Hades Squad Series
“You speak English flawlessly.” With a hint of an Irish accent. Intriguing.
“Gracias. Languages are easy. Not like the physics.”
What a half-assed conversation to be having in the middle of the ocean with a woman he’d just rescued from certain gang rape, being shot, and who knew what else. A curvy, luscious female whose virginity he’d just taken in front of four armed men. Talk about the best laid plans backfiring; Demon’s carefully plotted plan to capture the man who abused him, Pedro Nunez aka The Smiling Killer, was not off to a good start.
“What’s your name?”
Jacinta claims to have lived her whole life in a cloistered convent. Claims she’s an orphan. Claims she’s only lived in the outside world for fifty-seven days. Yet she’s the mirror image of Pedro’s sister, Rosa. The sister Pedro murdered fifty-seven days ago.
There are no coincidences in life. Not for a SEAL.
Is Jacinta Pedro’s ultimate revenge on Demon?
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Demon spun and froze. The asshole who’d asked the question carried a primed and pumped GLOCK. And he stood not five feet in front of Demon. He’d slipped up big-time.
Three ugly fuckers flanked the asshole. All with nasty weapons at ready: one Ruger, one Beretta, and one Sig. All .45 caliber. No amateurs in this bunch.
Had to be.
Someone had blown his cover.
He’d checked this very beach five times not three days ago, and save for early morning fishermen and the odd trysting couple, it had always been deserted.
Movement to the left of the asshole seized his attention.
Two women faced off just beyond Scumbag, circling each other.
“He is my lover.” The shorter female pointed at Demon.
He’d never set eyes on the woman who snarled the words. Not that he could see her features clearly. But he had never gone for overripe, short women with obvious Napoleon complexes.
“Make her prove it.” The other female -- tall, slender, blonde, and more his type -- crossed her arms and tossed the comment over her shoulder to Asshole #1, then turned back to the smaller woman. “Fuck him.Now.”
“No.” Overripe Female all but shouted the word, scaring a squawk out of a pelican that took flight in a staccato of beating wings.
“Why not? I would enjoy watching your lover fuck you. And then I will take a turn.” This from the thug with the GLOCK. The cove faced east, and the sun was halved by the horizon. The fading light cast flickering shadows, and the dusky haze played tricks with his vision. Demon couldn’t discern the thug’s features. Six feet. Two hundred pounds and all of it lean muscle. Brazilian-accented Spanish. Venom laced his words. Not the kind of man you turned your back on.
“I will take a turn once he is finished.” The fucker who’d spoken slurred his words. The wind changed direction, and Demon smelled the stench of sour liquor, unfiltered cigarettes, and stale sex. This fucker rode that vicious stage of drunkenness Demon recognized, a coward wearing the bravado high of alcohol and who knew what else.
The rhythmic pounding of crashing waves added a satanic drumming to the surreal scene: the tropical beach, the luxuriant stretch of coarse sand, one woman bullying another into screwing him; this was one helluvatwisted ambush.
“No.” The blonde hissed. “You cannot fuck your sister, Emilio.”
Demon steeled his expression, deciding on his next breath that Emilio would die by his hands -- a slow, excruciating death, involving the thug’s stones and a sharp knife.
“Half sister.” Emilio trailed the GLOCK’s barrel up Blondie’s neck. “And I fuck who I want, Consuelo. Maybe I will make him fuck you.”
A real woman hater.
“Emilio.” Consuelo didn’t seem concerned about the pistol’s proximity to her jugular. She sank to her knees and began unbuckling Emilio’s belt. “Watch him fuck Jacinta, and I will take care of you.”
“Take her from behind.” Emilio waved the weapon at Demon.
Demon didn’t move a muscle.
“He seems reluctant, Jacinta. I have a mind to see all of them fuck you. One after the other. Julio, you go first.” Emilio waved the GLOCK at the fucker who stank of booze and smoke.
What a prize, this Emilio.
