Chapter 5

Iosif met Maksim’s contact in the hotel bar. The American ex-patriot’s unkempt appearance and body odor deterred anyone from sitting near them. They conversed in low tones, keeping their words strictly between the two of them. The jittery man’s inability to sit still irritated Iosif, but he dared not complain.

“Any idea who took her?” inquired the man who asked to be called Frank, which was almost certainly not his name.

Iosif described the two men with uncanny detail. He’d always been good at noticing and remembering details. Frank grimaced.

“Man, sounds like Pedro Sandoval’s men. He is one scary motherfucker.”

“Do you know where he’ll have taken Latasha?”

“Probably to his mansion. It’s a two, maybe three-hour drive into the mountains. That’s his home base.”

“You know how to get there?”

“I ain’t taking you or anyone else there,” Frank said, raising his hands, palms outward. “The place is locked up tighter than Fort Knox. No girls that go in there ever come out. You may as well say good-bye to your wife now.”

That deep into jungle-covered mountains, the cartel leader’s home likely had no valid address. Instead, Iosif asked, “Can you write down directions? Draw me a map?”

“You’re determined to go after her, ain’t you?”

Iosif looked into the man’s bleary, faded blue eyes and nodded. Frank shrugged and said, “It’s your funeral. Got any paper? A pen?”

Iosif hailed a waitress and requested pen and paper. The middle-aged woman brought the requested items a few minutes later and Frank ordered their drinks refreshed. The Russian handed the black market arms dealer the pen and paper. Before Frank could put the ballpoint to the paper’s surface, he grasped the man’s wrist.

“Steer me wrong and I’ll kill you.”

“I don’t have to steer you wrong, buster,” Frank said with a shrug. “You get within a mile of Sandoval’s place and his men will kill you anyway. Who am I to stop you from running straight into suicide? I’ll just make sure Maksim transfers the money before I hand over the merchandise.”

Iosif released the man’s wrist and gestured for him to commence writing. The waitress brought their fresh drinks and collected the empty glasses. She glanced nervously at the man who looked like a vagrant and whose dead eyes followed her. Averting her gaze, she hurried away.

Iosif reviewed the directions Frank scrawled on the sheet of paper and repeated them slowly to be sure that the arms merchant had left out nothing.

“You got it, man,” Frank said and took a final swallow of his mescal. He pulled a phone from his pocket and swiped his thumb across the screen. Clucking his tongue, he said, “Money’s not transferred yet.”

“He will pay.”

“Damn straight he will, Joe. No money, no guns.” Frank braced his hands on the tabletop and pushed himself to his grubby feet, which were encased in frayed sandals. “When payment comes through, I’ll text you the pickup location.”

Iosif’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t even think of trying to squeeze the information from me,” Frank warned. “Better men than you have tried. I spent two years as an ISIS prisoner. You know what those bastards do to an American?”

Iosif doubted that, but he nodded terse acknowledgement of the other man’s avowed toughness. If even a small part of that was true, then he knew Frank had been tortured and the threat of death wouldn’t frighten him in the least.

“I killed every sumbitch I could when the fuckin’ Australians freed me, ’cause Uncle Sam left me for dead. Blew the whole place to hell. Ain’t nothin’ you can do that I ain’t already endured.”

Iosif nodded again. Frank took his leave. The big Russian drained his drink, paid the tab, and returned to his room to wait and pray to his wife’s God that he could save her or, if not save her, at least avenge her. Regardless, a lot of people were going to die. Soon. Violently.

Iosif looked forward to it.

Too damned many hours later as the sun dipped low beyond the western horizon, Iosif’s cell phone pinged. He glanced at it with a sigh of relief. The transfer of funds had gone through. Finally. He rose from the chair just as someone knocked on his door. He approached the door cautiously, because he hadn’t ordered room service or requested anything from housekeeping. Not making the mistake of putting his eye to the peephole and making himself a target for someone to shoot, he stood off to the side of the door and asked, “Who is it?”

“Bogdan,” replied a familiar baritone.

“Gennady,” another equally familiar voice answered.

Iosif opened the door to let his comrades inside the room. As they dumped their duffels on the floor, he said, “I told Maksim not to send you.”

Bogdan, looking a little worn, cast him a disparaging glance. “You really thought Maksim would let this go without sending reinforcements?”

“I don’t know that we’ll have sufficient weaponry.”

