CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Brick
The private jet's engines hum beneath us as we cut through the early morning sky toward Colombia.
I stare out the window at endless clouds, trying to prepare myself for what's coming.
In a few hours, I'll see Lashes again, hopefully.
She could be at one of a million of these auctions, but I’m praying she’s here.
Fuck, I need her to be here.
I need to strike gold, to have her back.
My best friend, the woman who's been missing for three months, will be paraded in front of buyers like livestock.
And I'll have to stand there and watch, pretending not to care.
Doom's gravelly voice cuts through my thoughts. "You good?"
He's sitting across from me, those dark eyes that miss nothing studying my face.
Even relaxed in the plush leather seat, he looks like what he is—a weapon waiting to be deployed.
"Just thinking about shit," I reply.
"Dangerous habit," he says, but there's understanding in his tone. "First time seeing someone you care about on the other side of this shit?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"I've been there," Doom continues, surprising me with the admission. "Before the club. Had to watch my sister sold at one of these things, but not as high-scale."
My head snaps up. "What?"
He's never talked about his past, about what brought him to the Reapers Rejects.
Most of us don't—some wounds are too deep to talk about, so we let them heal and never talk about them again.
"Ten years ago, when I was barely eighteen," he says, voice flat. "I was working as muscle for a cartel guy who decided my sister would make a nice gift for his ‘business associates’."
"Jesus."
"I was told if I intervened, he’d kill me but before that he’d rape her." His jaw tightens. "He told me he’d keep doing it, over and over, and they’d kill her eventually, but if I didn’t do anything to fuck with him, he’d make sure she wasn’t harmed."
Harmed… right.
I’m certain ‘harmed’ has a different meaning to everyone.
"Did you ever?—"
"Got her back six months later," he confirms. "I burned down the fucker’s drug houses and killed eleven men to do it. She's in therapy now, living under a new name in Canada. Doesn't talk to me anymore—I remind her of what happened. If I wasn’t involved with bad people, it never would’ve happened. That’s what she says at least."
"Why are you telling me this?"
Doom leans forward. "Because I see that same look in your eyes I had in mine. The one that says you'll burn the whole world down to save her. And I'm telling you—that rage will get you killed if you don't control it."
"I can control it."
"Can you?" He gestures toward Imani, who's reviewing something with Boulder two rows back. "When you see your friend up there, chained, possibly pregnant, you going to stay ice cold? When your woman wants to save every girl in that room, you going to be the voice of reason?"
The questions hit too close to home.
"I'll do what needs to be done," I say firmly.
"Good." Doom settles back. "Because I've got your six out of there, brother. But I need to know you've got your head straight. We all come home, or none of us do."
It's the most I've ever heard him speak at once, and his words oddly steady me.
"I've got it," I assure him. "And Doom? Thanks for sharing."
He nods once.
We're interrupted by one of Alejandro's men—Miguel, I think—approaching with a tablet.
"Thirty minutes to landing," he reports. "Local contact confirmed the venue is active. Multiple vehicles arriving throughout the morning."
Imani comes over and joins us. "What’s security look like?"
"Standard pattern. Rooftop surveillance, roving patrols, checkpoint at the main gate." Miguel pulls up satellite images. "The estate is fifteen thousand square feet, oceanfront, single access road. Helicopter pad on the south lawn."
Boulder questions. "What sort of extraction routes are we looking at?"
"Limited. The road is the obvious choice, but they'll lock it down if things go bad. Beach access is possible but exposed. Dense jungle to the east—difficult but doable."
I study the images, memorizing every detail.
The place is a fortress designed to keep people in as much as out.
"There's an underground level," Miguel continues. "That's where the... viewing happens. Reinforced concrete, limited access points."
My stomach turns at the casual way he says "viewing," but I try to keep a straight face.
This is the reality we're walking into—a place where horror has been normalized into something as normal as selling a Big Mac at fucking McDonald’s.
The plane begins its descent, and I catch Imani's hand. "You ready for this?"
"No," she admits quietly. "But I'll play my part."
Twenty minutes later, we're on the ground at a private airstrip outside Riohacha.
The humid Colombian air hits like a wall as we exit the plane, carrying the scent of ocean and jungle.
Two SUVs wait on the tarmac, drivers standing at attention.
"These are Alejandro's people," Miguel confirms. "They'll take us to the safe house."
The ride through the city is tense.
I've been to Colombia before on runs, but never like this.
Never wearing a ten-thousand-dollar suit, playing bodyguard to a cartel princess heading to buy human fucking beings.
The safe house is a villa in the hills overlooking the ocean—beautiful views, high walls, perfect sight lines.
Alejandro doesn't do anything half-assed.
"Two hours until we need to leave," Boulder announces once we're settled. "Equipment check in thirty."
I find myself on the terrace, staring out at the water.