“Me next,” the shorter of the two other fuckers declared as he jammed his gun into his jeans’ waistband and folded his arms.
“Fuck that, Diego. Me after Julio.” The last thug scowled, and he too jeans-holstered his weapon.
“Why do you do this, Emilio?” Jacinta edged backward.
Emilio shrugged. “Why not?”
Demon caught Jacinta’s hiss before she strangled the sound. He risked a quick glance. Hands fisted, she stiffened, and Demon knew if he didn’t act pronto, she’d try to make a run for it. Piss. He had no intention of dying on a remote Venezuelan beach. Screw the thugs; he edged around them to stand behind Jacinta. “She’s my woman.” Before Demon even finished speaking, he had Jacinta in a tight hold that preempted any movement on her part. “And I don’t fuck on command.”
“Can’t get it up?” Julio taunted, palming the cock he’d freed from his jeans. His unbuttoned shirt showed a belly that would make a full-term pregnant woman jealous.
“Please.” Jacinta tiptoed; Demon bent his head to her. A waft of hot breath feathered his ear, and he knew no one else had heard her plea. “Please.”
Jacinta had remarkable control. Save for the sheer terror in that fervent whisper and her death grip on his forearm, she showed no other signs of distress. She was even shorter than he’d estimated, and the top of her head barely cleared him midchest. These men would literally tear her apart. Even though the altercation screwed his plans royally, no way could Demon leave her with them. “Lift your right leg as high as you can.”
The blue dress she wore hiked up to her waist when she raised her leg. She was surprisingly flexible and stood perfectly still, one hand wrapped behind her right thigh, nose about two inches above her kneecap. He couldn’t help but notice her snow-white cotton panties. Little girl panties.
Shadows coated the details of her features. Long wavy hair, square jaw, no clue as to eye color or shape. He cupped one ass cheek, hooked an arm under her knee, and lifted her up.
Instincts kicked in, and she locked her legs above his rear.
“I don’t fuck on command.” Her pussy rubbed his groin, and damned if he wasn’t as hard as a steel girder in one second. The adrenaline. Must be. He palmed her ass.
“He will give me to them. Please do it.” Her soft whisper had his neck hair bristling.
Demon almost dropped her but instead whirled around and stalked toward the surf, assessing different scenarios. Counting on the sluggish response of senses dulled by alcohol and the fact that the only man with a ready weapon had a hot mouth wrapped around his cock, Demon picked up the pace and waded into the surf, not stopping until the water reached midboot.
“Get them!” A chorus of angry birds screeched their disapproval at Emilio’s roar, and the flapping of dozens of wings added to the confused reactions on the sloped beach.
Demon set Jacinta on her feet, tugged the dress over her head, and removed the strangely arousing panties -- counting on the men being distracted by her naked, curvy ass. “On your knees fast. Don’t face the sea.”
Working with lightning speed, he unbuckled his belt, unzipped his fly, and freed his cock.
Julio didn’t move but stared at Demon and Jacinta.
Demon had to keep them distracted, and only one scenario ensured that.
When Jacinta knelt, Diego took a couple of steps in their direction, his eyes glued to her spread legs and high rump.
Jacinta’s plump bottom glowed golden in the last rays of the sinking sun.
Emilio, gaze trained on Jacinta’s breasts, cupped the back of Consuelo’s head with one hand. His other arm hung loosely at his side and had the GLOCK in a two-finger trigger grip.
Demon figured he needed a three-minute diversion. The sunlight was fading quickly, and the crucial cover of darkness wouldn’t matter one whit if any one of the fuckers got a hint of what he intended.
Trying to shield her pussy from the assholes, Demon knew he didn’t have time to test her readiness, so he grabbed her waist and drove hard.
The sun took that moment to sink beyond the horizon, the hazy light vanished, and night, dark and dank, sank over the bay.
“Fucking shiiiiiiit,” Diego snapped. “I can’t see a fucking thing.”
“Get the flashlight, you fucking idiot!” Emilio’s shout masked Jacinta’s strangled whimper.