Gennady shrugged. “Since when have we needed firearms?”

Bogdan focused his annoyance on Gennady. “Maksim ordered what Gennady and I need. The dealer should be contacting you shortly.”

“I just received word payment went through,” Iosif shared.

“So, what’s the plan?” Gennady inquired as he rummaged in his duffel and pulled out clothing appropriate for a military excursion into the jungle. “Iosif, order something to eat. I’m starved.”

“Spasibo,” Iosif thanked them, his voice quiet and intent with gratitude. Bogdan nodded at him in solemn welcome while Gennady grinned his lady-killer smile. Iosif picked up the phone and placed an order for room service. Bogdan pulled out suitable clothes and boots for Iosif and tossed them at him.

The men changed clothes and discussed the plan of attack as they ate. When they were nearly finished with their meal, Iosif’s phone pinged again. He glanced at it. “I’ve got the pick-up information. Let’s go.”

They took the back stairs to avoid notice and followed the directions Frank provided. Iosif cursed at the time wasted on this treasure hunt, but knew he had no choice but to comply with the arms dealer’s whims.

“This is good shit,” Bogdan commented as he settled a gun belt over his lean hips and racked the slide of a pistol to determine whether it was loaded. He stuffed loaded magazines into the appropriate pockets of his pants.

Iosif agreed that Frank hadn’t sold them inferior weapons, although he generally preferred IWI to Glock.

“Look at this.” Gennady lifted a .50 caliber IWI Desert Eagle, eyes gleaming.

“I’ll carry that,” Iosif said.

“The hell you will,” Gennady objected. “You’re the sharpshooter. I’m better with the elephant gun.”

Bogdan chuckled. “He’s right, Iosif.”

Iosif sighed in acceptance and settled the .45 caliber Glock in its holster.

When they’d efficiently stowed extra ammunition on their persons and settled their weapons in place, the three men climbed into the car Bogdan had rented at the airport and refueled just before arriving at the hotel. Iosif watched the tropical scenery grow dark and thick as full darkness descended.

“We’ll get her back,” Gennady assured him, his voice quiet and sure. “And maybe I’ll get a woman, too.”

“Any woman you find there will already be broken, Gennady,” Bogdan said. “I thought you liked the work of breaking them to suit you.”

The wiry man shrugged. “It gets tiring. It might be a nice change of pace to have a woman who’s already trained. Maybe she’ll look at me as a savior instead of the devil.”

Iosif looked out the window and said nothing, although he thought that Gennady was probably correct. Any woman—other than Latasha—who survived would probably be grateful and eagerly comply with Gennady’s dark and twisted passions.

 

* * *

 

Latasha woke alone in a dark room with a pounding headache, aching left arm, and soreness deep in her abdomen and between her legs. She tried to shift and realized her wrist was handcuffed above her head. She jerked weakly against the restraint, more because she thought she should at least make the attempt than because she entertained any real expectation of success. As she expected, the cuffs and iron headboard held firm. She scissored her legs and squirmed her hips, trying to determine whether she’d been raped. She didn’t feel the anticipated stickiness of semen or blood and supposed she’d been spared that fate for a moment yet. Elsewhere, though, her skin burned. What the hell had they done to her?

Lying still because there was no use in wasting her energy with futile struggle, she heard the slap of shoe leather and the murmur of male voices. Afraid whoever was outside the closed door would enter, she closed her eyes and feigned unconsciousness. Perhaps she could put off fate a while longer.

The door opened. Latasha focused on keeping her body relaxed and her breathing shallow. Calloused fingers dug into her cheeks, pulling her head around.

“Ella debería despertar pronto,” the man said, telling a second person who had entered with him that she ought to awaken soon.

“Déjala hasta mañana. Mi esposa me espera,” the other man murmured and left.

The man holding her let go, and Latasha let her head fall back as though her neck had no bones. He grunted, turned, and followed El Jefe out. Latasha counted silently and slowly to one hundred, two hundred, three hundred, not daring to twitch so much as a single muscle. She strained her ears to listen for the slightest sound that someone remained in the room to catch her conscious.

When she felt satisfied that she was alone in the room, Latasha again opened her eyes and kept every other muscle still. She listened and delicately shifted as best she could, making as little noise as possible. Her belly growled and she stifled a giggle of hysteria. Of all the times to be hungry!

