breath. “This is Caracas. The police are poorly trained, under-equipped, and aren’t paid shit. They tip off the gangs when something isn’t right, and the crime lords thank them for that service by giving them a cut of the profits.”
Of fucking course. He dropped his head back and heaved a frustrated breath to the ceiling. He needed answers, and the only way he’d get them was to pay Lucia Dias a visit.
“Tate.” Liv’s melodic voice wove around him as she stood from Josh’s lap and approached. “You need to call Camila.”
“And say what? She breathes and bleeds a passionate crusade against people like Tiago Badell. If she saw that video of her sister, it would hurt her irreparably. She thinks Lucia is dead and… Fuck, Liv, that’s better than the truth, don’t you think? I can’t tell her. Not until I talk to Lucia.”
“If you go to Caracas,” Cole said, “you’ll be kidnapped and killed inside of a week. You’re untrained and unprepared. At a minimum, you need someone with you, preferably a security guard. Someone to watch your back.”
“I’m not a security guard, but I’m good with a gun.” Liv touched Tate’s jaw, drawing his gaze to hers. “I’ll go with you.”
“The hell you will!” Josh leapt from the chair, eyes blazing.
“Josh,” she snapped. “I’ll do whatever—”
“No. End of discussion.”
Josh glared at her, and she glared right back. Tension shivered between them, a silent battle of wills. Tate was certain Liv would win, but it wasn’t up to her.
“Josh is right,” he said. “You’re not going. No—” He held up a hand when she tried to interrupt. “I’m not budging on this.”
She sniffed, turned on her heel, and strode down the hallway, shutting the bedroom door behind her.
“Shit, man.” Tate scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to cause problems. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ll enjoy the punishment later tonight.” Josh’s eyes gleamed, his smile twitching with mischief. Then he sobered, nodding at Cole. “Why can’t he do it? He knows where Lucia lives and seems to have the training to move around the city without getting killed.”
“Yeah, well…” Tate blew out a breath. “I can’t afford him.”
“Even if I were to help you pro bono—which I won’t.” Cole gave him a hard look. “I don’t extract people unless they’re willing.”
“I just want to talk to her.” Tate studied him for a moment, an idea forming. “If I approached her, would she shoot me on the spot?”
“Her guards would.” Cole shook his head. “You can’t just walk in there, Tate. The gangs decide who enters the neighborhood.”
“But you can. You rented an apartment across the street from hers. How’d you do it?”
“I know which palms to grease.”
“Then get me in. I’ll pay you to set me up in that apartment and tell me everything you know about Tiago Badell. I’ll do the rest. Just name the price.”
“It’s a suicide mission. The price is your life.”
“Train me.” Tate paced through the room, fueled with determination. “Teach me whatever I need to know to make contact with her.” He paused in front of Cole, hands flexing at his sides. “You know my account balance. Take it all.”
Cole considered him for a nerve-wracking minute before lowering his head in his hands and exhaling. “Okay.”
Hope surged. “Okay?”
“You’re a stubborn asshole.” Cole lifted his eyes. “If I don’t help you, you’ll go anyway, and I’ll have your moronic death weighing on my conscience.”
“Good man.” Tate clapped him on the back and lowered onto the couch beside him. “For the record, I think she picked the wrong guy.” He motioned toward the tattoo on Cole’s arm.
Cole looked down, his eyes stark and unblinking as he traced the inked silhouette of the woman, his finger gliding with reverence and longing. He seemed to forget himself in that private moment, his gaze turning inward and the hard lines of his jaw softening.
Then, like a flip of a switch, he curled his hand into a fist and snapped his spine straight. “Do you think this thing with Lucia will give you what you need to finish your tattoo?”
Startled, Tate glanced at his own ink. How did Cole know it wasn’t finished?
Roses of various sizes and blooms sleeved his arm in shades of black and gray. His mother’s name had been Rose, but each flower on his skin represented the women who had helped raise him at The Velvet Den. They might’ve been whores, but they were also his friends. His only family.
The cluster of roses stretched above his elbow and faded away. The artwork was supposed to blur into another image across his bicep—the profile of a woman. He always imagined Camila’s face would complete the design, but she didn’t belong to him.