Ignoring the heat of her pussy, the sheer ecstasy pulling at his balls, and the clamping delight of the tight, tight fit, Demon covered her back and whispered, “The second he starts heading for the car, I’m going to roll you over a couple of times. Can you swim?”
“The fucking flashlight! Now!” Emilio bellowed.
Never had Demon encountered a problem withdrawing from a woman. Never had he hesitated to do his duty, but the sheer agony of leaving her pussy fogged his instinctive reactions for a nanosecond. He glanced up.
Diego and the other fucker were sprinting up the beach. The wet sand, their heavy boots, and alcohol consumption combined with the total blackness had them stumbling and tripping over their own feet. One fucker fell flat on his face.
Blondie had her arms wrapped around Emilio’s waist, and he was trying to shake her off.
The dark outline of Julio’s protruding belly hadn’t moved more than two feet.
Demon went into action.
The whole scene went down better than he expected, and they were deep in the thundering surf before the first shot rang out.
“Wrap your legs around my waist, put your arms around my neck, and take a deep breath.”
She never uttered a word, but did as he said and tucked her head below his chin.
Demon plunged into a cresting wave and dived below the turbulent undertow. SEALs could hold their breath for a long time, minimum of two minutes, but he could do five.
The Gulf of Paria -- fed by the mighty Orinoco River and the Atlantic -- didn’t have the clarity of the turquoise Caribbean Sea. So he couldn’t gauge her level of comfort or how long she’d last underwater with his eyes, but he could feel when her fingers curled tighter around his neck, and surfaced immediately.
Keeping her head well above water, he paddled and waited for her panting to subside.
“Better?” Even this close, he couldn’t see much save for the whites of her eyes and the small gap between her two middle teeth. She wore a little girl bra -- cotton, white, with wide straps. Probably necessary to support those large, round breasts. Damned if his blasted cock didn’t take that as somehow alluring.
“Yes.” Her wet hair trailed his forearms, and she clung to his shoulders. “Are we safe?”
“Yes.” No chance those fuckers could make their location. Not unless the moon made a sudden appearance. Even then, none of them looked capable of an accurate shot at this distance.
“I can’t see the shore.”
She’d have to be an eagle to see anything. “You will soon. We’re heading back in about ten minutes.”
“Nooo. Please don’t take me back there.” She straddled her legs higher up his belly, and her nails dug into his back when she locked her feet around his waist.
“They’ll expect us to head to the next bay.” He stroked her spine -- short, slow, even movements -- and her shuddering receded a tad. “They won’t expect us to return to the same spot.”
He could almost hear her mind ticking.
“Are you sure?”
The long sigh she blew out plus his continued rhythmic caressing eased the stiffness from her posture. She bent her head, and wet strands of hair grazed his chin. He liked the way she felt in his arms, all soft and curvy. Not to mention the plump ass cheek nestled in one palm.
“I can swim on my own. I can pull my own pounds.”
“Pounds?” He frowned at her.
“Is that not the saying?” She had settled back down, and now her naked pussy rode his belly button. The small, crisp pubic hairs covering her mound had his prick very, very interested.
“Your English pronunciation is good.” With a hint of an Irish accent. Intriguing. And her idioms needed a ton of work; he’d just figured out what she meant and grinned.
“Gracias. Languages are easy. Not like the physics.”
He’d bet odds she had wrinkled her nose. What a piss-assed conversation to be having with a woman who’d just escaped certain gang rape, being shot, and who knew what else. “Pull your own weight.”
“Ah. Of course. I can pull my own weight.” She let go of his neck.
“But you don’t have to. Relax.” Demon had no intention of letting her go, not until he had some answers. And her interrogation would have to wait. He didn’t want her spooked. Not yet. The tide was rising, and he wanted to use the strong current to speed their return to the bay. Demon turned them around.
“We’re heading back?”
