Alpha: Omega Part 13

One of the men snarled something I couldn't understand, and Yuri-climbing up behind me-answered with a shrug and few quiet words. The first speaker gestured at me, and Yuri waved out at the water, pointed at me. Explaining what happened with the other guy, I guessed.

The first speaker, a tall man with a black beard and a red bandana tied over his skull like an actual pirate, stalked over to me and ripped the bulletproof vest off me, and then smirked as he realized I was essentially naked underneath. My shirt was cut open from top to bottom, leaving my front bare for their leisurely perusal. Feigning calm I didn't feel, I slipped my arms out of the arm-holes and rotated the shirt, stuffed my arms back through so I was at least a little less naked in front of a bunch of hard-as-f.u.c.k criminals.

They'd all gotten a gander at my goods, so they were all probably hoping Bandana would take the remnants of my shirt away.

Bandana held the vest and stared down at me, dark eyes narrowed. "Make no trouble, and I will not let the men molest you. Cause problems, and I will not be so strict with them, you understand me?"

"What are you going to do with me?" I asked.

"Take you to the boss."

"Am I going to be killed?"

Bandana shrugged. "Probably, but not until he has made his use of you."

"Do I get clothes?"

"No. Shut up with the questions." He gestured at Yuri and then to the deck hands, barking an order in their language.

Yuri grabbed me by the arm and hauled me toward the cabin, then pointed at a ladder leading below the deck. I climbed down, and Yuri followed, jerked open a thick steel door, and shoved me through.

The room was tiny, barely wide enough to let me stretch out my arms in any direction. It was cold, dark, featureless, and stank of fish. There was nothing in it at all, not even a prison cot.

And I had to pee.

Super.

Kidnapping is fun!

10.

SO PAULO.

You really don't know boredom until you've spent countless hours in a featureless ten-by-ten room in the dark, without so much as a f.u.c.king bed to sit on. Did I mention it stank like fish? Well, it did. It stank very, very badly of fish. It sure as s.h.i.t wasn't me stinking like that, because I keep my s.n.a.t.c.h clean. I mean, you can't let a guy go down on you if you don't keep your s.h.i.t so fresh and so clean-clean.

But I digress.

I'M f.u.c.kING BORED.

That was my mantra for so long I lost the capacity to think of anything else. There wasn't room to pace, except for maybe a step in either direction. It was pitch black. It was cold. The boat didn't toss me around too badly, but once in while the boat would angle up, sending me sliding backward, and then it would pitch down, sending me forward...over and over and over. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing to brace myself with or against. I tried sitting in each of the four corners, but a pitch or a roll of the boat and I'd be sliding all over the place anyway.

I was hungry. Thirsty.

Tired.

And bored.

Did I mention bored?

I'm an active girl. I'm busy from six in the morning to past midnight most days-or I used to be. I'd worked two jobs and gone to school full time, plus I usually found time to swim for an hour every day between cla.s.ses, and between shifts on the weekends. That was my dirty little secret, that hour of swimming every day. I scheduled my life around it, to be totally honest. I ate horribly, regularly pigging out on bacon cheeseburgers and milkshakes and pizza and boozing it up as often as I could. But, to keep myself from ballooning into a walrus, I swam. Hard. Every day for an hour, I'd do laps at the local pool, back and forth, as hard and fast as I could without stopping. I'd change my stroke every four laps: crawl, breast, back, b.u.t.terfly. f.u.c.k, those four b.u.t.terfly laps were a b.i.t.c.h. But they kept me relatively fit. I mean, I'd never be a size four, much less a zero, but I had a pretty firm body for a woman with my build. Genetics did not bless me with anything approaching skinny, which is fine. I'm built like a brick s.h.i.thouse, and an hour of swimming every day meant great muscle tone, low BMI, and provided a h.e.l.l of a cardio workout. I just wasn't skinny.

Again, I digress.

What was I thinking about?

