Chapter 15
Kimo awoke, lying on a soft white carpet in a brightly lit room full of white leather couches and shiny gold accent tables and wall hangings.
“Come on, come on. Wake up already,” an impatient voice sounded. “You’ve caused me enough trouble.
A black, booted foot, incongruous to the stark white furnishings surrounding her, pushed against her side, rolling her onto her back.
A man with thick, salt-and-pepper hair stared down at her, a sneer pulling his lip up on one side.
“Good. I want you to be awake when I bring your friend out. You need to understand and appreciate what happens to those people who cross me.”
This had to be Lucien Vaughan—the man behind the deaths of those people in the shipping container. He was also the one who had taken Alana hostage.
Kimo tried to move her arms and legs. They didn’t respond to signals from her brain. Though she was awake, she had no control over her body. Then she remembered the needle jab in her neck. The man who’d helped her when she’d stumbled had drugged her.
How long would it take for it to wear off? If she focused, could she work through it and regain the use of her limbs? She concentrated on her fingers and toes, trying to wiggle them. At first, they reacted like her arms and legs, refusing to respond. Then her big toe on her right foot moved.
A door opened somewhere, and booted feet clomped across a hard surface before becoming muffled as if they’d stepped onto the white carpet. Sounds of grunting and cursing came to Kimo, but she couldn’t turn her head to see the source.
Then a familiar voice cried out, “Kimo! Oh, sweet Jesus. Not you.”
Alana lunged across Kimo, tripped and fell face-first onto the white carpet, unable to break her fall with her hands secured behind her back.
She rolled onto her side, her gaze on Kimo. “Not you, too,” she whispered. She wore the soft green bikini she’d had on beneath her wetsuit. The fabric appeared to be spotted with dark stains, which Kimo realized were blood.
Her heart pinched hard in her chest. Her sweet Alana. What had they done to her?
“Now that I have both of you here with your undivided attention,” Vaughan said, “we begin your indoctrination. By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be compliant and ready to go to one of my clients in Saudi Arabia, who prefers hula dancers.
You do hula, don’t you?” He nodded toward someone standing just out of Kimo’s view.
A man with black boots leaned over Alana, hooked her under her arms and hauled her to her feet.
She stood with her arms behind her back, her long, beautiful black hair in tangled disarray.
“Dance, Lolita,” Vaughan commanded.
Alana glared at the man. “Fuck you.” She spit in his face.
Vaughan’s face turned a mottled red. He wiped the spittle from his cheek and reached for a long, metal rod with a yellow handle and a black forked tip. He pointed the rod at Alana. “Dance.”
When she refused to move, he jabbed the rod at Alana. She cried out and leaped backward.
“Dance,” Vaughan commanded.
Alana glared at the man yet still refused to comply. “You’re a pathetic excuse for a human,” she said in a low, angry voice. “Is your dick so tiny that you have to abuse women to get off? Does it make you feel powerful picking on girls who can’t fight back?”
“You’ll shut up, or I’ll shut you up.” He jabbed her again.
She jumped, but bit down hard on her lip, refusing to cry out. “Feel like more of a man yet? You’re a pathetic piece of shit.”
Oh, Alana, don’t make him any madder.
Vaughan hit Alana with the stick and held it on her. When she backed away, he followed until she hit a wall. The cattle prod pressed into her, making her jerk and twitch until she finally cried out.
Kimo forced air past her vocal cords. “Stop.” It came out barely above a whisper. She lifted her fingers, though her hands barely moved. “Please. Stop,” came out a little louder, capturing Vaughan’s attention.
He lowered the cattle prod and advanced on Kimo. “Your friend needs to learn manners. She can’t be cursing and calling men names where she’s going. They don’t tolerate that kind of attitude. They’ll cut out her tongue.”
He turned back to Alana, where she slumped against the wall. “Is that what you want? Do you want your new owner to cut out your tongue? That will guarantee you won’t sling curses at anyone ever again. Maybe I should do him the favor and remove your tongue before I deliver you to him.”
“No,” Kimo said. “Don’t. Hurt. Her.”
“No?” Vaughan sneered down at her. “If punishing her doesn’t change her behavior, punishing her friend will.” He jammed the cattle prod into Kimo’s side.
The jolt blasted through her.
Kimo cried out.
“You bastard,” Alana yelled. “Leave her alone.” Alana pushed away from the wall, bent over and charged at Vaughan like a bull, yelling as she did.