He figured that was dumb-wad obvious, but she had just been through a shitload of hell and didn’t need a smart-ass remark. “Yes. We’ll go slowly.”
“How can you tell which way is back? I cannot see anything but blackness.”
“I have good eyesight.”
“You are a warrior?”
Demon didn’t bother to answer. He had no intention of giving away his identity or blowing his cover. If that hadn’t already happened. Had it been an ambush? And was she part of it?
“We’re almost there. When I squeeze you -- no more speaking.”
Jacinta didn’t seem to own the fill-in-the-silences chromosome most women possessed, for she said not a word during the seven minutes it took to reach the rolling swells that preceded breaking waves, surf, and beach.
“We’re getting close.”
“I still cannot see a thing.”
Voices carried on indulgent breezes, but she had reacted to his whisper by answering in kind, and his hearing picked up nothing but nature’s symphony. The wind’s speed kicked up a gear, and he knew the contrast between the warm sea and the cooler breeze would start the chills for her in about fifteen minutes.
“You’ll be able to stand soon. We’re going to need to get you some clothes.” He still had all of his, save the belt he’d had to ditch or risk injury to his dick or stones.
“Sister Helen is not going to be pleased.”
That had his eyebrows lifting. “Sister Helen?”
“Oh.” She thunked her head on his shoulder. “I am so in trouble for losing that dress. Not to mention the shoes.”
Demon grinned. Gang rape and death didn’t faze Jacinta, but the loss of a dress and shoes did. He liked her more and more. She was gutsy and had a drive to survive that equaled his. “Sister Helen?”
She groaned. “My mentor.”
He gave her a little shake and untangled her legs from his waist. “You should be able to stand now.”
“I can.” She touched down.
He held her until her stance steadied. “Stay here. I want you to be quiet and keep only your nose above the water. Got that?”
“I’m going to check things out.”
“You’ll come back?” Her whisper wavered a tad.
“Yes.” He gave her hand a squeeze and headed for the shore, pulled down the T-shirt that had ridden to midchest, zipped his fly, and buttoned his jeans.
Water sluiced off his wet clothes and boots as he threaded through the surf. The pungent body odor of the men who’d been on the beach had vanished, replaced by brine and the rotting seaweed low tide had deposited on the beach. A strand curled around his hand. He flicked away the weed and stilled. Other than the rhythmic crashing of waves, he heard nothing unusual. Julio, slob fuck that he was, had the rasped, heaving breathing of an asthmatic.
Demon scouted the bay and found tire tracks at the northern end. He followed the grooves and noted that two vehicles had gone north and one south.
He’d studied the satellite images of the area before beginning this mission. Two fishing villages bordered by steep mountains lay to the north. The heart of the Venezuelan tropical jungle lay dead ahead. Nine miles in the opposite direction across the Gulf of Paria was the Caribbean island of Trinidad. Southeast would take them through a series of rural settlements and then to the Guyanese border.
Until the reoccurrence of his malaria three days ago, he’d scouted the area with his normal anal attention to detail. Not once had he seen any unusual behavior. Until today. He’d fucking relaxed his guard. His initial reaction couldn’t have been correct. It couldn’t have been a deliberate ambush. Yet his honed neck-hair-bristling instincts couldn’t let go of the notion.
Years of SEAL deployments had taught him one vital lesson -- fucking coincidences didn’t exist. So if not an ambush, then what? One fact he knew: the beach had been compromised. No way could it be the emergency escape route Satan, his Hades Squad team member, had suggested. So much for the expensive equipment he’d painstakingly stashed in the cave at the far end of the bay. SEALs double-, triple-, and quadruple-checked every fucking detail of a mission. But he was more OCD than even Satan and just had to take one last inspection tonight.
Emilio wouldn’t expect anyone to head east straight into the Venezuelan interior, and that was Demon’s ultimate destination. But first he had to get Jacinta back to wherever she came from. If time allowed that little luxury.
His clothes, designed not to retain moisture, were almost dry. Demon tugged off his shirt, snagged it around one of the sea grape trees lining the beach, and then headed to retrieve his curvy package.
