Page 37 of Rusty's Command

The women jerked into motion with stiff movements, and their eyes were fixed on some point in front of them, possibly in a desperate attempt to block out their horror and focus on a single, tiny point of sanity. Four of them had tears streaming down their faces, and their bodies shook with sobs that seemed to rip from their very souls.

“Now, turn for the cameras, ladies.” A new voice cut through the air, smooth as silk and cold as steel.

The voice pulled the pin on a memory grenade in Rusty’s mind—that’s Viktor Fucking Wang, head of the local Yakuza.

The name seared into his brain like a branding iron. Rusty’s grip on the railing tightened as the implications sank in. Wang, the master builder of the Big Island’s four luxury resorts, the philanthropist who donated millions to local charities, the benefactor who built a state-of-the-art school for underprivileged kids.

The fucking slimy hypocrite.

Behind his façade of gleaming resorts and charitable donations, Wang was a monster who built his empire on the backs of broken women and shattered lives.

Rusty’s focus sharpened, and as he found Wang in the shadows below, his mind raced with one singular thought:I’m going to kill Viktor Wang.

“Who’s that?” Sienna whispered.

“Viktor Wang. A fucking?—”

A sharp bark echoed from below, and Rusty’s heart skyrocketed into his throat.

Pickle!

Beside him, Sienna’s entire body went rigid. Her gaze swept the area below, scanning the scene with a mix of horror and desperation.

Pickle’s second bark was louder. When the little terrier bounded up the four timber stairs to the staging area, tail wagging, Sienna’s gasp was like a punch to Rusty’s gut.

Rusty clamped his hand over her mouth, pulling her head into his chest. “Shh,” he whispered urgently, trying to calm her down.

Sienna’s body trembled in his arms.

“Keep quiet, okay?” he whispered as he released her.

He eased his grip on her, but his hands remained on her shoulders, holding her steady and locking eyes on hers, he put a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

Her eyes welled with tears, and Rusty’s heart shattered into pieces. He shook his head at her, trying to convey a message of reassurance, but as tears spilled down her cheeks, it was clear she was beyond consolation.

A sob spilled from her lips. “Pickle . . . Oh God, no,” she whimpered.

Pickle trotted across the timber stage to a Colombian woman at the front of the group, looked up at her, and barked. All the women darted their gazes from Pickle to their handler, and then to the shadows where Wang lurked, their expressions contorted in a mix of confusion, terror, and desperation.

Their raw terror told him everything he needed to know about Wang’s capacity for cruelty.

Viktor Wang emerged from the shadows beneath the balcony. As he mounted the four steps to the wooden stage, his eyes moved from woman to woman with predatory precision, lingering on exposed flesh. His immaculate silk suit seemed to gleam in the chandelier lights.

When his gaze settled on Pickle, his hand slipped inside his jacket. The women went rigid, their faces masks of raw terror.

Rusty’s heart thundered. If Wang pulls a fucking gun . . .

“Ah, a little dog.” Wang’s voice dripped with sadistic amusement. “How . . . touching.”

Sienna’s fingers wrapped around Rusty’s wrist like a vice, yet her body trembled with desperation.

“Please,” she gushed. “We have to save Pickle.” Her strangled gasp added to his fury.

He released his arm from Sienna’s grip and raised his Glock.

His finger tightened on the trigger as he trained his sights on Wang’s head.

CHAPTER 13

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