Then she noticed the pressure on her bladder and wanted to moan. No way would she be able to hold her bladder until morning. The idea of wallowing in urine-soaked bedding made her want to weep with exasperation.

Her distress prevented her from noticing the approach of another visitor until the door opened. She gasped and bit her lower lip, almost sighing with relief to see the madam’s stout figure approach.

“Bueno. Estas despierto. Te llevaré al baño y te lavarás. Entonces comerás,” the woman said as she reached for Latasha’s left wrist.

Frightened, the young woman jerked, but the older woman’s grip was strong.

When her wrist was freed of the cuff, she lurched backward, but the woman fully expected the evasive maneuver and caught her. With a sharp crack, she struck Latasha and said, “No!”

Latasha recoiled and sniffled, feeling utterly defeated. The woman yanked her to her feet and practically frog marched her from the small room to the door of another room. The madam banged on the door and shouted at whoever was in there. A moment later, the door opened and one of the whores emerged, her skin moist and pink from hot water. A torrent of heated Spanish ensued, too fast for Latasha to follow. The whore looked at her, saw the confusion and distress on her face, and must have felt a spark of compassion.

“You are to use the toilet and wash yourself,” she said in a dull, quiet tone in English accented with a Texas drawl. “There is a bathrobe in there for you. Wear it.”

The madam erupted with another torrent of angry Spanish. The whore carefully explained that the new girl didn’t understand Spanish and she was merely translating expectations. Disgruntled, the madam accepted the explanation, adding a threat that if anything else had been said, the whore would find herself thrown to the entertainment of the El Jefe’s lowest, roughest soldiers.

The two young women, one fresh and frightened and hoping for rescue and the other too dispirited and despairing to care, exchanged commiserating looks.

“Obey them,” the latter whispered, imparting one last bit of advice before walking down the hallway to the quarters she shared with two other discarded whores.

The madam shoved Latasha forward, causing her to stumble into the bathroom. She closed and locked the door behind them and pointed toward the toilet. Latasha eagerly complied, biological need overcoming humiliation. When she finished, the madam pointed to the shower and bade her strip. Keeping the other woman’s words in mind, Latasha let the satin robe fall from her shoulders and slide to the floor. The madam looked at her and clucked her tongue as she poked at the outline of the young woman’s ribs clearly visible through the cafe au lait skin. Latasha thought the madam said something along the lines of, “Too skinny. She won’t last two weeks.”

Latasha made use of the shampoo and basic white soap. Discretely checking herself as best she could, she decided she hadn’t been raped. Yet. Oh, goody, something to look forward to, her inner bitch muttered with caustic sarcasm.

She hoped Iosif was on his way.

When she finished her shower, the madam handed her a towel and then a thin, cotton bathrobe. She put it on and found her arm once again encased in the tight clamp of someone’s hand. Damn, that woman had a strong grip!

The madam escorted her back to the small room and released Latasha’s arm. She gestured for the boss’ new whore to get back on the bed. Latasha saw that as an opportunity for defiance.

She darted around the woman and dashed for the door. The woman barked out an order to stop, but Latasha’s bare feet slapped loudly on the marble floor. She didn’t get far. Ever-present guards caught her and dragged her back to the room, not missing the opportunity to put their hands where they didn’t belong. The madam said nothing while they groped and pinched and slapped her until one badly aimed blow hit her across the face. Latasha yelped anew as warm blood spurted from her nose.

“¡Paren, idiotas! El Jefe te matará si dañas su nuevo juguete,” the madam shouted over the new whore’s sniffles and tears, warning them of the dire consequences they faced if they hurt the boss’ new girl.

The two guards settled for cuffing her left wrist to the wrought iron headboard of the bed and getting a few more rough gropes in before the madam shooed them out.

The madam looked at her and said slowly, enunciating each syllable, “Voy a conseguir comida. Comerás.” She mimed spooning food to her mouth and chewing. Latasha nodded to show that she understood. The woman nodded and left, closing and locking the door behind her.

Latasha yanked her wrist again with as much success as before.

She hoped Iosif was on his way.

Shortly after the madam departed, one of the other whores entered bearing a bowl filled with some sort of grayish porridge. She sat down on the mattress beside Latasha, not bothering to straighten her robe when it slid down over her shoulder. Latasha looked once into the woman’s dull expression and dead eyes and could not bear to look again as the woman scooped up a spoonful of porridge and held it to her mouth. Latasha reached for the spoon with her one free hand, but the other woman moved the spoon away and shook her head slowly. Latasha sighed and the woman again brought the spoon close. Trying one more time, Latasha grabbed at the spoon. The girl’s mouth twisted in a snarl and she hurled the bowl and spoon to the floor beyond Latasha’s reach.