Oh yeah, being busy. I never had down time. If I wasn't working, or at school, I was studying, drinking, or f.u.c.king.

And yes, f.u.c.king counts as a workout too, especially if you do it right.

So to go from that to sitting around on Roth's boat all day long, not doing d.i.c.k? That was a hard adjustment. Fortunately, Roth made sure there was a killer gym on that Caribbean cruise liner he called a "yacht", which I took regular advantage of. No pool, but plenty of exercise equipment, including a rowing machine. I avoid any exercise that involves excessive jostling: I just bounce too much. Running in particular is a special h.e.l.l for me, so I avoid that. Stair steppers, treadmills, even exercise bikes are things I stay away from. I'll lift weights, row, swim, anything with low or zero impact. No bouncing means no lower back problems from hauling the girls around. No bulls.h.i.t.

G.o.d, I was so bored I was thinking about exercise? What the f.u.c.k?

Eventually the door sc.r.a.ped open, blinding me with sudden light. I cowered in the corner and hissed, shielding my eyes as a silhouetted figure leaned in, set a tray on the floor, and backed out, closing the door once again.

I smelled food.

My stomach went crazy, growling like crazy as I scrambled across the floor toward the tray. I smelled garlic, meat, onions...a gyro, maybe? I did my best blind-person impression, touching everything carefully in an attempt to figure out what was in front of me. Definitely a gyro, plus a bag of chips, and a can of something cold. Really? Was this a prison, or a shopping mall food court? Not that I was complaining. I cracked open the can and sipped at it, tasting cola of some kind. Diet; blech. I normally stayed away from diet soda because the stupid aspartame gave me headaches and diet cola was generally worse for you than regular soda. But beggars can't be choosers, and I was very definitely in a beggar sort of scenario, so I drank the diet. The gyro, now...that s.h.i.t was delicious. Roasted lamb cut thin, cuc.u.mber sauce, some crunchy red onions, tomatoes. I devoured that thing so fast I barely tasted it. The chips were kettle cooked, too.

A much better meal than I had been expecting as a kidnappee. I was honestly expecting to either not get anything at all, or moldy bread and smelly water. The f.u.c.king gyro basket tasted like it was from Athens Coney Island.

Turns out stuffing yourself that fast after not eating for who knows how long isn't the greatest idea. Talk about sitting heavy in my stomach. It sat like a G.o.dd.a.m.ned gut-bomb.

Also, I still had to pee.

After banging on the door for what felt like an hour straight, it jerked open, revealing a very p.i.s.sed off Yuri.

"What the f.u.c.k you want?" he growled.

"I have to pee."

He gestured at the floor. "So pee."

I scowled at him. "Really, Yuri? I know I'm a prisoner but come on. Let me use a toilet. We're on a f.u.c.king boat, where the h.e.l.l am I going to go?"

He stared at me in silence. "Fine." He jerked his head and I followed him around the corner and along a low, narrow corridor to a tiny bathroom. "Door open."

I shrugged, shucked my thong and lifted my shirt, staring at him as I p.i.s.sed. "You want to watch, then watch. I don't give a s.h.i.t. I'm warning you, though, it's gonna be a long one. Like, you might need a book."

The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly, and he grunted in irritation. He didn't want to like me, but he did. h.e.l.l, he couldn't help it; I'm a funny gal. But he shut the door, so I decided to take care of some other business while I had the opportunity. Gut-bombs away!

And as a bonus, I saw a blue Papermate ballpoint pen on the floor in the corner under the sink, long forgotten. The pen is mightier than the sword, right? I mean, I've seen pens used as weapons on TV a bunch of times. Better than nothing.

Where to hide it, though?

It wasn't exactly like I had any pockets, so you figure it out.

And, yes, I rinsed it off first.

You want to talk about uncomfortable? Jesus. I've now got mad respect for those crazy druggie b.i.t.c.hes who smuggle bags of c.o.ke up their s.h.i.t, that's for sure.

