“Get that look off your face, or you’re going to fuck this up, Jaden. Keep your macho testosterone bullshit tucked away in your back pocket. You can’t save them all.”

Sasha, my childhood friend and partner in this madness, straightens her broad shoulders and heads for the desolate warehouse. No one would recognize her from years ago. Even I had to remind myself that this is the woman I grew up with. Our shared determination and a pit bull approach brought us to this terrible place—a human slave stable. Where women are sold to the highest bidder—men with enough money to satisfy their twisted depravity. We will rescue another innocent life. I hope there’s still enough time . . . before damage turns to absolute ruin. One more step toward finding and killing the people responsible for my torturing my fiancée.

I let my eyes wash over the dilapidated building where an air of abandonment masks the horror within its walls. Wind whistles through the warped sheet metal siding. I tug the collar of my leather jacket as chill fall air chases the late afternoon sun. Shutters hang askew, flapping in the wind. Broken glass grinds under our feet as we make our way through the litter and detritus. The gleaming, solid steel door looks incongruous in the desolate terrain of the industrial graveyard. I square my shoulders, preparing for the callous inhumanity we’ll find within.

I am a killer. A computer is my weapon of torture, although knives often deliver the killing blow. I rob abusers of their identity and their precious assets until they wish they were dead. Some I give payback by planting their dirty little secrets where they will do the most damage. Like dropping sexually explicit text messages to the unsuspecting wife of some rich bastard, exposing his true nature. But some need to be erased . . . period. Some might say I’ve lost my moral imperative. They would be wrong. I believe I’ve found it. I have zero tolerance for the pond scum who prey on innocent women and children. Make them suffer. Deal the killing blow . . . Walk away.

A blink is all it took for me to lose my goddamn mind and embark on this desperate path. A path where one misstep leads to certain death. All for the love of a woman. My Savannah, who was taken from me. My Savannah, who died in my arms. My Savannah, whose memory is inexorably linked to my soul. Something I will never forgive or forget.

I give my head a shake. Focus. When the tip came about the new rescue, I hesitated to accept. I have one goal—bring down the entire sex slave network that killed my Savannah. I killed the men who took her from me. Now, I have my sights set on finding Viper, the man who runs the Ontario network.

It didn’t take much for Sasha to convince me that the slimy greaseball slave auctioneer standing before us could lead us to Viper and the men who would pay for their sins. No, I’m not going to kill them. That would be too easy. Worse. I plan to expose each dirty little secret, leak every little crime, squeeze them until taking a breath became an excruciating experience. Panic will do that to the best of them.

After talking our way past the muscles and no-brain security at the door, Sasha and I stand in a damp basement room with crumbling cement walls. Small barred windows are set high on the walls, well out of reach. Exposed wiring snakes around damp rusted pipes. Dark stains that look a lot like blood decorate one corner.

Several bunk beds that had seen much better days line the walls. Women in various stages of undress and despair sit on several of them. The sharp tang of human waste, old blood, and rabid fear attacks my senses. I try not to gag. I have to stop myself from cringing as the long tendrils of their desperation try to encircle me. Sasha steps aside, her green eyes scanning the room.

The guard called Whippo locks the door behind us. I steel myself against the flinch as the lock slips home. Let me out. I push the thought from my mind as Whippo leads us to a stack of rags lying on the floor next to a molding, bug-infested mattress on a lower bunk in the corner. A small still hand sticks out from under the pile of rags, yet nervous energy vibrates from it like the voltage on a power line.

“Get up. Kneel for your new master.” The stupid bastard kicks the bundle of rags on the floor, eliciting a painful grunt. Despite appearances, whoever lay there was on the alert, ready to spring and flee at any moment.

“Don’t. Do. That.” Keep your cool, Jaden.

“Don’t tell me my job, man.”

A slim brown finger shoots up from the rags. “You’ll get your piece of me tonight and not before, you fucking asshole. Wasn’t last night enough for you? Greedy bastard.” The rage in the husky voice matches the solid defiance of the extended middle finger.