Before she reached him, the man in the black boots caught her around her middle and lifted her off her feet.
She kicked and twisted, but the man holding her was stronger. He held her until she slowed and finally stopped.
When he set her on her feet, Alana dropped to her knees between Kimo and Vaughan. “Don’t hurt her.”
“What did you say?” he demanded.
Alana glared up at the man and said in a louder voice, “Don’t hurt her.”
Vaughan moved the cattle prod to his left hand and then backhanded Alana so hard she snapped backward, landing hard on the floor.
“No.” Kimo moved her feet, then her legs. Her arms twitched and moved, though not enough to let her stand in the way of the asshole hurting her friend.
“You know, I think it’s time to bring back the concept of lashes.” To someone else in the room, Vaughan called out, “Bring me my whip.”
A door opened and closed.
“Nothing says pain like leather cutting into your skin.”
Alana stirred and struggled to sit.
The door behind Vaughan opened again, and footsteps sounded on the tile portions of the lounge floor.
“About time. Hand me the whip.” Vaughan held out his hand without looking back at whoever had entered.
A long leather strip snapped through air, striking Vaughan’s outstretched hand with a loud sound that cracked the air.
Vaughan jerked his hand back and stared down at the slash across his palm. “Son of a bitch,” he said and turned. “I’ll have you whipped for that.” The man froze.
Kimo managed to turn her head just enough to see who had entered.
Her heart swelled with joy.
Rex stood like Indiana Jones in a wetsuit, his hair wet and slicked back, his feet slightly apart.
He held a bull whip down close to his thigh.
His arm tensed a moment before he brought the whip up and snapped it toward Vaughan.
The leather tip barely touched the man’s face, leaving a small, angry slash.
Vaughan cried out and clapped a hand to his cheek. “Don’t just stand there,” he said to his security guys. “Do something!”
One guard rushed toward him as the other drew his weapon and fired.
At the same moment, the guard closest to Rex lunged for him.
Rex stepped back.
The bullet caught the guard, dropping him to the floor. He didn’t move.
Rex dove behind a sofa as the guard kept firing. Kimo held her breath, praying the man missed.
Staying low to the ground, Rex crawled along the back of the sofa. When the guard ran out of ammunition, he dropped the magazine from the handle and reached for another.
Before he could pluck a full magazine from his vest, Rex rose and lunged for him, knocking him to the ground.
Rex landed on top of him. The two men rolled across the carpet, struggling for dominance. Rex was quick and agile. The other man weighed more.
By now, Kimo could move her arms and legs, though they felt heavy and sluggish. She managed to push herself to a sitting position.
Vaughan reached for the cattle prod, snatched it up and hurried toward the men fighting on the floor.
As he passed Kimo, she reached out, snagged his ankle and pulled back as hard as she could.
Vaughan fell. The cattle prod clattered across the floor.
The big guard rolled over, pinning Rex to the ground. Rex flipped the man over his head, scrambled to his feet, pulled a device out of his pocket and touched the man with it before he could move.
The guard jerked and lay still, his eyes wide.
Rex removed the spare magazines from the man’s vest, flipped him over and secured his wrists behind his back.
Vaughan was on his feet and running for the door leading deeper into the yacht’s interior.
“Rex,” Kimo called out. “Get Vaughan before he escapes.”
Rex shook his head. “I’m not leaving you. You’re not safe.”
“I’ll never be safe if he gets away.”
Rex hesitated a moment. Then he grabbed the guard’s weapon, loaded it with a fresh magazine and handed it to Kimo. He dropped the remaining magazine on the carpet next to her. “If anyone comes through that door that you don’t recognize, shoot him.”
“Be careful,” she called after him as she lifted the gun and aimed it at the entrance.
Rex burst through the door into a hallway that stretched the length of the yacht.
The door at the end was larger and had more gold embellishments than the others.
Though he was positive Vaughan would be in that end suite, Rex checked the doors along the way, opening them one at a time, clearing each room along the way until he came to a stop in front of the most ornate door on the boat.
All he could think was big door, big ego, little penis.
He stood a little to one side as he reached for the handle. When he twisted it, shots rang out. Bullets pierced the wooden door inches away from Rex’s shoulder.
Rex pressed his back to the wall until the shooting ceased. Then he jumped in front of the door and slammed it with his heel as hard as he could. As quickly as he’d jumped in front of the door, he plastered his back to the wall again.