Muttering an insult against the stupidity of new girls, the whore left the room. The madam returned, glanced at the mess, and broke into a spate of angry invective. She slapped Latasha, looked at the message again, and slapped her some more. Latasha whimpered as fresh pain bloomed bright and angry across her skin. She buried her face into her arm and shrank away, but could not avoid the pummeling which continued until a particularly vicious blow struck her temple and she blacked out.

 

* * *

 

Frank’s directions proved accurate, much to Iosif’s relief. The vehicle had long since left asphalt behind and had pulled into the dense cover of tropical foliage. He, Gennady, and Bogdan smeared blacking over their faces and necks, pulled on thin, black gloves, and quietly went over their strategy one final time.

“Don’t shoot until it’s absolutely necessary. Our ammo is limited,” Iosif warned them. The other two men, who also had once served with the Russian military, looked at him with annoyance. They didn’t need reminding.

Iosif did not apologize. Slipping their only pair of night vision goggles over his eyes, he took the lead and began walking. Gennady and Bogdan crept along behind him, their progress stealthy. Gennady pointed out the first patrolling thug. At Iosif’s nod, he circled around the bored man. From behind, he clamped his hand over the man’s mouth and, with his other hand, plunged the nonreflective black blade of his KA-BAR knife into the thug’s throat. A few seconds later, he lowered the dead man to the ground and dragged him under some shrubbery. Gennady wiped the blade on the corpse’s pant leg and returned to his comrades.

Rolling his shoulders and grinning with evil glee, he said in a low, exultant voice, “Well, that was fun.”

“We will all wallow in blood tonight,” Iosif promised.

They eased forward. Iosif took out the next guard and Bogdan a third. The closer they approached, the less direct their route became. All three men knew they needed to eliminate as many opponents as they could going in, so they’d have better odds of survival coming out.

By the time they reached the wrought iron gates leading to El Jefe’s ostentatious mansion, the sleeves of all three men were soaked in blood. Bogdan looked up at the spikes topping the gate and the iron fencing that enclosed the immediate grounds.

“It’s not going to be easy going over that,” he commented.

Iosif fished in the last dead guard’s pockets and found a set of keys. He detected no lock on the gates to which any of those keys fit.

“Maybe one of the keys unlocks the guard shack,” Gennady said.

Iosif handed the keys to Gennady and took several steps back and then a running leap. He grabbed onto a spike and used the momentum to fling himself over the gate. Landing heavily, knees bent, he grunted and paused to listen before straightening to his full height. He approached the gate and reached through. Gennady dropped the keys into his hand.

“Good jump,” the wiry man complimented.

Iosif nodded and applied the keys to the door of the guard shack. Sure enough, one of them opened the door. He stepped in and gagged. The shack’s interior smelled unpleasantly of unwashed flesh, onions, and flatulence. No wonder the guard had left his post; he’d been desperate for fresh air.

“Anybody read Spanish?” Iosif inquired.

Gennady and Bogdan shook their heads. Vitaly was the linguist among them, and he was home lying in his cozy bed with his wife.

“Door, door, door,” he chanted softly, looking at the labels on the control panel.

Looking through the bulletproof window, Bogdan pointed to one switch labeled portón and said, “That’s like portal, right?”

Iosif shrugged and said, “Let’s do it.” He pressed the switch and the iron gate swung open almost soundlessly on its well-oiled hinges. Once the gate was open, Bogdan set himself to disabling the mechanism to ensure it stayed open.

The three men advanced toward the mansion, taking a zigzag pattern to conceal their presence within clumps of foliage and trees. The barking of dogs greeted them next.

“Fuck,” Gennady spat. “I hate dogs.”

Bogdan looked at Iosif and asked, “Do we kill them?”

Iosif nodded once without hesitation. He’d regret dispatching the animals later. For now, guard dogs were a danger he did not need.