Whippo reaches down and raises a rag-clad girl into the air. Two dark eyes, almost black with malevolence, shine through cracked glasses and a mass of black curls framing a battered face. She slaps at Whippo.

“Get your fucking hands off of me.”

Something flashes through me—anger mixed with a healthy dose of curiosity. And something else I don’t care to identify. It has been years since another human captured my attention. Before Savannah. I clench my fist and release it just as quickly. What kind of fuck got his rocks off beating on vulnerable women?

Why do I keep asking myself these ridiculous rhetorical questions? I’ll always get the same answer. Rescuing sex slaves and efficiently ending the sad lives of their captors met the definition of insanity as we fought the never-ending battle against human trafficking. But something about this filthy dirty and defiant yet delicate little thing captures my attention.

Whippo pulls his arm back. I catch it mid-swing and let the stinging vibration run up my arm. The man has muscle and might be a formidable match if we have to go nose to nose.

Whippo’s head swivels toward me. “What the fuck, man?”

“I’ll take it from here.” I lock eyes with him while he debates whether he can take me. I almost hope he will; I‘m spoiling for a fight. I grit my teeth so hard I can imagine hairline cracks forming in the enamel. Finally, he blinks and lets go of her.

I meet her gaze. Her swollen eyelids almost hide the intellect and curiosity dancing behind the rage. There is a layer behind the bravado—of doubt, longing. For an absolute split second, fear shoots through those layers. Then the shutter drops, and like a solar eclipse, all light dies as her eyes lose focus. Yet she keeps those eyes trained on me while she uses her index finger to slide her glasses on her nose. Sasha tenses beside me, ready to spring. I spread the fingers of my lowered hand ever so slightly. She stills.

“Don’t know about this,” Whippo says. “Viper didn’t say nuthin’ about someone picking her up. He has plans for little Miss Destiny here. Five hundred bucks ain’t worth getting killed for. We’d better wait for him to get back.”

One thing about this seedy world, the players all have nicknames. Usually, something they think makes them sound threatening and dangerous. Whippo’s whining reminds me of a large, annoying insect. And everyone can be bought. I sigh and hand him five hundreds. “Better now?”

Whippo grabs the bills and lets go of Destiny. She stumbles to her knees. He wiggles his fingers for another bill. I clamp my teeth and hand over another five hundred.

“How old is this kid, anyway? What plans? The boss sent me here to clean her up for sale tonight.” I take a step toward Whippo, up close and personal. Something just doesn’t smell right. There isn’t usually violence at a slave warehouse, at least nothing beyond the usual slaps, pinches, and the occasional earlobe twist. They like to keep the goods in working order—the better they look, the more money they fetch. Finding a slave with such obvious injuries is highly unusual.

Whippo sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “She’s no kid, man. She’s twenty-five or so. She just looks twelve. That’s why the Viper wants her. He likes ’em young and feisty. This one spit in his face. You can’t disrespect Viper, no sir.” Whippo nods like a bobblehead on the dash of one of those hideous redneck trucks. “He knows how to break ’em.”

Viper is a sex slave dealer. Our search for the head honcho of this human trafficking ring led us to this dismal place. That and a tip about this slave called Destiny. We were close, very close—I could smell it. We’d hoped this little urchin was going to help us identify Viper and follow him to his lair. This bullshit leaves us no choice but to take her. The thing is, what we call rescue, Viper will call theft. He isn’t someone you want to fuck with. And into the devil’s gaping maw I pranced with merry feet. I give my head a snap. Now was most definitely not the time for fanciful thinking.

Sasha steps forward and runs her finger down Whippo’s arm. “Come on, sugah. You gonna get me in trouble with the man. I need to clean her up and get her all pretty. Are you sure Viper didn’t tell you I was coming?” Sasha shimmies up against him and grabs his sack. “Oh my, you really are a big boy.”