Somewhere close, Lashes is being held.
I don’t know it for certain, but I can feel it in my bones. I know she’s here. She has to be.
After a little over three and a half months of searching, she's within reach.
"Hey." Imani appears beside me, now dressed for her role.
The designer dress probably costs more than most people make in a year.
Diamonds glitter at her throat and wrists—real ones, because she has to show off, has to show everyone how much money she has and is willing to spend.
She looks every inch the cartel princess, beautiful and untouchable.
"You look the part," I tell her.
"I hate it," she admits. "Every piece of this costume represents blood money. But if it helps us save them..."
"It will," I assure her, though I'm trying to convince myself as much as her.
We check all of our equipment, sure to be as thorough as possible.
We know ceramic knives won't trigger metal detectors, but we have to be careful.
We have micro communication devices, so small that you can barely see them.
"Remember," Boulder says, securing a knife in my ankle holster, "these are last resort only. We go in clean, come out clean. Extraction team will be positioned two miles out, ready to move on signal."
"And if things go sideways?" I ask.
"Then we improvise," Doom answers. "Wouldn't be the first time."
The drive to the estate takes forty minutes through winding coastal roads.
With each mile, the tension in the vehicle grows thicker.
Imani sits beside me in perfect cartel princess posture—spine straight, expression bored, like she's heading to a business meeting rather than a slave auction.
I force myself into character too.
Professional bodyguard.
Efficient, alert, emotionally disconnected from everything except her safety.
The estate appears through the trees, and it's even more impressive than the satellite images suggested.
White walls gleaming in the afternoon sun, manicured grounds that probably require a small army to maintain.
Beautiful architecture hiding unimaginable evil.
The checkpoint is thorough but professional.
Guards with automatic weapons check our credentials, verify our invitation codes, search the vehicle looking for anything out of place.
They're not cartel thugs—these are trained professionals, the crem de la crem.
"Welcome, Ms. Torres," the lead guard says respectfully. "Mr. Salazar is expecting you. Please follow the valet to the reception area."
We're directed to park among dozens of other luxury vehicles—Bentleys, Ferraris, armored Mercedes.
The wealth on display is staggering.
Every car represents someone who profits from human suffering.
Inside, the opulence continues.
Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, artwork that belongs in museums.
A grotesque display of wealth built on the backs of victims like Lashes.
"Imani Torres," a cultured voice calls out. "What an unexpected pleasure."
We turn to find a distinguished man in his sixties approaching—silver hair, expensive suit, predator's smile.
"Don Carlos," Imani greets him coolly. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Business is business," he replies, his eyes doing a quick assessment of her—and me. "Your father finally expanding into new markets?"
"Testing the waters," she confirms. "He believes in diversification."
"Smart man. The margins in this particular trade are... exceptional." He leans closer conspiratorially. "I hear today's selection is particularly impressive. Some unique lots."
My hands itch to wrap around his throat, but I remain statue-still, playing my role.
"I look forward to seeing them," Imani says with just the right amount of aristocratic boredom.
We mingle for another hour, and each conversation is worse than the last.
These people discuss buying human beings like they're talking about real estate investments.
Casual mentions of "breaking in new purchases" and "training techniques" that make my blood boil.
Imani plays her part flawlessly, expressing just enough interest to seem legitimate while deflecting attempts to dig deeper into her family's intentions.
I shadow her every move, using my position to memorize faces, escape routes, security positions.
Finally, a melodic chime signals the main event.
"Ladies and gentlemen," a hostess announces, "the auction will begin momentarily. Please proceed to the viewing chamber."
We follow the crowd through reinforced doors and down a wide staircase.
The temperature drops as we descend underground, and the festive atmosphere becomes somehow more sinister.
The viewing chamber is like a twisted theater—rows of plush seats facing a raised platform.
Stage lights illuminate the space where women will be displayed.
Sorry, sold.
"Welcome, esteemed guests," a man in an expensive tuxedo addresses the room from the platform. "Today we present an exceptional selection of merchandise. As always, all lots come with health certificates and documentation. Delivery can be arranged to any location globally."
Bile rises in my throat.
"Bidding will be conducted in US dollars," he continues. "Payment is expected within twenty-four hours of purchase. And now, let us begin."
The first woman brought out is in her early twenties, trembling despite the drugs clearly in her system.
The auctioneer describes her like a car—age, measurements, "special skills."
The bidding is brisk, businesslike.
She's sold for three hundred thousand to a man who looks like someone's grandfather.
The second is younger, maybe sixteen.
I feel Imani's hand clench in her lap, but her face remains impassive.
This girl fights despite her restraints, earning appreciative murmurs from the audience.
"Spirited," the auctioneer notes. "Perfect for those who enjoy... training."
She sells for half a million.