With uncanny accuracy, four Rottweilers leaped from the darkness. One crashed into Gennady who struggled against the beast before driving his knife up to the hilt into the dog’s ribs. Bogdan quickly disabled one and then took on another. Iosif caught the fourth with a knife to the beast’s throat. Bogdan growled as the dog sank its teeth into his arm. Having no better option, Iosif drew his pistol and shot the dog. Gennady leaped over to the injured dog, which whined piteously, and cut its throat.

“If they weren’t sure we were here before, they definitely know now,” Iosif said.

They raced toward the closest set of doors.

The doors were works of stellar craftsmanship. Thick planks of wood tightly fitted together and banded with iron that wasn’t merely decorative hung from massive hinges built to withstand their immense weight. Practically medieval looking, the doors were latched and locked with modern hardware that yielded to three well-aimed kicks from Iosif’s booted foot. They swung open easily on those well-oiled hinges. Weapons drawn, the three men rushed inside.

The rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapons fire found answer in the heavy boom of Gennady’s Desert Eagle. The sound echoed off the bare walls, followed by shouts and screams.

“Got one,” Gennady quipped with macabre humor.

“I need one alive,” Iosif ordered as they heard the thud of booted feet racing toward them.

With military precision, the Bratva soldiers moved from room to room, clearing each and leaving blood and corpses in their wake. El Jefe’s disorderly thugs couldn’t make up for the elite and brutal training that opposed them.

“I’m out of nine,” Bogdan announced as he tossed the pistol away with one hand and drew a .357 magnum caliber pistol from its holster between his shoulders with the other. The long barrel sent a heavy bullet into the thigh of a thug. Gennady raced forward to capture the disabled man.

“English?” the wiry man demanded.

“No hablo Ingles,” the man moaned as he clamped his hands over the fast-bleeding wound in his leg.

“I doubt he speaks Russian,” Bogdan said and aimed his gun at the man’s head. He wouldn’t miss at point blank range.

“I speak English,” came a young voice from another direction.

Bogdan spun around as Gennady clubbed the wounded man on the head with the butt of his weapon. The man’s eyes rolled back and he slumped unconscious to the floor. The man would either die of blood loss or, if he survived, lose the use of his leg. Bogdan didn’t care which.

“Who are you?” Iosif asked, eyes narrowed at the youth who gazed dispassionately at the carnage.

The boy, who looked to be about sixteen, raised his chin and turned emotionless eyes toward him.

“If I tell you what you want to know, then you must promise not to harm my mama or my sisters.”

Iosif met the unflinching gaze of the boy whose dead, soulless eyes showed no emotion. Only intelligence.

“I do not hurt women,” he said, a blatant lie. But the boy did not know that.

The boy held his gaze for a moment, then nodded as though coming to a decision. “I am Pablo Ochobella.”

“I’m looking for a woman,” Iosif growled.

The boy nodded, not pretending to misunderstand. “The new girl. He said I might have her when he was finished with her. She’s muy linda for a negra.”

Iosif raised his gun. “If you have touched her, I’ll kill you.”

The boy cast him a look of patrician disgust for the hoi polloi. “I do not lie with negras.”

Iosif’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Where is she? Tell me or you are of no use to me and will die where you stand.”

“In the women’s quarters,” Pablo replied, swallowing in the first indication of emotion that Iosif noticed. “This woman, this negra, is yours?”

“She is mine and I protect what is mine.”

“Ah, so you are a man of honor,” the boy mused, a little half-smile curving his lips. “You will stand by your word.”

Iosif nodded, a single, curt dip of his chin. “Take us to the women’s quarters. We will not harm your mother and sisters. You have my word on it.”

The young sociopath searched the hard soldier’s eyes and seemed to find what he sought. With a nod, he said in his cultured, educated, toneless voice, “You must kill my father.”

Not for a moment did Iosif think this calculating boy viewed his father as a monster. That would have required emotion. He thought, perhaps, the boy considered his father nothing more than an obstacle. But he asked anyway, “Why do you want to see your father dead?”

With a shrug of his slender shoulders, the boy waved at the three intruders to follow him and he answered, “One of my sisters defied him, so he threw her to the soldiers to use. I have affection for my mama and sisters.” He paused and saw that the very dangerous man who’d mowed down his father’s soldiers did not look convinced by his mild display of concern. If he wanted their help, he’d have to be honest and deal with them honorably. He added to his explanation, “And he disregards my advice. This is my inheritance, my empire, and it has come time for me to take it. You are my best opportunity.”

“And will you toss your sisters out like so much garbage if they defy you?” Bogdan asked, breaking his listening silence.

