Jagger (Broken Doll Book 2) Read online

  Yesterday, Cuchillo sent a video of him and some dude named Raoul—a soon to be dead man whom I assumed was second in command. Raoul Quintero, a nasty son of a bitch with a sadistic streak that rivaled Milo’s, systematically beat and tortured Miri alongside Cuchillo. When the clip ended, I couldn’t see straight. Screaming, I hurled my laptop against the bulletproof windows. The glass held but the flimsy machine burst into a dozen pieces on impact. I didn’t stop there. No fucking way. It wasn’t nearly enough to extinguish the anger and hurt and guilt expanding inside my body until I felt as if I might explode from the pressure.

  By the time my vision cleared and my mind snapped out of the murderous haze, whatever had been left in my office was torn to shreds. Every last item was either broken or damaged. Chest heaving and eyes stinging with unshed tears, I barely made it to the kitchen before I fell the fuck apart.

  Too many feelings assaulted me at once: anger, fear, guilt, loss, fucking failure. Miri was embedded too deep in my heart for me to have any chance of keeping emotions out of the equation. Jag and Boss no longer existed as separate entities. The two men had merged into one—lover and criminal, fire and ice, passion and violence. They wove around each other, tangled until there was no way to tell where one man ended and the other began.

  “Boss.” I spun wildly at the voice, fists ready to strike out at anything to quell the fury clawing at my insides. “Whoa!” Milo put his hands up in surrender. “It’s just me, Boss.”

  I cracked my neck and inhaled deep several times until I was calm enough to hold some semblance of a conversation without ripping Milo’s throat out and stomping on his remains.

  “Tell me your men found something, Milo.”

  Milo didn’t have to speak. The uneasy look on his face and the fact that he took a step back said it all. I had every last man on my payroll—from dealers to restaurant managers, to the people who cut my heroin—out on the streets looking for members of Los Guerreros. Not a single one of those little fuckers could be found anywhere. They all just up and fucking vanished, every last one of them. Los Guerreros businesses and warehouses were abandoned. Their dealers vanished from street corners.

  It was as if El Cuchillo and Los Guerreros never existed in San Antonio.

  “Fuuuuuck!” I tore at my hair and let out a primal roar. I was about to grab a kitchen chair and hurl it across the room when Sarge came through the French doors from the backyard.

  “Boss.” I turned to my head of security and dropped my arms to my sides, knowing what was coming just from the look on his face. “We got another email.”

  * * *

  Sarge and Milo followed me into the backyard to the pool house that served as headquarters for security. Every step toward the small structure was like moving closer and closer to the gates of hell. My feet were lead bricks, my heart slamming against my ribcage. Sweat beaded my brow and the back of my neck, soaking my shirt, but right now I could give a fuck about my clothes. When we entered the main room, Sarge indicated I should take the seat in front of the wall of monitors.

  Oh fuck. I wasn’t sure I could do this again. My muscles locked in place.

  “No. I’ll stand.”

  No way could I sit through whatever sick shit I was about to see. I’d be lucky if I made it to the end of the video, period. Bracing myself, I gripped the back of the chair for support while Sarge tapped on the keyboard. The center screen lit up with an email attachment. The little arrow moved over the paper clip symbol.

  Click, click.

  The attachment opened and filled the screen. An hourglass spun an excruciatingly long time, and a video began to play. Oh fuck. Bile gurgled in my stomach.

  Miri. My sweet, tiny, precious doll. Bound to the same chair as yesterday.

  My throat constricted and my hands tightened on the headrest of the leather chair. My fingers pressed deep into the cushion and I wished I had claws so I could tear the fucking thing apart. Miri’s gorgeous green eyes were reduced to reddened slits, the swollen skin around them a hideous shade of black and blue. Miri’s soft, pink lips were dry and cracked. Split by crusted scabs. Her creamy throat was an angry reddish-purple where Cuchillo choked her on camera.

  “I’m going to kill that motherfucker!”

  “Want me to stop it, Boss?” Sarge’s finger hovered over the pause button, waiting for my command.

