Page 7 of Reckless Seduction
The image of the brunette on her knees before me has my cock twitching, and suddenly, I wish I was the one upstairs instead of my brother.
He has everything to gain from beginning her training.
The reporter, however, will forfeit everything she knows.
THREE
I am going to suffocate.
There is no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Soon, the compact trunk they shoved me in will run out of oxygen, and I will die. My screams are muffled by the makeshift gag shoved between my lips and wrapped around my head. The knot is caught up in my unruly hair, pulling painfully at small chunks. I bang my bound hands against the inside of the trunk lid, but it is of no use.
Jesus. I’ve been fucking kidnapped.
I am going to be sick.
The trunk reeks of oil and gasoline, the fumes making me lightheaded and adding to the nausea that is growing in the pit of my stomach. Damn, I am regretting drinking all that whiskey. I’m not sure how long I’ve been in here. I’d woken up to the feeling of claustrophobia clawing at my back, the only light permeating the small space coming from the dim glow of taillights.
Every dip, bump, and rolling stop causes me to whimper. My stomach churns with despair and regret as we inch closer to my demise. Where are they taking me? I’ve published enough stories on the police finding bodies of victims who’ve crossed the mafia to know it isn’t going to be pleasant.
Cement shoes.
Executions.
Exploding cars.
Those are just a few things I’ve come across.
Then there is torture, cigarette burns, iron brands.
Knife wounds so precise in the amount of pain they cause.
Are they planning on killing me? They know who I am, but only on the surface. No one knows about the connection with my family, and that will be my saving grace. They won’t try to use me for ransom to get to my father. That also means they have no use for me. A meddlesome reporter.
I think back to what one twin said. He knew about the bombing at the Ward farm. The underground of Seattle calls itThe Stables. The place where traders hide their cargo from the authorities. Elias Ward’s worst-kept secret among the criminal enterprise. It is where he stored the flesh he was looking to sell. Like cattle.
It is disgusting.
Are these men somehow involved? The bombings likely hadn’t crippled Ward’s trade. It was only one location out of who knows how many. Rumors have been flying around for weeks that, since his death, Elias’s son, Christian, has taken the reins and is looking to expand. The idiot is promising more flesh to those depraved enough to buy.
I’ve been digging into the Ward flesh trade for months. Ever since one of my coworkers went missing on an assignment. Not that anyone believes me. According to the paper, she put in her resignation and moved down south to be with her parents. Except, Lina had been my mentor and a good friend to me. We talked not only about her research into the sex trafficking ring but also about her personal life. Her parents died in a car crash years ago, and even if they were alive, they’d been abusive alcoholics. She wouldn’t have gone to live with them.
In my free time, I’ve been digging for the truth about her disappearance. Despite ample protest. Someone set it up to make it look like she left of her own volition. So, while everyone else put on their rose-colored glasses and believed the lie, I wasn’t going to. I decided I was going to investigate, no matter what.
At least, that was the plan.
Repositioning slightly, I manage to pull down the gag between my lips. I’m going to scream my fucking lungs out when he opens this fucking trunk.
If he opens the truck.
Shit. He could end up just lighting the car on fire with me in it.
The car comes to a sudden stop, the engine cutting out. There is a tightening in my chest as panic surges through me, gripping me soundly, and I struggle to control my rapid breaths when the sound of the driver’s door opening and slamming shut reaches my ears.
It is the sound of my doom.
My death.
I listen for a moment, but nothing else follows.