“Of course, not. They’re much too valuable. I have promised my older sister to Enrique Águilagris. He will ally his family to mine, and we shall be as powerful as kings. Papá does not agree because Enrique is Colombian.”

Gennady raised an eyebrow. The calculating boy had made an advantageous alliance. The Águilagris cartel’s power and reach rivaled the biggest cartels in Central and South America—they were just less flagrant about it.”

They heard more booted feet coming toward them.

The three Bratva men flanked the boy. Gennady aimed his gun at the boy’s back, while Iosif and Bogdan held their weapons at the ready.

“¡No disparen!” Pablo shouted as his father’s men advanced. “¡Papá!”

The thugs skidded to a stop and lowered their weapons. A deep male voice, cultured and commanding, demanded, “¿Qué está pasando?”

The six men stepped aside to make way for the dapper gentleman who owned them. His eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed with suspicion. In rapid Spanish, he asked, “Pablo, why are you not with your mother and sisters, protecting them?”

“Why should I protect them when you do not?” the boy shot back, a half-smile gracing his expression and his tone light and conversational.

Watching the boy closely, Iosif thought he saw a flicker of emotion cross the boy’s face. He supposed that this strange, creepy boy genius loved perhaps one person. He hoped that aberration of emotion would work in his favor.

Darting a coldly furious glance at the three foreigners who’d left destruction in their wake, the older man frowned. “Are you still upset about Marisola?”

“She only wanted to go to school.”

“Bah!” El Jefe dismissed the boy’s words with a wave of his hand. “What use have women for education? Their duty is to spread their legs and give us sons.”

“Luís Roblesagrado’s sister went to university, and she now uses her knowledge to breed better, more powerful strains of coca for his family. Marisola could have done likewise. Or perhaps you could have used her to ally with another powerful family. She was pretty enough.”

“You do not think like a businessman, Pablo.” El Jefe looked at the men who held his son at gunpoint. They obviously weren’t Costa Rican. In thickly accented English he said, “What do you want? I will give you whatever you want if you return the boy to me. Now.”

“The boy has already promised me what I want,” Iosif answered. “And he did not take what belonged to me first.”

“The negra,” El Jefe muttered in realization. Full lips thinned as they stretched in a wide, cruel smile. He said, “She is deliciosa.”

“Svin'ya,” Iosif growled and shot him.

El Jefe gaped in surprise that this pale foreigner had dared shoot him. He looked down at the red blossoming on his chest and sank to his knees. A second later, his last breath gurgled from his open mouth and he fell over.

“¡Sostener!” Pablo barked as his father’s best men tightened their fingers on the triggers of their automatic weapons. They glared at him, but obeyed and held their fire.

“Debes tu lealtad a mí ahora,” the boy said, commanding their loyalty and obedience like a feudal lord.

One by one, each of his father’s best guards bowed their heads and murmured, “Sí.”

“Bien.” Pablo looked to Iosif and said, “They are mine. They will lead you to the women’s quarters.”

“They will lead us to the women’s quarters,” Iosif corrected him. “You will come with us.”

The boy’s nose wrinkled in distaste, but he understood these warriors’ distrust. He nodded and said in a quiet voice, “You speak English, but not like Americans.”

“We are Bratva,” Gennady said, hoping the mention would garner some respect.

The boy’s eyes glinted with realization and the possibility of a profitable alliance. The skill and command that imbued these three men impressed him. He could use men like this. He looked at Gennady and considered the man. The man met his gaze with dispassion chilled by contempt. No, that one would not do. He looked toward Iosif. No, that one was stiff with honor; he would not take a mistress. But the third, whose dark eyes held the glint of passion, was a possibility.

“Come with me,” Pablo ordered and began walking. In Spanish, he ordered the men who just a moment ago guarded his father, “Fetch my mother and sisters. Have them meet us in the women’s quarters.”

The men nodded and turned around to obey their young master’s orders.

Iosif, Gennady, and Bogdan accompanied the boy.

“The boy’s up to no good,” Gennady muttered, making sure to speak in Russian.

“He’s a cold one,” Bogdan agreed.

Pablo led them through long corridors in the huge, sprawling mansion until they came to a set of locked doors. The boy stopped and pounded on the door. A muttered inquiry filtered through the heavy wood. The young master replied, his voice ringing with authority. The door opened to show a heavyset, middle-aged woman. The boy spoke again, a terse command. The woman nodded and muttered, keeping her eyes averted. She turned on her heel and walked away.