The third woman is in her thirties, described as "experienced domestic staff."
The mundane evil of it—reducing a human being to her utility—makes it somehow worse.
Then they bring out the children.
Two girls, neither older than thirteen, clutching each other on the platform.
Sisters, the auctioneer notes, available as a set or separately.
"No," Imani breathes beside me, so quiet only I can hear.
Then louder, with perfect cartel princess authority: "Five hundred thousand for both."
Heads turn our way.
The auctioneer smiles. "We have five hundred thousand. Do I hear six?"
"Six hundred," someone counters.
"Seven," Imani says immediately.
"Eight hundred," another bidder jumps in.
"One million," Imani states flatly. "For both. Together."
The room goes quiet.
It's an aggressive bid, high enough to warn off casual interest.
"One million going once... twice... sold to Ms. Torres."
The girls are led away, and I see tears in the younger one's eyes.
Imani's just committed a million dollars of cartel money to save two children she's never met.
"Getting ambitious early," Don Carlos comments from behind us. "Saving your funds might be wise. I hear the special lots are exceptional today."
The next several women blur together—a parade of human misery.
Imani bids on two more, spending another million total.
Then the auctioneer's voice takes on a special tone.
"And now, esteemed guests, we present our first premium special. A two-for-one opportunity."
My entire body goes rigid.
"This particular lot comes with unique qualities. Twenty-six years old, speaks fluent Vietnamese, Chinese, Spanish and English, and has a few other tricks up her sleeve. Currently three months pregnant. Previous experience in... entertainment venues."
The door opens, and they bring her out.
Lashes.
Even drugged, even pregnant, even after three months of captivity, I'd know her anywhere.
The bright eyes that used to laugh at my jokes are dulled but defiant.
Her wrists are shackled, but she holds her head high.
The slight swell of her belly visible beneath the thin cream colored dress they've put her in.
Everything in me screams to move, to kill everyone between us, to get her out now .
But I can't.
I have to stand here and watch them auction my best friend like a piece of property.
"Bidding opens at one million," the auctioneer announces.
"One million," someone calls immediately.
"One-five," another voice.
"Two million," Imani says calmly.
I want to look at her, to thank her, but I can't break character.
"Two-five," Don Carlos counters, sounding amused.
"Three," Imani responds.
The bidding war escalates quickly.
These monsters can sense something special about Lashes, even drugged and chained.
Her spirit hasn't been completely broken.
"Four million," a new bidder enters.
"Five," Imani says without hesitation.
Murmurs ripple through the room.
The Torres princess is serious about her shopping.
"Six million," Don Carlos pushes.
"Seven," Imani counters immediately.
"That's quite an investment," Carlos notes. "Your father must have given you quite the budget."
"Eight million," she says, ignoring his probe.
The room goes silent.
Eight million dollars for one woman—even a pregnant one—is extraordinary.
"Eight million going once..." the auctioneer draws it out, sensing drama. "Going twice..."
I hold my breath.
"Sold! To Ms. Torres for eight million dollars."
Relief floods through me so hard my knees almost buckle.
We have her, but we didn't have that much in resources. I know Imani can get the rest of the funds, but fuck.
After three months, we have Lashes.
Now we just have to get her—and the five others Imani purchased—out of here alive.
As they lead Lashes away, her eyes sweep the crowd one last time.
For just a moment, they lock with mine.
Recognition flares—she knows me, even through the drugs and trauma.
Her lips move slightly. Just one word I can read:
"Brick."
Then she's gone, and I have to stand here playing bodyguard while my heart shatters into pieces.
The auction continues, but I barely process it.
All I can think about is Lashes, pregnant and chained, being led back to a cell to await "delivery."
Finally, mercifully, it ends.
"Congratulations on your purchases," the auctioneer addresses Imani directly. "Quite an impressive first showing. Delivery arrangements?"
"We'll take possession immediately," she says with imperial command. "I have transportation waiting."
"Of course. If you'll follow our staff to the processing area."
We're led through a series of corridors to what looks like a loading dock.
Other buyers are arranging their own transfers, casual as picking up dry cleaning.
"Ms. Torres," a man with a tablet approaches. "Five lots totaling twelve million dollars. Payment confirmation?"
Imani provides the banking codes without hesitation.
Alejandro's money, funding this rescue disguised as a purchase.
"Excellent. Your merchandise will be prepared for transfer. Approximately thirty minutes."
Thirty minutes.
I force myself to remain still, professional, while inside I'm screaming.
The thirty minutes while we wait crawls by.
Finally, our "purchases" are brought out.
The two teenage sisters cling to each other, terrified.
The two women Imani bought are in their twenties, drugged but mobile.
And Lashes.
Up close, I can see what three and a half months have done to her.
She's thinner even though she’s pregnant, bruises in various stages visible on her arms.