  “No. If Miri had to suffer through the torture and beating, I owe it to her to suffer by watching.”

  The video was much the same as the previous one. The two men would slap, choke, and abuse my poor Miri. Tears dripped down her cheeks and muffled cries escaped around the cloth in her mouth. I focused on her face and held my breath. There. In her eyes. I caught a glimpse of my little fighter. The bastards hadn’t broken her, not yet. After each blow, my doll held her chin up high, and from what I could see of her puffy eyes, they still had that fiery spark I loved so much.

  They didn’t break my Miri.

  They wouldn’t break me.

  I would break them.

  More cries and slaps echoed from the speakers. I nearly lost it when Cuchillo’s hand snaked down and squeezed Miri’s breast.

  Yes, I would break them. Every last motherfucking one of them. And I would enjoy each fucking minute of it. The longer it took for them to die, the better.

  4

  Miri

  Except for the hour or so I spent strapped to a chair in front of a camera each day, I was left with Cat in the locked bedroom. It wasn’t fancy, but it wasn’t the cold, damp basement. Besides, this room was still better than ninety percent of the places I’d slept in my life over the last three years.

  The fact that my captors left me in a room with Cat was good and bad. Bad, because it meant Cat had been trapped here for almost a full year. Those sick bastards obviously had no problem holding us here indefinitely. Good, because I finally found my best friend. Though it seemed very little of Cat remained in the hollow shell of a woman. She was like a walking corpse.

  “Cat, you have to stop taking the drugs.” I gazed into her empty brown eyes and knew from experience I was wasting my time.

  I might be free from heroin’s nasty hold, but I remembered all too clearly how horrible it was when I didn’t get my hit. The nausea, the burning skin that felt too tight, the itchy, restless legs, and the horrific stabbing stomach pains. Without Jag, I may never have untangled myself from the addiction that ran every part of my life, from where I lived to who I had sex with.

  “I miss you, Miri,” Cat said. Tears leaked from her eyes and her mouth pinched in the corners. She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I-I can’t leave. I need my dose, Miri. I need it!” Cat was on her way to becoming hysterical, her voice rising sharply.

  “Shhhhh.” I pulled her close and ran my fingers through her dull, limp hair. “I know you do, Cat. I can get you plenty of drugs. We just have to get out of here. I know someone who has more than enough heroin and you won’t have to have sex with him to get it.”

  Even though that was exactly what you used to do, and what you did with Jag, Miri, you hypocrite.

  Although, when I thought about it, Jag didn’t actually touch me until I was completely off the heroin. Except for that horrific dinner party. I suppressed a shudder. I didn’t like what he did, but I understood Jag’s reasons for what happened that night and forgave him a long time ago.

  Cat pulled back and her eyes brightened some. “You can get me H?”

  “Yes,” I nodded emphatically. “He gave it to me. I know he has it and I know he’d give it to you.”

  My best friend deflated in front of my eyes. “There’s no way out of here, Miri. I’ve tried… when I wasn’t…” Her cheeks flushed, putting much-needed color in her pasty skin. “When I first got here. Before I was dependent on the drugs. I tried to get away. There are men everywhere and…”

  “And what? Cat?”

  She trembled and closed her eyes. “If you try to escape, whoever… whoever catches you gets to
… gets to…” She sobbed and the tears poured from her eyes. “They throw you down and fuck you right there with the others watching. And it’s allowed, Miri. I stay in here so no one can find me. Except for… you know, the main one.”

  “El Cuchillo?”

  “Yeah, him and his giant bodyguard. They come in whenever they want.” Cat straightened up and her eyes flew open, scanning me up and down. “Did they… you know, to you?”

  I shook my head. “No.” I had wondered why I hadn’t been raped yet, not that I wasn’t glad no one had touched me. It was just that I knew exactly what misogynistic assholes like Cuchillo did to women and what they thought of us.

  Cat leaned close to whisper. “I think there might be other women in the house, Miri.”

  “Other women?”