The men followed her into a large room scattered with sofas and low tables, floor pillows and thick rugs. None of them sat.

The high-toned murmur of feminine voices tinged with fear soon carried into the room. The four males watched without expression as women in various states of undress entered the room.

“My wife is not among them,” Iosif said.

“You are certain we have her?” the boy asked, his tone almost flippant.

Gennady pressed the muzzle of his gun against the back of Pablo’s head.

“I will search for her myself,” Iosif said. “If I do not return in ten minutes, kill him.”

Gennady nodded and smiled. The expression made the madam flinch with terror.

“¡No! La chica está aquí. Ella está durmiendo. No puedo despertarla,” she babbled.

Pablo frowned and gestured with his hand. He barked an order at the woman, who turned gray with terror, and then said to Iosif, “She says your wife is sleeping and will not wake. Go with her. She will lead you to your woman.”

Iosif nodded and gestured with the muzzle of his gun for the woman to go ahead of him. She nodded and fairly scampered. Iosif followed her down a long, bare corridor. He peaked through each open door, seeing small rooms filled with narrow, rumpled beds. Handcuffs dangled from the headboards. Some of the beds were occupied with some of the occupants showing signs of recent… use. The woman stopped in front of a closed door and opened it. Iosif approached with caution. He gestured for the woman to enter the room. She blinked and obeyed without protest. He followed her inside.

A low growl erupted from his throat. Head lolling, mouth slack, eyes closed, and one hand anchored above by the wrist cuffed to the iron headboard, Latasha lay. The flimsy cotton robe she wore had gone askew, revealing taupe skin, the dusky tip of one breast, and a newly bared mound. After vowing never, never to undergo another waxing again, she’d let the pubic hair begin to regrow. In truth, Iosif didn’t mind a grown woman’s hair. Smooth, hairless bodies reminded him of very young children, which real men nurtured and protected, not abused. Growling wordlessly again, Iosif grabbed the woman’s arm as she attempted to sidle back out of the room. She squawked and he squeezed the plump limb with punishing cruelty. The squawk turned into a whimper of pain.

Uncaring of the madam’s discomfort, he dragged her to the bedside and pointed the muzzle of his gun at the cuffs, then turned it toward the woman.

“Uncuff her,” he ordered.

Although the madam appeared to speak no English, she did understand what he meant. With her free hand, she dug into a pocket and pulled out the key to the cuffs. Iosif released her arm and glared at her, the gun’s muzzle never wavering direction. The madam’s hands trembled as she unfastened the cuffs. Once released, Latasha’s arm flopped down. The flesh where her limb had hung from the cuff was red and raw. His fingertip lightly traced the bruising and swelling on her face and the goose egg on the side of her head. His eyes scanned the rest of her exposed skin and a low growl rumbled in his chest at the sight of the beating she had endured. He turned to the older woman who averted her eyes and trembled in terror. The pungent smell of urine drew his gaze to the wet stream that trickled down her leg and puddled at her feet.

Iosif knew that this awful woman had contributed to his wife’s current miserable state; however, he could not specify how. Until he could, he would not kill her. However, the woman looked up and must have seen the murderous intent in his eyes, because her own watered and she began to babble at him, pleading for mercy most likely.

“Go!” Iosif barked at the madam.

Terrified, the woman turned on her heel and ran. Her departure gave him the seconds needed to draw the robe more securely around Latasha’s body before hoisting her in a fireman’s carry over his shoulder. Doing so required the use of both hands, so he was forced to set down the gun for those precious seconds. As soon as Latasha’s body had settled into place and he could hold her securely with one arm, Iosif retrieved his gun and headed back to the lounge where Gennady, Bogdan, and Pablo waited.

When he returned, the former kingpin’s guards had joined the other three. The half to mostly naked whores clustered on one side of the room. Three well-dressed and frightened women, who were obviously the sheltered mother and sisters to the new chief, stood in a small group flanked by the guards. Iosif took it all in with a sweeping glance, even noticing Bogdan’s apparent fascination with one of the boy’s sisters.

“Valentina,” Pablo called. He’d noticed, too.

A young woman who appeared to be eighteen or nineteen years old looked at him, eyes wide and startled.

“Step forward.”