Before he reached her, Jacinta called out softly, “Is it okay?”
She was at his side in less than three seconds. “I knew you’d come back.”
The fact she had to say the words said otherwise. He scooped her up and carried her to where the beach turned into gravel and then soft grasses. After setting her down, he ordered, “Put your hands up. I’m going to loan you my shirt.”
Not once had she disobeyed an order. “I am fine. You did all the peddling. You need your shirt.”
“Paddling. You will wear the shirt. But you might want to take off that wet bra first.” He marveled at her calm. Not a single note of hysteria rode her voice.
The moon made a sudden appearance. Demon pulled her under the tree. “No time to argue, Jacinta. We have to get moving.”
“I can carry my brassiere until it dries.” She reached behind her back, undid the strap, and hung her head for a second before slipping the garment off.
“Bra. Not many people say brassiere.” Demon took the wet bra and slung it over his shoulder. Shit. He never had trouble controlling his breathing. And he never had trouble controlling his blasted cock. He wanted to tell her that she had magnificent breasts. Big-nippled, perfect, rounded globes that didn’t sag a millimeter without support. “Hands up.”
When she kept her head down, he nudged her chin.
Damn. She looked about to cry. Reaction had finally set in. Gathering her close, he shared his body heat and massaged her lower back, trying to ignore the soft press of her nipples, the supple silk of her skin, the whiff of lemon clinging to her wet hair. “Easy, honey. You’ve been so great tonight. Don’t fall apart on me now. I have to get you to safety.”
Sniffing, she lifted to meet his gaze and managed a tremulous smile. “I’m okay now. Can I put on the shirt myself?”
Reluctant to forgo the anticipated pleasure of skimming more of her soft flesh, he released her, stepped back, and gave her the garment.
She turned around to put the tee on. Moonbeams flickered through the branches above, and he got a leisurely up close and personal view of her gorgeous ass and a waist he estimated to be twenty-two inches at most. His stones fired tight and hard, and he was so close to shooting his wad that he had to concentrate on the branch of the tree above him for a good nine seconds before he risked glancing at her.
The T-shirt reached her just above the knee. Demon shook his head, not understanding how any female could look both demure and sexier than Aphrodite at the same time. He scooped her up again.
“I can walk.” But she looped her arms around his neck, and her teeth flashed white when she smiled. The tiny gap proved both charming and enticing.
“Not on bare feet, you can’t. As we walk, want to try filling me in on what happened earlier?” Demon had a feeling he could get used to having Jacinta in his arms.
He made it to the dirt road, and she still hadn’t uttered a word, and then the tension went out of her limbs. She’d fallen asleep. He’d have to teach her not to trust so easily.
What had he interrupted?
A brother who wanted to do his sister.
Demon had no truck for the half part. A half sister is a sister, that’s all there was to it. And a brother protects a sister. Period. Emilio was the sickest sort of fucker on the planet.
Ten to one, Emilio and his gang were dealers or worked for one of the cartels. With the waters between Trinidad and Venezuela almost impossible to patrol thoroughly and relentlessly, and the increasing isolation of Venezuela under Chavez, the drug trade in Trinidad had mushroomed like a deployed atomic bomb.
She muttered something that tickled a boyhood memory. A grin chased his lips when he recognized that she’d been conjugating the Latin verb for carry: porto, portare, portavi, portatus. He stopped dead in his tracks. Latin? Sister Helen? Her mentor?
He hadn’t fucked a nun.
A nun couldn’t have turned him on.
His half-hard cock refused to believe her a nun and refused to go flaccid.
He’d had three-ways, experimented with BDSM, done a few ménages, and never, not for a single moment, had he ever felt guilt. Until now. Not to mention a rising level of self-disgust. He was a man of honor. A man bound by his vows. And he’d fucked a nun. Double crapola.
© Jianne Carlo, January 2012
All Rights Reserved
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