I’m so sick of being hurt by men, and although fear plagues me, somewhere deep inside of me calls out to give him a chance.
The male, woodsy scent of his cologne fills my lungs, and I wish to drown in the smell of him, never wanting to come up for air, willingly forfeiting my life for this single moment.
Not meaning to in the slightest, I release the material at his sides and run my hands up his firm, muscled chest, gripping his large shoulders with my small hands as tightly as I can. Julius releases my lips and breaks my heart when he shows me true, unselfish affection, keeping his face close to mine then running his nose up the length of mine before returning to peck my lax lips once more.
“It’s all about us now,” he coaxes, running his firm hands down my back, resting them on my hips then squeezing lightly.
And with a short, stifling breath, I learn to trust again. “Yeah.” Because quite frankly, if I would ever want an us, I would want an us with Julius.
He stands then, placing me on my feet and giving me a look that tells me he no longer wants to leave. With a huff, he shakes his head and steps away from me. “Tomorrow, we talk.”
“Okay,” is all I say, because I can’t think with him so close.
Another step toward the door. “And you’ll tell me everything.”
“I will,” I promise, masking my surprised relief of having someone to confide in. I haven’t been able to openly talk to anyone in years. Having that now, after all this time, makes me feel equal parts nervous and thrilled.
He pauses at the doorway, dressed in all black, looking like heaven on earth. He takes his time, looking his fill, and without a single spoken word, he turns and leaves. And I let him.
“It’s all about us now.”
What does that mean exactly?
I definitely know what I want it to mean, but my hopes have been dashed so many times before, I don’t want to overthink Julius’s cryptic statement.
My mind a mess, I climb back into bed, curl up into a ball, holding myself tightly, and cover myself completely.
Not ten minutes pass before I hear the tedious sound of clicking heels in the distance. The covers are thrown off me and I stiffen, not sure what to expect. Maybe a beating, just to shake things up.
Instead, Ling glances down at me in repulsion. Looking down her nose at me, she says, “Get up.”
But I’m confused, and the words don’t sink in.
After a short minute, she repeats herself, “I said get up.”
Using my elbow to lift myself into a half-sitting position, I question her, “Why?”
With a sly smile, she reveals, “Because we’re going out.”
What?
I sit up fully, eyes wide. “Where?”
But she retreats, her signature heels clicking right out of the room.
I collapse back onto the bed and wonder whether this is such a good idea.
From down the hall, Ling yells, “Get up!”
And because it sounds more of a demand than an invite, I get my ass up.
When Ethan Black hands me the long, black baton, I blink down at it a moment before turning my glare up to him and asking, “What the fuck? You think this is band practice, Black? Jesus, give me something deadly.”
After the silence I gave as a peace offering during the eight-hour flight to the state of our target, you’d think he’d be more appreciative.
Black grins darkly and leans in to sneer, “Not on your life.”
Cocksucking jack-off.
Surrounded by men in black SWAT gear, I blend in with the crowd, dressed extraordinarily similar, but the only thing missing could save my life.
A gun.
As the truck slows to a crawl then stops completely, I shake my head. “Not feeling good about this, Black.”
Ignoring my concerns, he probes, “Is that the place?”
My eyes turn up to meet his and I let my defiance be known through the cold expression on my face.
He stares me down before asking again, “That the place or not, Twitch?” And I breathe deeply, calming the urge to break his fucking jaw.
I don’t bother looking out the window. I’ve been here before. I remember it well. “It’s the place.”
The quaint townhouse in the suburbs is modest and appears to be like any other townhouse on the block. It draws very little attention to it in the way of looks. If a person were to pass it on the street, they wouldn’t look twice at it. It’s unassuming, inconspicuous, designed for that very purpose.
The goings-on inside however… that’s something else completely.