Trembling, the girl did as ordered. Pablo turned his attention to Bogdan and asked, “Do you have a wife?”

“No,” the man answered as he stared at the caramel-skinned, doe-eyed beauty whose soft, luscious curves made his hands itch. Urges to protect, savor, and cherish her ignited like tinder.

“She is beautiful, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Your Bratva is well-disciplined, strong. I would ally with such. Take her for your wife and ally your Bratva with the Ochobella.”

The young woman flashed frightened eyes to her brother and pleaded in Spanish, “Pablo, no. This man is a brute. Please do not do this to me.”

Replying to his sister in their native language, the young man said, “He will treat you with honor and the alliance with this Bratva will make our family even more powerful. You will do as I say.”

“Papá?”

“I am El Jefe now.”

The young woman turned pale and she swayed on her feet. The guard closest to her reached out to steady her. Pablo leveled his cold, emotionless gaze at Bogdan and said, “You will treat her kindly and hold to your honor with me.”

Bogdan nodded.

“Bueno,” the boy said with a nod of his own. “My pilot will take you back to America as soon as you and Valentina are married.” He looked at Iosif and added, “You are my guests tonight. I vouch for your safety.”

He glanced at Gennady, who still held his gun close to his head in an unwavering grip.

“You may have one of them if you want,” he said, gesturing toward the whores.

Gennady glanced at the women. None of them met his dark gaze. Most of them cowered, all appearing too broken even for him, until a woman with tawny hair met his gaze. Her lips peeled back from her teeth in what was definitely not a smile. That one, he thought, might do. She might not be too defeated for pleasure. Then he looked back at Pablo and asked. “Which is your favorite?”

A red tinge stained the young man’s swarthy cheeks, and he just shook his head. Gennady blinked once, understanding the boy’s dilemma. In a culture that placed tremendous emphasis on heterosexual machismo, this young man was grossly out of place.

“Set them all free,” Iosif said.

“Why? They are whores,” Pablo retorted, his upper lip curled in a sneer.

“None of them asked to live this life your father imposed upon them. They were not whores until he had them brought here,” Iosif reasoned. “Let them go, and they need not be whores any longer.”

The boy thought it over and shrugged. “I have no use for them.” To Gennady, he said, “Pick one. She is yours.” He turned to face his men and asked which were married. Of the six, four indicated they had wives. “You two,” he said with a flick of his fingers. “You may each pick a favorite to keep. The rest will be taken into town and released.”

Gennady approached the tawny-haired woman and asked in a low, quiet tone so as not to be overheard, “Do you speak English?”

She gulped and nodded, light brown eyes wide with both fear and loathing. The flesh around her right eye and cheek was swollen and bruised. He could see other dark bruises on her body revealed by the thin, tattered robe she wore.

“Do as I say and you will have your freedom.”

She nodded and averted her eyes.

“I require obedience. Always.”

She nodded.

“I will not harm you,” he said, meaning that he would not cause any permanent damage to her body. His eyes narrowed, the corners crinkling, and he smiled, becoming almost charismatic. “You will enjoy what I do to you, and perhaps you may not want your freedom.”

Eyes still averted, she nodded again. Satisfied that he’d found a submissive who would keep him entertained for a good long while, Gennady gently took her by the arm and walked her back over to where Iosif, Pablo, and Bogdan stood.

The two unmarried guards looked uncertain, but approached the cluster of frightened women and looked them over. After a long moment, both had picked one for each of them. The other four guards then herded the women out of the room.

“Are you satisfied?” Pablo inquired with an arrogant lift of one eyebrow.

“Yes,” Iosif replied.

“Bueno. We will adjourn to the family quarters. I will summon the priest tomorrow. We will celebrate my sister’s advantageous marriage, and then you may return home.”

They followed Pablo, his mother, and his three sisters through the mansion to the elegant and comfortably furnished family quarters.

“Bogdan, stay with him to ensure his honor,” Iosif ordered after Pablo directed him to an empty, luxuriously appointed guest room.

“You don’t trust me,” the patricidal boy observed aloud, not needing to understand Russian to know why the fierce looking Bratva man to whom he’d promised his own sister refused to leave his side.

“We are cautious,” Iosif replied.

Pablo nodded and said, “Of course. You shall see that my word is good and then we shall all be allies.”

Iosif nodded once and silently wondered what Maksim would make of this strange turn of events.