  “Shhhhh.” Cat motioned for me to be quiet. “Yes. Sometimes, usually at night, I hear car doors closing outside. Once, I saw a couple men carrying unconscious women, girls really, into the house. I’ve heard them cry.” She pointed to the air vent above the bed. “The noises come from there.” Cat shook her head. “But the next day, it’s quiet. They’re always gone after one night.” Cat began sobbing again and covered her face with her hands. “I want to get out of here, Miri. I can’t… I can’t… Before you showed up I was about two days from breaking the bathroom mirror and ending the pain.”

  “Oh, Cat.” I held her face in my hands and cried with her. For her, for me, for our lost childhoods and broken dreams. For everything that was stolen from us by cruelty and circumstance and sick, greedy men.

  We must have fallen asleep and been out a while, because I woke to darkness. Next to me on the bed, Cat was moaning and twisting restlessly in her sleep. She was close to needing another dose. I recognized the symptoms easily enough. While she continued her fitful sleep, I wandered around the room, looking for something, anything, to use as a weapon or a way out. Cat mentioned the bathroom mirror. We could easily break it and use the shards as knives, but the reality was, neither of us was strong enough to attack anyone at such close quarters.

  I checked each and every window. Cat said they were reinforced. She had tried breaking one her first day imprisoned here and told me the glass didn’t crack. Not even when she threw a lamp at one. Instead, the guard simply told his boss about the destroyed lamp and her escape attempt. She was punished in a way Cat refused to discuss.

  Hopelessness weighed down on me. How could two small women ever get free from a houseful of violent, armed men? And that didn’t even include the fact that Cat was doped up on H most of the time and would be of little help in our escape.

  I wouldn’t stop fighting, but deep down I knew we were screwed. Jag was our only hope of ever leaving this house alive.

  But would he come in time? Would he come at all?

  * * *

  The next morning, the door opened and Raoul lumbered in. Cat was gone, off getting her dose, I supposed. He was here for me. I shrank back on the bed as the huge man crossed the room, his dark glittering eyes never leaving mine. The way he was looking at me, it felt… different—personal, creepy, dirty.

  Raoul grinned and pulled a length of rope from his pocket. I was cornered, nowhere to go, nowhere to run. He grabbed one of my ankles and yanked me down the bed. I screamed and reached for the headboard, kicking at him with my other foot.

  “Fight me, puta. I like it better that way.”

  Raoul laughed as he circled the bed and seized my wrist. Before I knew it, it was bound to the thick iron bedpost. He grasped my other wrist and reality crashed down. When I figured out what was happening I screamed until my throat felt like it had been seared with a blowtorch. Raoul continued smiling as he tied my other arm to the opposite post, then both feet, legs spread wide, were firmly attached to the footboard.

  “Don’t! Please!”

  I twisted and bucked on the bed. This wasn’t my life. This wasn’t happening to me. Of all the horrific, sick, nauseating things I’d done to survive, this was by far the worst. Taken brutally against my will.

  “You are quite the little combatiente, aren’t you, whore?”

  Raoul reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a knife. The blade touched my throat and I froze. His arm moved quickly, cutting my shirt open from the collar to the hem. Another flick of the knife between my breasts and my bra fell apart. Two more and I was divested of my shorts and underwear. Naked and exposed, with no way to cover myself, I turned fear into anger.

  “Fuck you!”

  He threw his head back and roared with laughter. Raoul removed his jacket and placed it gently on the back of a chair. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and shed the rest of his clothes, carefully folding each item and adding them to the pile. I scanned his naked body and shuddered in disgust. He was huge and muscled, but clearly loved his food. A layer of fat covered his large bulk. My rapist was more linebacker than wide receiver. Dense, thick, heavy. Black hair sprouted from his wide chest and trailed down his belly. I gasped when I laid eyes on his rigid cock, surrounded by a thick nest of pubic hair. His cock was just as monstrous in size as the man himself. Vomit began to rise and I had difficulty holding it back.