As he stared at the blank space on his bicep, he knew Josh and Kate were watching him, waiting for him to answer Cole’s question. Will I have what I need to finish it? Will I have someone to call my own? He wanted Camila, and that dream was unattainable.
“No. The tattoo is finished.”
Cole rubbed the stubble on his cheek, studying Tate with those perceptive eyes. Then he looked back at the laptop and sighed. “The apartment in Caracas is paid through the end of the month. I’ll extend the lease for another month, get you into the neighborhood, train you on basic self-defense, and walk you through Lucia’s patterns. After that, you’re on your own.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t like this.” Josh lowered into the chair, perching on the edge. “Can you hire a security guard to go with you?”
“Maybe.” Tate didn’t know how much money he’d have left after he paid Cole for the help, but he’d figure it out. He turned to Cole. “Do you have more photos of her?”
“Hundreds.”
For the next hour, Tate scoured the images on Cole’s laptop, memorizing every expression, gesture, and article of clothing that belonged to Lucia Dias. Cole showed him blueprints of Badell’s compound, but other than the windowless concrete room in the video, there were no pictures of the interior. Cole hadn’t tried to breach the iron gates because that level of intel hadn’t been included in the finder fee.
As they ironed out an action plan, they decided to leave in a week. That would give Cole time to train Tate on basic weaponry and self-defense.
Liv eventually emerged from the bedroom, and about five minutes later, someone knocked on the door.
Tate pulled his attention from the laptop as Josh greeted whoever was on the porch.
“Hey.” Confusion threaded through Josh’s voice. “I didn’t expect you guys tonight.”
“I called him.” Liv approached the door, opening it wider to reveal Van Quiso and his wife, Amber.
Kate, who had her nose in her phone for the last hour, shot from the couch. Shoulders hunching, she fumbled with her purse on the coffee table. “I need to…” She made a beeline to the door. “I’m gonna go.”
“Kate.” Josh moved to chase her.
“Let her go.” Tate cast a glare at Van. “She needs time.”
“She’s had four years.” With a grip on Amber’s hand, Van approached the couch with a casual gait, his gaze clapping onto Tate. “I don’t think time is what she needs.”
Probably not, but Van’s dark baleful presence wasn’t a cure for any of them.
Tate sent off a text to his roommates, letting them know Kate left Liv’s house. They would find her if she didn’t head home.
Cole stood from the couch and extended a hand to Van. “It’s good to finally meet you in person.”
“Same.” Van shook his hand and introduced his wife.
Tate could guess why Liv called Van here, but before he asked, he had another question.
“How do you know each other?” He gestured between Van and Cole.
“Traquero.” Van pulled a toothpick from his pocket and cut his eyes at Liv and Josh.
“What did you say?” Josh whispered, the blood draining from his face.
Traquero? The name was familiar, but Tate couldn’t place it. “Is that…?”
“The misogynist prick who was supposed to buy Josh.” Liv crossed the room, pausing in front of Van.
Right on her heels, Josh looped an arm around her waist, holding her against him as he spoke to Van. “Cole helped you find Traquero?”
With a nod, Van moved to the chair and settled Amber on his thigh. The room fell still as everyone focused on the cozy position of the odd couple.
Amber curled against Van’s chest, arms around his neck, clinging to him compulsively. It was one of her many tics that became acutely transparent whenever she left the safety of their house. All toned limbs and long brown hair, she had once been a renowned beauty pageant queen and fitness model. Something tragic had happened to her, ending her career and forcing her into isolation. Severe isolation. She didn’t leave her house for years. Van said she was recovering from agoraphobia and OCD, but the rapid heave of her breaths and the way her fingers dug into Van’s neck suggested she was still as nutty as ever.
Contrarily, Van reclined in the chair with a toothpick rolling between his lips. The six-inch scar on his cheek radiated intimidation and ice-cold confidence, as if to say, Stare all you want. I’m a mean son of a bitch, and I won’t apologize for it.
Mean was an understatement, but since his days of human trafficking, he’d taken steps to make amends, like slaughtering the man who sodomized Liv.
Traquero.
