Page 1 of Freeing Camila

PROLOGUE

Giventhe sheer number of ways a human being could meet their end, she never thought this would be hers.

With each shallow breath, the chill of the ground seeped into her, intensifying the gnawing hunger in her long-silent belly—a hunger that felt infinite and terrifying. The hard floor of her cell pressed against her side as she lay there, the gnawing emptiness in her stomach a constant reminder of her dwindling hope.

Even without the agonizing pain radiating from what she believed to be broken or cracked ribs, the stifling humidity of her mysterious prison would have made breathing an arduous task. The added pain from the beatings she’d sustained only amplified her suffering.

Not for the first time, she wondered how this could have happened. The last thing she remembered was the soft cotton sheets against her skin as she slept, before two faceless men roughly pulled her from her bed. She’d screamed and fought but they’d been ridiculously strong. When she’d spotted her father as they’d dragged her down the hall, she’d cried out to him to save her. His words, like ice shards, pierced her heart—a wound she knew she would carry forever as a permanent scar on her soul.

“Shut the bitch up before the neighbor’s hear,” he growled before she felt a prick in her neck.

It was in that moment before the darkness overtook her that she understood with a gut-wrenching certainty the terrifying depths of her father’s evil, his ruthlessness laid bare. The man’s treatment of her had been consistently harsh and neglectful ever since her mother abandoned her at his home. At the tender age of eight, she’d discovered that her new role within her father’s household was essentially that of a servant, leaving her with little autonomy or freedom.

There had been no moments a normal child would experience. No school meant no friends. Without the intervention of her father’s second-in-command, who suggested homeschooling to circumvent potential legal scrutiny, she would have been deprived of any formal education whatsoever. Nevertheless, she had to rely on self-directed learning and independent exploration, largely without external support or structured instruction.

The relentless chores and her father's incessant demands left little time for her studies. If she hadn't realized that her education could be her escape, she would have been nearly illiterate, a fate she narrowly avoided through her own determination and foresight. In the hopes of one day being able to leave her father’s house, she frequently studied late into the night, often burning the midnight oil to achieve her goal.

For almost twenty years, she had been facing the challenges of life completely on her own, without the support of parents or close companions. She’d been an afterthought on most days. Her presence was like that of a ghost, barely felt or acknowledged by anyone. She was utterly alone and uncared for by everyone.

There wasn’t a soul who loved her.

She could’ve lived with that had it not been for the occasional times her father or one of his men had noticed her. Those were the difficult and challenging times that tested the limits of her mental fortitude, truly putting her spirit to the ultimate test. The physical pain of the beatings was nothing compared to the terrifying dread of rape that had haunted her since adolescence. Years went by where the torment was limited to nothing more than leering looks and the incessant taunts from the men. Even still, she had resorted to the strategy of pushing her dresser against her door every night in an attempt to protect herself while she slept.

As she lay in her cell, a chilling realization washed over her—her father had shielded her from that type of abuse for a specific, terrifying reason. Her innocence had been something he could exploit for his own gain, and it was something he would use to his advantage. Since the time of her abduction, words such as “merchandise,” “buyer,” and “virginity” had been tossed around carelessly, filling her ears with the harsh realities of her situation.

For three months, or what she thought might have been that amount of time, she’d lived in constant fear of what those words meant for her. When one brutal beating had left her face battered and bruised, she’d watched as the man responsible was killed before her eyes. Shot in the head, the scene was horrific. She could still feel the bile’s caustic burn, the coppery taste of blood sharp on her tongue, the horrifying sight and smell of the brain matter clinging to her senses.

Although she didn’t understand their words, the harshness in the leader's voice and the furious gestures made it clear he was angry about her injuries. The beatings had lessened after that. But her torment was far from over. The leader had taken over her torture, ensuring the places that one could readily see remained unblemished. The chilling coldness in his eyes, coupled with the cruel, malevolent smirk that so clearly revealed his delight in her suffering, would forever be etched into her memory, a haunting image that she could never erase.

As young girls were led into the adjacent cells, a chilling wave of true horror washed over her. Their quiet sobs were barely audible over the metallic clang of the cell doors as they were locked inside. The stench of fear and despair hung heavy in the air. She tried calming them down. Tried talking to them, but the language barrier made it impossible. One by one, she’d watched as the girls were led out of their prison, never to return until only five remained.

The feeling of helplessness had been a constant companion throughout her life, but the intensity of that feeling reached its apex during those weeks when she was completely unable to intervene and stop the terrible things from happening to those girls. Overwhelmed by a potent cocktail of intense anger and despair, the experience left her feeling utterly irate and hopelessly despondent, emotions that seemed to war within her.

With the cessation of food and water deliveries, despair started to win out until it consumed all other emotions. With each passing day, the lack of sustenance chipped away at her resolve, until a crushing hopelessness settled over her.

Death was imminent.

She had an absolute and unwavering certainty about that fact. And she was helpless to prevent it.

She lay in despair and pain. Lost to everything except her inevitable death when she felt a presence at her side. Her captors had left her alone for so long that the sensation was jarring. As were the words spoken softly in her ear. The English language incongruous with what she knew of her situation.

“Miss. Can you hear me?” a man’s low voice penetrated the depths of her mind slowly. “My name is Mustang. US Navy. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

Her tongue felt dry and stiff in her mouth, yet she tried with great effort to form words and speak. “What kind of name is Mustang?” It wasn’t what she thought her first words would be when she heard her own language again, but it was all her brain could process.

“Shit. Was that English?” Another voice called out.

“Miss. Can you tell me your name? Where you’re from?” the first voice asked.

“Carmela. From LA.”

“Fuck. An American.”

“There wasn’t anything in the intel about an American woman being held here.”

As the discussion about her presence continued, more and more voices joined in, their words swirling around her like a restless current.

She didn’t care. She was close to death. But before that happened, she had one more thing to do.

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