  Raoul dropped a meaty hand and began stroking his uncut dick. “I’m going to split you in half, bitch.” My insides shook and my mind began to fracture. Raoul rolled on a condom and I must have stared at him strangely, because he spit on the floor and sneered. “You are a disgusting whore. I don’t know where your nasty cunt has been.”

  So the condom was for him, not me. I couldn’t care less why he wore it. I was just thankful for this one small mercy in the midst of a nightmare. Raoul climbed on the bed, situating himself between my legs. As he grunted and began to shove his enormous cock into me, my mind retreated into itself, leaving my body to absorb the pain. It hurt so much less that way.

  I closed my eyes and allowed myself to float far, far away.

  Maybe this was how it felt to go insane.

  Jag

  The sound of thousands of insects chirping filled the night air. Their songs surrounded the gazebo where I sat on the swing. The very same swing where Miri attempted to seduce me a lifetime ago. I closed my eyes and relived the moment, imagining her light scent, the softness of her lips on mine, the heat of her body pressing down on my groin, her small, perky breasts brushing against my chest.

  Fuck. I was losing my goddamn mind knowing the atrocities she was suffering. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t fucking think of anything but those horrific images, flipping behind my eyelids over and over, burned on my brain forever.

  Six days and nothing. No sign of anyone from Los Guerreros. Why would El Cuchillo kidnap Miri, pick up his organization, and leave San Antonio? Anyone, including me, could storm the city and take his territory.

  He wouldn’t abandon what he worked so hard to maintain. The bastard was way too power hungry and a greedy motherfucker.

  Which meant, someone was watching over his territory for him. Running the operation on the down low with minimal numbers of men on the streets. It was the only course of action I could think of that made sense. Cuchillo would never leave his area vulnerable to a takeover.

  His hubris was what I was counting on. It would be his downfall, I knew it. Despite the low visibility of his men in San Antonio, they were there and my guys would eventually find someone. One was all I needed. Just one man. One man to break and I’d know where Miri was being held. I closed my eyes and prayed that Miri had the physical strength to survive until I could get her. She had the mental strength to make it—I’d seen her tireless spirit many, many times.

  But would my fiery girl fight long enough? Or would she fall victim to hopelessness. Would Cuchillo break her with his physical abuse? Would I ever even find her? And if I did find her, would she be the same girl?

  “Boss!” Sarge’s deep voice pierced the night air and nature fell silent. “Boss!”

  “I’m in the gazebo,” I replied, distracted, my mind still fixated on my sweet Miri.<
br />
  “Boss… We got one of them.”

  “Are you fucking with me?” Sarge shook his head. “Holy shit.” I couldn’t get to my feet fast enough. My pulse raced as hope flowed through my veins. “Where did they bring him?”

  “Location three, Boss.”

  I didn’t have to see the grin on Sarge’s face to hear the excitement in his voice. “You’re coming with me, right?”

  He chuckled, a dark, sinister sound. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

  * * *

  As Frank pulled up to my recently purchased nightclub, I briefly wished I had taken the time to change into one of my suits. My suits made me feel more powerful, made my presence larger and more intimidating to those around me. Especially my enemies.

  I chided myself for worrying about fucking clothes at a time like this, but old habits die hard. As much as my skin itched, there was no way I was wasting precious minutes changing. I wanted my hands on the piece of shit my men picked up so badly my fingers twitched. I wanted to lay eyes on the person who held the knowledge that would get my girl back. Besides, my shit-kicking, steel-toed motorcycle boots, worn dark wash jeans, and dark Henley would serve me well tonight. Loose enough to allow flexibility, the clothes also covered my blades—one on my calf and two on my arms.

  I flexed my wrists to test the weight of my knives. A jolt of excitement sent my pulse racing when I felt the tight sheaths beneath the cuffs of my shirt. Untucked, the hem even covered the gun I had in a holster inside my waistband. Everything I wore was clean and neat and free of stains… for now. It had been a while since I had to torture, I mean, interrogate, someone for information. The process wasn’t usually without… spills.