Heavy silence clotted the room. No doubt everyone was thinking about that atrocious meeting when Josh’s buyer raped Liv while Josh was forced to watch. When Van found out, he went ballistic and dismantled the whole sex slave operation. Shortly after, Traquero was murdered. Passionately. They all knew Van was responsible for that gruesome death. They just didn’t know he’d hired Cole Hartman to hunt down the slave buyer. Until now.
“I always wondered how you found Traquero,” Liv said quietly and turned her attention to Cole. “I guess I owe you my gratitude.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Cole said. “I’m not in the business of murdering—”
“Or kidnapping. We know.” Tate caught Liv’s steady gaze. “Why did you call Van here?”
“You’re going to the kidnap capital of the world. Who better to take as backup than—”
“The man who kidnapped me?” The man who chained me in an attic and raped me for ten weeks? He released a humorless laugh. “Are you serious?”
“He’s not that man anymore.” Amber straightened on Van’s lap, her eyes alight with fire. “I know he hurt you, all of you, but he’s driving himself into the grave to make it up to you!”
“Amber.” Van rubbed his hands along her upper arms, the affection at odds with the chill in his voice. “Calm down.”
“No, I won’t calm down.” She climbed off his lap and stepped into Tate’s space, glaring up at him. “When Liv called tonight and told him what you’re planning, he didn’t hesitate.” She pivoted and strode through the room, stopping to straighten a frame on the wall. “He’s here, willing to risk his life to help you.” She whipped around and thrust at finger at Tate. “So don’t you dare judge him.”
This, coming from the agoraphobic woman Van had abducted and raped because hey, she was a shiny new toy to play with. Yet she was still with him four years later. Married him, even.
A shudder rippled through her, and she clutched her hand, cracking her knuckles. Pop-pop-pop-pop. Another tic.
Van reached for her, but she sidestepped him and scanned the room wildly until her attention locked on the kitchen doorway. “Did you know there are dishes in the sink? Can I…?”
“Sure.” Josh said. “Have at it.”
When Amber left the room to feed her OCD, Liv arched a brow at Van, her voice low. “Did she stop going to therapy?”
“I am her therapy.” Van bit down on the toothpick, flashing her a grin.
“That makes me feel so much better,” she said dryly.
Cole remained quiet as his gaze pinged between Van and Liv. Did he know about the history they shared? That they had a daughter together? Livana technically lived with her adopted mother, but she spent most of her time either in this house or at Van and Amber’s two-hundred-acre property. Because of this shared custody, Van and Liv had grown into an amicable, trusting partnership.
Tate shifted toward Van, hands resting on his hips. “Are you actually considering this? Do you understand the stakes?”
“Yes.”
“What about Amber? You’re willing to leave your wife for weeks, if not months?”
A dish clanked in the kitchen, and Amber poked her head through the doorway. “I’m not a helpless ninny, Tate!”
Van cracked a smile, straining the scar on his cheek. “Come here, baby.”
“One minute.” She slipped back into the kitchen, and the sound of running water drifted from the sink.
Tate moved to the couch and took the seat closest to Van, keeping his voice soft. “What happens to Amber and your daughter if you’re captured or killed?”
“Liv explained the risks.” Van sat back, legs sprawled wide, taking up too much space. “I’m not going to Caracas to die, Tate.”
Bullheaded dumbass. He pinched the bridge of his nose, warring with the emotions that always accompanied interactions with Van Quiso. Tate forgave his former captor years ago, but had he ever admitted that aloud? Part of him wanted to hang onto the grudge, because what kind of man would he be if he made allowances for the monster who raped him?
The other part of him recognized this as what it was. An opportunity to wipe the slate clean. He wouldn’t forget those weeks in Van’s attic. He couldn’t. But he could hold out an olive branch to the man.
“I forgive you.” Tate lowered his hand and met Van’s eyes. “For all of it. I mean it. You. Are. Forgiven. So take your wife home and sleep easier knowing one less person in the world wants to castrate you.”
“Yeah? Well, here’s the thing.” Van plucked the toothpick from his mouth and pointed it at him. “I’m not doing this for forgiveness or preservation or whatever rose-colored reason you concocted in your head. I’m doing it because it’s the right thing to do, and I have the experience to impact how this turns out.” He turned his silver-bladed eyes to Cole. “When do we leave?”