Drugs are being packed and sold as we wait. Also being sold are the bodies of girls between the ages of sixteen and twenty. Because, as Egon Baris, owner of this house and the leader of the Albanian Shiptare, had once told me, no one wants to pay for saggy tits and a loose cunt, but men will pay surprisingly well for a playmate without an identity, a playmate that no one will miss should that playtime escalate to something darker.
Majority of these girls are brought in by the container-load from Eastern Europe, mainly from Poland, Ukraine, and Romania. The prettier ones are led by the promise of becoming dancing girls at popular US nightspots, while the plain girls are told they will be serving at some of the finest eating establishments this country has to offer.
Egon doesn’t like to drug his girls, because, A: he gets off on seeing the girls cower in fear, knowing what’s coming when a man steps into her room, and B: he doesn’t believe in wasting his product.
There are concealed, illegally obtained, military grade weapons in the basement, including those of police officers, former and present. Some of the artillery belongs to the Russian armed forces, but it was stolen by some ballsy prick without a name, a man who didn’t expect to survive the heist, and when the price of those weapons tripled, Egon paid the man without complaint, into the hundreds of millions.
Pocket change for a man like him.
Egon Baris is a known psychopath. To make matters worse, he’s a paranoid psychopath. Which likely means that from the moment this very military-looking truck is visible from the house, he’s going to panic, and he’s going to do this in an extreme way.
How do I know this?
Because it’s what I would do.
A block away, parked at the side of the road, I warn Ethan, “He’s going to come out guns blazing. You get that, right?” I pause to let that sink in then speak loud enough so the eight others in the truck can hear me. “You get the men first, but don’t take the women for face value. They might look meek and pretty, but they’re Albanian. These bitches are taught to wield a gun from the time they’re old enough to carry one and, believe me, they don’t think nothing of popping all your asses. If anyone pulls a gun, and you better believe they fucking will, you take ‘em down.” I look around at the stern-faced men who don’t bother to look back at me. Disrespectful fucks. “You take ‘em all down.”
But Black rushes to add, “All except Baris. We want Egon Baris alive. If you need to take him down, use non-lethal force.” I throw him a look that says he’s crazy if he thinks Egon will be an easy target. With a roll of his eyes, he barks out, “Listen, I don’t care if you shoot out this dickhead’s knee-caps or if he loses a hand. You just make sure the motherfucker is whole enough to stand trial and serve in prison, is that clear?”
A chorus of “Yes, sir” rings out, and a minute later, over the radio, Black confirms that the second truck is in position, rounding the back of the house and they’re ready to move at Black’s word.
The clothes I’m wearing feel restrictive, although they are anything but. It’s all in my head. The black fatigues fit well, but the thick material of the long-sleeved black shirt is heavy on my skin. Shit, I’m used to wearing silk, not heavy thread cotton. The bulletproof vest over the top of it is stifling. With a black helmet to match, I do as the others do and pull the goggles over my eyes, lifting the half-face mask up and over my nose at Black’s demand. The black steel-toed boots however… I’m keeping those.
Black’s men have three weapons within arm’s reach, an MP5 sub-machine gun in hand, and two .45-caliber pistols strapped to each thigh.
And me?
I look down at the baton with blind rage. It’s like Black’s setting me up to take a bullet.
Fuck him.
It happens fast, too fast to truly comprehend.
The truck starts and jolts forward, building up speed then screeching to a halt in front of the house Egon Baris built on sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. The men file out in beautiful uniformity, up the front steps and I follow behind, way behind. If anyone’s getting shot, you mark my words, it’s going to be a dude with a motherfucking gun, not me. Although they don’t announce their presence, as soon as the door is smashed in—thanks to the heavy breacher used as a battering ram—shouts and cries in Albanian sound throughout the entire building, along with the sounds of thudding footfalls as Egon’s men work to hold the keep.
Shots are fired as soon as Black’s men are sent upstairs. The shocked cries of the girls are loud, and hearing them beg for their lives in broken English makes me want to smash heads.