Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(20)

Now, if someone asked me, I’d say three little words.

Three little words that terrified, stole my breath, and made my life flicker before my eyes.

Three little words:

I was sold.

Noise.

The cargo door of the airplane opened and footsteps thudded. My senses were dulled, muted by the black hood, and my mind ran amok with terror-filled images.

Male voices argued and my arms were wrenched painfully as someone pulled me to my feet. I flinched and cried out, earning a fist to my belly. The blow landed on a particularly tender part, and suddenly, everything was too much. I’d been so strong and it hadn’t changed my future. Tears streamed down my face. The first tears I shed, but definitely not the last.

The wetness on my cheeks wasn’t cleansing, it made me feel worse.

A cold wind whipped, disappearing up the baggy brown sweater I wore. Icy fingers of winter said I was no longer in Mexico.

I kept moving until one set of hands released and another set secured me tight, dragging me against a hard torso. “This is for Mr. Mercer?”

“Sí. Our boss hopes he enjoys this one. She’s got spirit. He should have fun breaking her.”

My stomach twisted, threatening to evict empty contents. Oh, God.

“Pas de problème. I’m sure he will.”

The French words pricked my ears.

With a harsh pull, my new captor marched me forward. I had no choice but to do as he requested. After a while, he jerked me to a wobbling stop. My rib twinged, but I stood straight and tall. Hunching would show cowardice and uncertainty. I was none of those things. The moment the hood was off, I was running.

A rope looped over my head, catching my ears through the black cloth. I tossed my head, feeling like a prized pony; a thoroughbred ready for the glue factory.

Manly voices murmured, warbling with deep tones and gruffness. I strained to hear, but the wind snatched the vowels before I could comprehend.

The screech of aircraft engines grew louder as another plane landed. We had to be at a commercial airport, but I must’ve been smuggled in via cargo. I couldn’t see anything, but I knew we hadn’t been in a cabin with soft seats and air-hostesses. It had been icy cold and dreadfully uncomfortable.

I stood, shivering, while men talked. The tears I shed froze on my cheeks, reminding me to keep my frosty exterior to survive. I had to become an icicle—cool and impenetrable, sharp and deadly.

A hand looped around my bound arm, guiding me forward. I tottered with them, blind and disorientated. The twine around my wrists burned with every jostle.

Why couldn’t they invest in handcuffs, or something not as rudimentary? After all, selling women must be a profitable business. What did I fetch? How much for a non-virgin Australian woman with an unfinished bachelor in property development?

I’ll buy back my freedom. Bubbles of manic laughter tickled. I’ll walk into a bank and ask for a loan to buy myself. Because I’m such a good investment. I snorted. Oh, God, I was losing it.

We didn’t walk far. We stopped and I stood with my heart thumping, waiting, waiting, waiting.

A sharp tug on my wrists, then I was free. My shoulders ached as I brought my arms forward, rolling, working out the kinks.

I was free.

In a wide-open space.

I could run.

Someone behind removed the rope around my neck, along with the hood. I looked left and right, investigating the new surroundings.

Three muscle men stood in a triangle around me. All in black suits, looking very Men in Black, dark haired, and rugged. The night-sky glittered with a pepper-spray of silver stars. A crescent moon sliced the black velvet. I wanted to stare in wonder.

“Get on board,” a man ordered, eyes hidden by shades, even in the dark. His accent was thick, wrapped in masculine authority. Placing hands on my shoulders, he pushed me toward a private plane.

The white fuselage glowed, looking sleek, modern, dripping with wealth. Initials Q.M. scrawled in fancy calligraphy on the tail and wing tips.

Was this the man who bought me? A wealthy owner of a jet who bought women like a pair of new socks? If he was so wealthy, he didn’t need to buy willing partners… unless… I swallowed hard. Perhaps he had sick fetishes. Liked to hurt and indulge in sadistic pleasures.

How long would I survive?

I wasn’t about to find out.

“Go on. Climb the steps.”

It’s now or never, Tess.

I bounced on the balls of my feet, pretending to obey. My body revved with energy and I pivoted in thigh-high socks. I’d always been a runner. I used to run track for school, and jogged every day on the treadmill to get in shape for the holiday with Brax.

My body knew how to flee.

I shut my mind off and instinct took over.

I flew.

The cold tarmac bit my feet as I pushed harder. Men burst into action. They’ll probably shoot. I don’t care. A bullet to the head might be a better choice.

“Arrêt!” a man shouted, followed by “Merde!”

I sucked air—it whistled in my lungs. I had no clue where I headed. Hangars loomed like gaping mouths. Sparkling lights of the main terminal looked like the gates of heaven, too far in the distance.

The words Charles De Gaulle were bright and gaudy, taunting with hope and safety. Too far. I could never run that distance. Not with the suited hounds on my tail, quickly gaining traction.