I walked funny on the way back to my cell, but Yuri didn't notice. Or if he did, he didn't think anything of it.

The strangest part was, the length of the pen made me think about the various guys I'd been with, and how they measured up to my new boyfriend, Mr. Papermate. A few did not measure up so well. Others...well, that's a different kind of walking funny. But then, as we all know, it's not the size of the c.o.c.k that's important when it comes right down to it; it's how well he uses it. Girth can be pretty important, but foreplay trumps everything.

Mr. Papermate didn't really do it for me, but at least I now had a weapon.

Once I was returned to my cell my first instinct was to take it out, but then I got to thinking. I knew I was gonna need it at some point, but not when that would be. Probably not on the boat-that would be a waste. I'd probably need it when we got where we were going, wherever that was. Or maybe when Harris showed up I could help him effect my escape by stabbing some of these a.s.sholes in the throat with Mr. Papermate the p.u.s.s.y Pen? That seemed like a more likely scenario.

So in it stayed. I really didn't like the idea of having a foreign object up there for any longer than I had to because that was just begging for an infection, but I'd take the fiery agony of a v.a.g.i.n.al infection over being raped and killed any day of the week. I mean, I'd really rather not have either, but no one was asking me what I wanted.

And the sensation also gave me something else to think about, and at that point in my boredom, something to think about was welcome, even if it was strange to have a ballpoint pen lodged up my cooter.

Eventually we stopped, but I had no clue as to how much time had pa.s.sed. I had no way to measure that. Days? Weeks? I was fed on a regular schedule, but with no point of reference, it could have been once a day or three times a day...When you're in a black hole, s.h.i.t gets relative real f.u.c.king fast. And by relative, I mean you go bats.h.i.t, arm-flapping, hoot-like-an-owl crazy. Or at least, I did.

When Yuri opened the door and gestured for me to come out, I literally crawled out on my hands and knees, blinking, hissing, and generally acting like a looney toon.

"Stand up, stupid." He grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. "Crazy f.u.c.king American. You only been in there three days."

I stood up and brushed my knees off, unconsciously keeping them pressed together. The pen wasn't in danger of falling out, because let's be honest, I keep my s.h.i.t tighter than a drum. Kegels, b.i.t.c.hes. Flex those PCs. I'm like a G.o.dd.a.m.n body builder, but for my pubococcygeus muscle. But still, one worries, in this situation. As one would.

He led me back up to the deck of the boat, which was now swarming with activity. Men were scrambling everywhere, shirtless, sweaty, and cursing as they hauled crate after crate out of the hold and onto a platform suspended from a crane-arm, which would then swing it across from the boat to a shipping container. Each crate had 'VK' emblazoned on the side in huge black-painted letters. They all looked heavy, since each one required two men to lift it, although there was one really huge motherf.u.c.ker with arms the size of my waist hauling them around one in each hand like bags of groceries. As Yuri led me across the deck, all work stopped.

Eyes were fixed on me.

Lips curled up in lecherous grins. Wrists wiped at sweaty brows.

I focused on Yuri's back, ignored the stares, and made sure I was walking as normally as possible. Under other circ.u.mstances, I'd have relished the amount of male attention I was getting. I'd probably have swayed my hips a bit, put some bounce in my step, maybe winked and flirted.

This wasn't a typical situation, and I was pretty sure I wouldn't enjoy the kind of attention those particular men had in mind.

So I kept my eyes straight forward and hustled after Yuri. Of course, the shirt that was my only article of clothing was ripped open, leaving my back bare from neck to a.s.s and, as I've mentioned, my choice in undergarments left my b.u.t.tocks bare as the day I was born. So those big sweaty gorillas all got a free show anyway.

Good thing I worked hard to keep my a.s.s nice and round and firm, huh?

