Page 54 of Fast Vengeance

“What’s the tip?” Taggart asked, leaning forward to read the contents.

“The anonymous caller said he had a location on the American hostage. Not an address, but he texted this picture.” He flipped the page to show a photograph of a house. It was grainy and dark, not the best quality, but the house was distinctive. More of a mansion, at least from the looks of it through the tall wrought iron gates at the end of the long driveway.

“Anyone recognize it?” Taggart asked.

The man shook his head. “We’ve got analysts trying to identify it and the location of the cellular signal now.”

“Do you have a recording of the call?”

“Yes. This way.”

Victoria rushed after Taggart into a private office off the main room. The man excused two other people working at the desk, waited until the door shut behind them before pulling up something on his laptop. “Here.” He hit play.

“I know where the American hostage is,” the man said in flawless Spanish.

Victoria looked up from the photograph of the house to stare at the laptop screen, focusing on the voice. There was something familiar about it that nagged at her.

“I took a picture of where he’s being held. If you want more information, it’ll cost you. Ten thousand U.S.”

She knew that voice. Maybe from her captivity.

Her heart began to pound as the dark memories she battled daily began to surface. Taking her back to that dark time and place when she had been used in ways that would always make her feel unclean. Tainted.

Fear and pain intertwined in her mind. Her body. Her throat worked as she swallowed, sifting through those seemingly endless days and nights of darkness while various men had defiled her.

For Brock. You have to do this for Brock.

She closed her eyes and concentrated. Battled through the panic tightening her throat. Forced herself to dredge up the horrors she had sworn to bury forever.

Shadows. The menacing, oily feel of fear coating her skin, her tongue.

The shape of the men’s silhouettes, outlined against the daylight outside the shed as they stood in the doorway. Coming to defile her.

Faces. Some of them clear as a photograph, others blurry and indistinct.

Smells. Cigars, the reek of cigarette smoke that made her shudder, her flesh cringing at the threat of those glowing ends searing her naked skin.

Beer. Whiskey. Stale sweat and cologne.

And voices.

Whispering cruel, terrifying things as a man’s body pinned her to the filthy mattress. Laughter when she couldn’t keep her cries of pain and fear locked inside.

Like the voice speaking now. Straight out of her nightmares, making her flesh prickle. But who? She fought to sift through the images in her head.

The man named an account that she would bet anything was offshore someplace, then continued. “Text me at this number when the transfer is done.” He cleared his throat just before the recording stopped.

Victoria sucked in a ragged breath and opened her eyes as recognition hit with sudden clarity.

Everything stilled. The blood drained from her face, her fingers clenching around the folder as a face became clear.

“Stop.” It was barely a whisper. But Taggart and the other man looked at her sharply.

Her heart hammered in her ears. “Play it back again.” She needed to be sure.

Nausea twisted her stomach but she forced her eyes shut as the recording played again. That distinctive voice rolled over her, taking her back to that hellish prison at Ruiz’s hideout.

The same voice that had taunted her as he raped her.

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