Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Only those connected to the Freedom Fighters knew he’d survived. Over the past month, Van had dug up some connections from his old trafficking life and reinserted himself into the underground network as an interested buyer named John Smith.
Within days, La Rocha Cartel had taken the bait.
They’d vetted and trusted the information Van fed them. And why not? Van had contacts that could only be obtained by powerful, scum-sucking rapists.
Because Van had been one of them.
He’d done a lot of atoning since then. Enough to make him seem almost… Empathetic? Accountable? Human.
It was strange to admit—no one ever said it aloud—but Van had become a trusted friend among them. A Freedom Fighter. Family.
The bastard was still a cocky prick. But Luke no longer held a grudge for the unspeakable weeks he’d been raped and tortured as Van’s captive. If he were honest, Van had done him a favor.
Luke had a purpose now, a reason to fight. Many reasons. He had friends who cared about him. Because of Van, he’d escaped a lonely, meaningless, dead-end life.
Because of Van—and the obscene down payment wired to the cartel—he was on this blindfolded ride to an unknown destination, where he would be expected to sample the merchandise and purchase a stolen girl.
For a wealthy, sexually depraved monster, it was a dream vacation.
For Luke, it was a chance to exact justice.
Silence thrummed for nearly an hour. The hood eliminated eye contact and the awkward need to make conversation, but the tension mounted. It was coming from him, knotting in his shoulders and making every second unbearable. Reality setting in.
He was on his way to La Rocha Cartel’s secret compound. Without a weapon. Without a tactical team of Delta operatives. Without federal agents who did this shit for a living. It was just him and Tomas, working outside the boundaries of the law.
If they succeeded, Hector La Rocha’s four sons and their despicable operation would be eliminated. Vera would be returned to her sister, and countless slaves would be freed.
If they failed, he and Tomas would be gutted, dismembered, and never seen or heard from again.
You volunteered for this. Trained for it. You know what you’re doing.
It wasn’t working. His heart refused to abandon its frantic sprint around his ribcage.
Eventually, the limo slowed, motoring in stops and starts, presumably through gated entrances manned by armed guards. Then the engine shut off.
“Have a look, Mr. Smith.” His escort shifted, creaking the seats as the doors opened.
Luke dragged off the hood and caught Tomas’ expressionless stare before turning his attention beyond the windows.
Parked in a massive, extravagantly landscaped courtyard, they were surrounded by opulence and money. A lot of fucking money.
Stone archways and monolith columns supported red-tile roofs that stretched between Mediterranean-style buildings. The compound formed a sprawling, symmetrical circle around him. A towering, open-air fortress, broken up by breezeways and multilevel turrets to create individual living spaces with wrought-iron balconies and stucco exteriors.
The travertine driveway snaked through a portico and curved out of sight. Patterned pavers drew walkways in every direction, leading under covered arches to smaller courtyards, lush gardens, fountains, and pools.
Less conspicuous, but no less excessive, was the security detail. Cameras and guards covered every corner and entry point. Weapons weren’t in view, but they were there, hidden under oversize jackets. Anything else would’ve made guests uncomfortable.
This was a resort designed to entertain depravity. A compound built on indulgence and the blood of innocents.
The limo emptied, leaving him to exit last. The unforgiving California heat baked into his black suit as he stepped out and joined Tomas. His gaze landed on the row of cars in the courtyard.
A Ferrari FXX-K, Lamborghini Centenario, and holy shit, that was goddamn Pagani Huayra. He blinked. And blinked again. One of only a few hundred in the world, that hypercar had taken over two years to build by hand. Look at all the carbon fiber. Complete with gull-wing doors, red leather upholstery, and a 720hp AMG Mercedes engine. Un-fucking-real.
He dragged his eyes away only to choke at the sight of the Koenigsegg Agera parked next in the line. Sexiest goddamn thing he’d ever seen. And fast. The rear wing adjusted at the push of a button for optimal speed. Not that it needed the help. It held the production car speed record of 278 mph.
His fingers twitched. Damn. This was the closest he’d ever come to touching one.
Back in Texas, he’d taken up mechanic work to pass the time between vigilante jobs. He’d learned the trade. Self-taught. Motorcycles mostly. But he’d always had a deep appreciation for fast cars.
More Ferraris and Lambos filled his view, forming a glimmering, drool-worthy panorama of rolling works of art. Every hypercar here was worth over a million dollars. Some valued at three to four mil. Whoever owned this collection was a car enthusiast, someone who shared his obsession and had the money to buy the rarest, most expensive models in the world.