But her eyes—those fighter's eyes—still have spark in them.
Imani commands coldly, still playing the part. "Load them up."
Our vehicles pull up—large SUVs with Alejandro's drivers.
The women are herded in like cargo, handlers ensuring they're "secure" for transport.
I want to say something to Lashes, anything, but I can't.
Not here, not with guards watching.
"Pleasure doing business," the loading supervisor says. "Enjoy your purchases."
I've never wanted to kill someone more in my life.
We get in our vehicles, Imani and I in the lead SUV with the two girls and one of the women.
Lashes is in the second vehicle with Doom—he'll keep her safe.
"Drive," Imani orders once the doors close. "Now."
The convoy pulls away from the estate, moving at a steady pace that won't attract attention.
Every instinct screams at me to floor it, to get as far from that hellhole as possible.
But we maintain the illusion—just another buyer leaving with their merchandise.
"How long until we're clear?" I ask the driver—one of Alejandro's men.
"Ten minutes to the intercept point," he replies. "Extraction team is ready."
Ten minutes.
After three months, we're ten minutes from getting Lashes truly safe.
"You did really good even though you went way over budget," I tell Imani quietly. "Spending that money on the others."
"I couldn't leave them," she says, and now that we're away from the auction, tears stream down her face. "Those little girls... I couldn't leave children in that place. And honestly, if I only made one purchase it would’ve looked fishy."
"I know." I take her hand, squeezing gently. "We saved five lives today."
"Out of how many?" she asks bitterly. "How many women were sold today that we couldn't help?"
I don't have an answer for that.
The radio crackles. "Lead vehicle, this is Boulder. Intersection coming up in thirty seconds. Be ready to move."
This is it.
The switch from buyers to rescuers.
"Copy that," I respond.
The intersection appears ahead—a crossroads where one path leads to the safe house, another to the airport.
Our vehicles slow, then suddenly accelerate in different directions as the extraction team's vehicles merge into formation.
Any surveillance will show confusion, vehicles scattering, making tracking difficult.
"Status on package?" I radio to Doom.
"Secure and stable," he confirms. "She's asking for you."
My throat tightens. "Tell her soon. Very soon."
The airport comes into view—not the main terminal but a private section where Alejandro's plane waits.
We screech to a halt beside the aircraft, doors flying open.
Boulder shouts, wanting everyone to get their asses on the plane as quickly as possible. "Move, move, move!"
I help the teenage sisters out first, speaking softly in Spanish, trying to reassure them they're safe now.
They're terrified, confused, but they follow.
The other women are helped aboard, medical team ready to assess and treat.
Then I see her.
Doom is helping Lashes from the vehicle, supporting her weight as the drugs make her unsteady.
I'm at her side in three strides.
"Lashes."
Her head turns toward my voice, those familiar eyes focusing right on me. "Brick?" Her voice is hoarse, uncertain. "Is this... are you really...?"
"It's me," I assure her, taking her weight from Doom. "I'm real. You're safe. We're taking you home."
"Home," she repeats, like she can't quite believe it. Then her hand goes to her belly. "They... I'm..."
"I know," I say gently. "We'll take care of you. Both of you. Whatever you need."
She starts crying then, collapsing against me, and I carry her up the plane's steps.
Over three months of searching, of failure, of guilt—and finally, finally, I'm bringing her home.
"The others?" she asks as I settle her into a seat, the medical team moving in to check her vitals.
"Safe," I assure her. "We got six of you out."
"The Torres princess," Lashes says, surprising me. "They talked about her bidding. Said she spent a fortune."
"That's Imani," I confirm. "My... she's with me. She made this possible."
I don’t think now is the right time to tell my best friend that someone made an honest man out of me, that I have an ol’ lady.
Lashes manages a weak smile. "You'll have to tell me that story. When I can... when my head's clearer."
The medical team takes over, starting IVs, checking the baby, but this is just the beginning.
I step back, letting them work, and find Imani watching from across the cabin.
"We did it," she says softly.
"Yeah," I agree, pulling her into my arms. "We did."
As the plane lifts off, carrying us away from Colombia, I look around the cabin.
Six women are saved.
Six lives pulled back from the clutches of hell.
It's not everyone—not even close—but it's something.
And Lashes is alive.
Damaged, traumatized, pregnant by her captors, but alive.
Everything else we can figure out.
"Thank you," I tell Imani. "For the money, for taking the risk, for everything."
"We're partners," she reminds me. "Your fights are my fights."
I kiss her then, not caring who sees, pouring over three months of fear and frustration and relief into the contact.
When we break apart, our reality settles over me—my best friend is safe, and one battle is dealt with, for now.
We still need to deal with Diego, still need to rescue Imani's father, and still have an entire trafficking network to burn down.
But today, we have a small win.
Today we brought one of our people home.