I bury the internal eye roll and hunker down, keeping my gaze fastened on the ragged woman kneeling at my feet. She tugs the moth-eaten blanket, quickly covering an orange tube top, a short pink skirt and ripped fishnet stockings. An outfit so dreadful it couldn’t be a mistake. Between the fresh bruises dotting her skin like cans of paint thrown on canvas, her skin is the most beautiful shade of caramel. I lock eyes with hers and am rewarded with a jet stream of pure hatred before she lowers her eyes. I straighten.

“What’s her story? Nobody said anything about damaged goods.”

Whippo tenses, but Sasha keeps up her steady ministrations, paying homage to his enormous ego. I was going to hear about this one. Big time.

“Look, man, I don’t know nothin’ ’bout this. I don’t want no trouble.”

I fasten my friendliest, least intimidating mask on my face and drop an aggressively friendly arm on Whippo’s shoulder. Sasha snuggles in a bit more on the other side.

“I don’t want either of us to get in trouble. Maybe if we share, we can figure a way out of this mess. I’m on your side, bud. I love this auction.” And the scum associated with it. I manage to keep a straight face.

“She goes on the block after the party tonight . . . If she lives.”

“Is this some new racket? Since when did parties start?” I thought Viper was a smarter businessman than that.

“Yeah, I know, eh?” Whippo lifts his foot in Destiny’s direction. I harden my jaw visibly. He slides the offending foot back on the floor.

“This little one’s pissed off Viper big-time. He says he’s gonna break her one way or t’other. He’s giving ten thousand dollars to the guy who gets her to beg. No holds barred.”

“Huh.” I put my nonchalant mask solidly in place. “My client told me he wants her for his stable. Better make a phone call.” I pull out my cell. If I were a praying man, I’d be expressing the good Lord an urgent request—keep Viper away from here until we get her out. As far as anyone in this business knows, I’m a dealer connecting fat cat—and usually sadistic—men with fully trained slaves. Word on the street is I train them and pass them on. Street cred and well-placed info dumps by a couple of hacker friends give me access to the cesspool called the Black Market.

Whippo reaches over and wraps his massive hand around mine. He moves very quickly for a guy who looks like a sedated hippo. But then, you learn to hustle in the underbelly where almost nothing is as it appears. Pun intended.

“No need for that, buddy. Go ahead and fix her up. Viper should be back in an hour or so anyway.” Whippo gives Sasha’s ass a hearty squeeze. He has no idea that the purring sound she makes signals her intention to maim or kill.

I grab her arm.

“We’ve got work to do.” I turn to Whippo and give him my most forbidding “get lost” look. “Thanks, man. I’ll see you on my way out.”

I breathe a sigh of relief as Whippo leaves the room. I catch the door with my foot before the lock clicks shut. We have to get Destiny out of this place. I look at Sasha, and she gives a slight nod. Ten years of hanging together twenty-four seven means we rarely need words to convey our thoughts.

Sasha holds Destiny’s chin. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

Destiny jerks her head away and glares in return. Great.

“Can one of you lovely ladies point me toward the bathroom?” Sasha says, addressing the room at large. “I got to get this little terror cleaned up before the boss gets here.”

A woman with flaming orange hair gives Sasha a look before pointing a treacherously long black nail toward the hall. “Down there. Better be careful she doesn’t scratch your eyes out.”

Sasha gives her a wink. “Thanks, hon, and don’t you worry. I’ve tamed worse than her before.” She looks back at Destiny. “Are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?” She reaches out a hand. Destiny slaps it away. “Have it your way.”

Sasha grips a pressure point near Destiny’s neck. “Nighty night, sweetheart,” she whispers. Destiny struggles. Sasha holds firm . . . eight, nine, ten. When Destiny slumps to the floor, Sasha picks her up and sweeps out of the room. “I’ll be in the john.”

I give her a few to get safely out of the building, then turn on my heel and go to mop the floor with that asswipe, Whippo. Time to pay for my latest acquisition and make my presence known to Viper. After all, turnabout is fair play as the cliché goes. I square my shoulders and prepare to negotiate. One slip, one show of weakness, and I will lose my foothold in this cesspool. And that could mean the difference between life and death.