Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(102)

Melissa wails through her gag and presses her eyes shut, like if she concentrates hard enough she can wake up from the bad dream. Brad stares at me and sighs.

“You’re going to have a bad time if you try something like that again.”

He takes a good look at Melissa.

“Go to hell, Brad. If that is your real name.”

“It’s not.”

“So the church is a CIA front or what?”

“Penny, I’m not a comic-book supervillain. I’m not going to explain my nefarious plans to you while you concoct an escape. Yeah, it’s a front. We bring them supplies, they move drugs through the mountains, we buy the drugs with weapons and women and funnel it into black programs. It’s complicated and frankly you’re too thickheaded to understand how it all works.”

“You’re selling us.”

“Hell yes. An American virgin is worth seven figures to the right people. You, unfortunately, are not. If the general is tired of this one,” he glances at the other girl, “he’ll throw her to the boys and f*ck you for a few weeks until I bring him a new one. If you’re lucky, you won’t get pregnant. Then he’ll take you home and you’ll wish you were dead. These mountain tribesmen don’t f*ck around.”

I just stare at him.

“You’re f*cking evil.”

“I’m patriotic. Sacrifices must be made in the name of democracy.”

The general walks in and hands Brad a sheaf of euros. He flips through them, smiles, and tucks it, folded over, in his pocket.

“Shitty benefits, what can I tell you? I need a nest egg for my retirement. My wife spends money like water.”

Melissa stops, stares at him, and just starts crying harder.

“Relax, honey. You’ll be well taken care of. The guys that can afford to buy girls like you usually keep them for at least a few years. Missionary girl like you knows how to behave, you’ll be fine. Penny, I’m sorry, but I can’t have you getting word of this operation back to anyone, so you’ll have to stay. In case you do something dumb and the general cuts your throat by the time I come back with the next shipment, good-bye and good luck.”

Then he just…walks out.

The general follows him outside. I hear them talking.

The other girl just lies there, eyes glazed over.

“Hey.”

She ignores me.

“Hey.”

Shaking as though startled, she looks over, just with her eyes, her head locked in place.

“What?”

“What’s your name.”

“Doesn’t matter. Nobody is coming for us.”

“It matters to me. Tell me.”

“Danielle. Danielle McCray.”

I blink a few times. “Wait, from the news network?”

She nods. “Yeah. I was in Solkovia for a puff piece about the missionary work you guys do and I stumbled on Brad. I started asking questions, he promised me a huge scoop, put me on a truck, and brought me here.”

“Did they…”

“Only the general gets me. Until you showed up, anyway. He’ll probably kill me tonight. I don’t care. I’m already dead.”

I swallow, hard. I don’t know what to say.

“Don’t fight him. Promise me you won’t fight him. You don’t know what he does to girls that fight him.”

“Did you fight?”

“No. He made me watch him do it to the girl before me. He used a knife.”

Brad must be done talking, because the general comes back in.

I take my first really good look at him. He’s about five foot eight, tanned like leather, with an oily reddish beard and thinning gray hair. He smells like he hasn’t showered in a week, and his uniform, such as it is, is stained with sweat. He walks over and jabs his foot hard into Danielle’s side, and she grunts, biting down on a cry of pain.

He pulls a long folding knife from his pocket and flicks it open. It ratchets as it opens up. The blade is long and wider toward the tip, swept back like a tiny saber. He jabs it down and I freeze as he slices through the ropes binding my ankles. Melissa starts to whimper as he drags me to my feet and shoves me forward, out of the tent.

I’m greeted by a chorus of catcalls and jeers. Brad watches like he’s watching a football game between two teams he doesn’t care for, puffing out his indifference on a short, foul-smelling cigarette.

The general pushes me through the camp. I trip a few times over loose rocks and stumble forward, and his fingers dig into my arm. A quick shove sends me onto a carpeted plank floor in his tent, and he nudges me with his boot.

“Get up,” he says, in English.

I awkwardly get on my knees and scramble to my feet.

Think, Penny. There has to be a way out of this. This can’t happen. Not to me.

It’s going to happen to me. He’s got a pair of cots with thin mattresses pushed together in a crude double bed.

He steps over to me, knife in hand, and grabs my shirt. He saws through the fabric and tears it away in ragged strips, until I’m down to my bra. He repeats the process with my shorts and I feel the blade skim over my ass, cold against my skin.

He admires me for a moment. His eyes are like disgusting lizards crawling on my skin, leaving sticky trails. I want this to stop now. I want to wake up.