Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(41)

“Belao’lè?” Cav asked. How much?

The general shrugged and swept out a hand that encompassed the entire workforce, indicating that for the right price Cav could have his pick. A woman. A man. A child.

Cav controlled the urge to shoot the twisted bastard with his own gun.

“Woman.” He pressed open palms to his chest.

When the general shared a lewd smile and dispatched his aide to select a woman, Cav stopped him again. This was the tricky part.

“Anglo?” he asked.

The general’s congenial smile turned to a frown.

Don’t want me anywhere near the American woman, do you, you slimy bastard? Carrie Granger’s arrest and sentencing had been a mistake, one the government honchos had found out about too late to fix. Now all they wanted was to hide any evidence that it had ever happened, to avoid an international incident. And, of course, to get some work out of her while they kept her alive, just in case she might be of future use as a diplomatic pawn.

“Belao’lè?” Cav repeated, pulled his wallet out, and peeled off several bills.

When the general showed wary interest, Cav added to the stack and kept adding until the general’s greed took priority over his fear of possible reprisal. After all, his commanding officers weren’t here. They didn’t need to know.

Cav drew a breath of relief when, with a crisp nod, the general pocketed the bills and nodded to his aide, who trotted toward the woman whose life wouldn’t be worth a plug nickel if this op unraveled.





Four

All of Carrie’s senses jumped into overdrive.

Something was happening.

The American—after hearing more snippets of conversation she’d decided he was definitely American—had been touring the labor camp and mine site for the better part of the afternoon. Blood pounding with adrenaline and fear, she’d made two unsuccessful attempts to get his attention, pulling back each time for fear of being caught. And now the general’s aide was heading toward her.

Her heart went haywire as she glanced at the American. His gaze was intent on her the entire time, almost like he was warning her. To what? Stay silent? Stay put? To do as she was told? What was he trying to tell her? Or, in her desperation, was she merely imagining it?

He didn’t make any gestures. His lips didn’t move. He just stood by the general’s side, quietly watching her. When the aide reached her and motioned with the barrel of his rifle that she was to move, she glanced his way again.

He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

Hope spiked to new levels of desperation.

Head down, eyes on the ground, she struggled for balance as the aide shoved her roughly down the path.

Her knees felt like rubber as she stumbled toward them barefoot over bruising rocks and blistering hot dust. Her breath was rapid and shallow. And her heart went absolutely over the top crazy when she stopped in front of him. Not daring to meet his eyes, she prayed every prayer she knew that he was here to help her, and that she wouldn’t do anything to screw it up.

The general barked an order to his aide. Her pulse thundered through her ears and she didn’t understand a word… until a harsh hand grabbed the neck of her shirt and, with a hard tug, ripped it off her shoulders.

She recoiled in shock, fighting back a scream as she instinctively crossed her arms over her bare breasts.

Someone yelled and she realized it was the aide, barking at her to uncover herself. Eyes wide in a plea for compassion, she shook her head and backed several steps away. Two guards immediately flanked her. They each grabbed a wrist, then jerked her arms away from her body, forcing her to stand there completely exposed, humiliated, vulnerable, and terrified.

“Adequate,” the American said in a flat voice.

The cold assessment in his voice chilled her, as did his eyes. His gaze raked her body like she was a piece of meat, lingering on her breasts before rising to her face. Then the bastard stepped forward, gripped her jaw, and turned her head from side to side.

“Yes. She’ll do.”

Beyond humiliated, beyond caution, and unable to fight the gathering tears, she met his dark eyes. “Help me,” she whispered. “Please… please help me.”

She received a cold glare for her efforts. “Clean her up,” he said to the general. “Then bring her to me.”

He smiled then. A calculating, predatory smile laced with an ugly carnal heat, and he shared a laugh with the general.

Revulsion gagged her as rough hands dragged her toward the outdoor shower area reserved for the guards. There she was forced to strip off her pants and, completely naked, was shoved under the solar shower with a block of coarse soap.

She was beyond mortified as the guard watched her, beyond resigned to her fate as she scrubbed her body like an automaton, then rubbed the soap over her matted hair to work up a lather. When she had finally succeeded in removing over a week’s worth of dirt, sweat, and grime, the guard shoved a blanket that felt like burlap into her hands.

Grateful, she wrapped the rough cloth around her body sarong style and secured the ends between her breasts.

As she’d stood under the spray, she had tried to prepare herself for what would come next. The thought sickened her, but she could do it. She could prostitute herself to this man and maybe buy her freedom. It wasn’t as if she had a choice. She was weak from lack of food, exhausted and sapped of her strength. He was going to do what he wanted anyway; she had to try to work it to her advantage.