Thank G.o.d this time there was a ramp leading from the deck down to the dock. I followed Yuri off the boat. Looking around, I realized we were in a very urban port, but I had no idea where. We walked past mammoth shipping containers stacked three and four high, forming a maze that blocked out the sun as we pa.s.sed between them. The ground underfoot was damp industrial concrete, a rainbow sheen here and there from leaking oil. I heard a diesel rumble somewhere to my left, shouts, the beeping of a machine of some kind backing up, and then a container high above our heads slid away.

"Where are we?" I couldn't help asking.

"Caracas," Yuri grumbled.

"Ca-who-what?"

"Caracas. Venezuela."

"What's in the containers?"

"Business for big boss." A shrug.

"Drugs, you mean?"

"Not only drugs. Guns also. Cars. People."

I stumbled. "People?"

"Prost.i.tutes. Brides. Slaves."

"Where is it all going?" I felt dizzy, sick.

"Whole world. Miami, Hanoi, Vancouver, London...everywhere."

"You're okay with slavery?"

Yuri swiveled his head on his thick neck, and his small dark eyes fixed on me, hard as chunks of marble. "Not my job to like or not like. My job is only to get you to boss. I like, I don't like, no one cares. I tell boss I don't like, you know what he does? He shoots me dead, like I shoot stupid Nico. Easy. So, I don't like be shoot dead, I keep my words to myself, and stay alive."

"Oh." What else was there to say? Subtext was, he didn't like it, but couldn't do anything about it.

"Am I going in one of those?" I pointed at a container.

Yuri shook his head. "Nyet. You are more valuable than them. You go in one of those, you end up in a s.h.i.thole in Naypyidaw, f.u.c.ked fifty times a day for a handful of coins you don't get to keep, and you stay there until you die."

"Napyih-what?"

He actually chuckled at that. "Naypyidaw. Capital city of Myanmar. Once used to be Burma."

"Well that doesn't sound fun."

He had nothing to say to that other than a grunt. He led me along a path around and between stack after stack of containers so circuitous that I couldn't have navigated it again even if I'd been paying closer attention. Eventually we emerged at the base of the kind of crane used to build skysc.r.a.pers, the machine itself dozens of stories tall with a boom arm hundreds of feet long, a box at the top only accessible via elevator. The boom arm was in motion far above us, swiveling over our heads with a shipper container in its grasp. I ducked involuntarily as it crossed over me, even though it swung easily a hundred feet over my head. Yuri laughed.

"If it falls you die, even if you duck." He gestured at a waiting helicopter. "This is our ride. For a prisoner, you get nice ride."

It was a small helicopter, big enough for maybe four people plus the pilot. The door was open, revealing plush leather seats, each one empty. Yuri climbed in and held out his hand to help me up, but I ignored him and stepped in on my own, and then sat down and buckled in.

I was seated so I could see the c.o.c.kpit, and I watched avidly as the pilot manipulated the controls with deft hands, skillfully lifting the helicopter off the ground without so much as a wobble. It looked hard as h.e.l.l, honestly, a lot more to control and not as intuitive as an airplane. I'd picked that up easily enough, but then that was a lot simpler; one yoke, push in to descend, pull back to lift up, turn it left to bank left, right to bank right, foot pedals to pivot horizontally in either direction. Keeping all the b.u.t.tons, switches, and dials straight was trickier, but not exactly difficult. The helicopter controls, however, looked a lot more involved, as you had to manipulate the craft on several axes: pitch and yaw, as well as bank, plus ascent and descent vertically, all combined with velocity.

Maybe after Harris rescued me, he'd teach me to fly choppers as well as fixed-wing aircraft.

That thought sobered me: I was operating on the a.s.sumption that Harris was coming for me-I didn't doubt that part. I knew he'd be looking. But how could he find me? These guys had vanished me very effectively. I'd gone from a little Zodiac speedboat to a fishing boat, and from there to a helicopter. No witnesses, no records. From the helicopter I figured they'd probably take me somewhere even further afield, maybe on a private jet to the Mediterranean, or somewhere deep in the heart of South America. Either way, how could Harris hope to find me?