CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Remember that we can't kill anyone until we get information," said Whiskey.

"Fuck I can't," growled Rory. "I'm going to find out everything I can and then burn the entire damn island if I have to."

"Children, can we focus on the mission?" said Jean. "I'm all for killing the bad guys, but let's find the place where this kid came from first."

Trak and Rory took one side of the dirt-covered street, while Whiskey and Jean took the other. Taller, wider, thicker, they stood out, and standing out wasn't a good thing. Men stared at them suspiciously as they walked by, women shrinking away.

On both sides of the road were dirty bars with strippers and dancers, some male, some female. Doormen promised a good time, trying to wave them inside.

Kids didn't seem afraid of anything, running up and asking for food or money. Trak stopped at a food kiosk and paid for each of the children to receive a bowl of rice with vegetables. They thanked him, diving into the food, and his heart cracked, knowing that they would be back on the streets begging again in a few hours.

"We're not getting anywhere," said Rory. "I hate to say this, but we need to act like we're clients. We have to want something special."

Trak hated the idea of even pretending to want something so disgusting. But he also knew that it might be their only way of getting close to these places.

Spotting a bar across the street advertising strippers and other ‘favors,' Rory crossed and spoke to the young man at the door. Waving over his friends, they entered the bar, looking around.

"What did he say?" asked Jean.

"He just said we could get what we wanted from this place. I don't think this is it, though. There are televisions above the bar, there's music, and too many people who would see these girls and kids. I don't think the strippers are all eighteen and older, but it's not what we want," said Rory.

"Maybe I help," said a sweet voice behind them. "I help you, big boys. Tell me what you want. I get you whatever you want. Boy? Girl? Both? What you want?"

"No thanks," said Jean. "We want something unique." It sickened him to say the words, but they had to act the part. What he did notice the entire time was Trak scanning the building and every man and woman inside.

"What you want?" asked the woman in broken English.

"We want whatever we want," said Jean. She frowned at him, shaking her head.

"You want secret place. Not here." Jean looked down at her as she took a step back in fear of his dark gaze.

"What secret place?"

"Not here. It's few miles away. Costs lot of money," she said, looking at the men. She saw the growling faces of Whiskey and Rory and then caught the hate-filled gaze of Trak. "He want to hurt women."

Jean thought about his statement as he looked at his friend. The subtle nod of Trak told him that he knew what he was going to say.

"Yes. My friend wants to hurt women very bad." The woman shook her head, giving a strange sound with her tongue.

"I give you directions. You have lots of money?"

"We have lots of money," said Whiskey.

"Good. It costs lots of money for you. Don't kill those girls. They don't know better. They don't know what's happening."

"What do you mean?" asked Jean.

She looked around the bar and pulled the men outside through the back door into a small courtyard. One of the strippers was giving someone a blow job in the corner, but she just ignored her.

"Girls at the place you go to are prisoners. Girls here at this place have homes. They come and go. They can quit. They can work. Their choice. Girls at that place can't leave. Some born there and never leave."

"Why don't you help them?" asked Trak with a menacing glare.

"I like to live. Men who own the place are meanest men ever. Old men. Powerful men. They can't be stopped."

"Old men? Like us?" asked Rory. She laughed, looking up and down at the four men.

"You not old, baby. You experienced. These men old. Gray, hunched, big bellies. They like pain on others. They think it's fun. They want to see blood and hurt but don't like the girls to cry or scream. They die if they scream."

"Does the house have guards?" asked Trak.

"House? No house. No buildings. Outside like tents. Girls hear other girls hurting. It's sick," she said, pointing to her head.

"What about the police?" asked Whiskey.

"You ask lot of questions for men who want fun," she said, frowning at them. "You help these girls?"

"We won't hurt them," said Trak flatly. She nodded at him, looking around again. The stripper giving the blow job and her client were gone, leaving them alone in the courtyard to speak freely.

"Police get money to stay away and ignore complaints. If you complain to them, they tell the men who own the place, and you never seen again. They won't go near it." She handed them a napkin and started to walk back inside. "If you save the girls. Don't bring here. They take them again. You take them somewhere else. Far away."

The four men stared at one another. Jean pushed his hands through his thick hair, pacing back and forth. Of the nine Robicheaux brothers, he was the most in control, calm, cool. Until he wasn't. When he wasn't, he rivaled Trak in his temper.

With Whiskey and Rory, you knew they were pissed. You could see it on their faces, in their clenched fists. Trak was just Trak. His face was always dark, always dangerous.

"Get all the weapons, explosives, and detonators we have," said Trak. He looked down at the map the woman had given them. The sun was beginning to set, which would play well for them. "Tell the team to have a boat at this dock in one hour. Meet me here. I'm going to do a little recon."

Trak was exactly where he'd told the team he would be. Staring at a poorly constructed structure with tarps hanging over makeshift rooms. On benches outside were dozens of young girls, not one of them appearing to be over twenty-five, waiting for their time in hell.

Men, young and old, went in and out with their expensive watches, jewelry, and suits. Not concerned for the filth around them, they paid the exorbitant fees to do whatever they wanted in four-hour increments.

Silently observing, all four of the men practically charged straight at them when a young girl was dragged from one of the openings, blood all over her body, her face disfigured from an obvious beating. She was forced to take a seat on the bench and wait her next turn at torment.

There was no medical treatment, no one offering her help, no one washing her. She was nothing more than an animal to be abused. Even the other women could only look straight ahead, more than likely knowing that if they helped, they too would be beaten.

"Trak? Remember what Nine and Gaspar said?" Jean stared at his friend.

"No killing everyone." Jean nodded, then shook his head.

"Fuck that. Kill them all."

Trak gave a small nod and pointed toward the flashing light near the dock. Their boat was ready for the young women.

Most of the men were young, not much older than the girls being abused. The ones they wanted alive were the three sixty-somethings seated at a table beneath a ceiling fan hanging from a tree, counting money, drinking whiskey, and enjoying their lives.

"Rory?" said Trak. "Take those three. We'll take the rest. Whiskey? As we clear out the men, get the girls to the boat."

What helped the men the most was the thing they hated. The girls had been taught not to scream, not say a word, not fight. Taking the back openings first, they tried not to look at the girls at all. Very few were even clothed. They couldn't help that. What they could help was eliminating the men.

One by one, they killed the men sweating, hovering over their tiny bodies, and Whiskey would take the girls to the boat where the team of Cruz, Vince, and Otto were waiting. The girls were so compliant, so willing to do whatever told. It almost made the men sick.

By the time they reached the last man, Trak saw the face and knew exactly who it was. Rikovsky. Known drug trafficker, mobster, and terrorist. Judging by the razor whip in his hand, he was also April's tormentor.

"Who are you? Leave! I have another ten hours with my doll."

Trak looked at the girl on the floor. If she wasn't dead, she would be soon. Her body was bleeding an unhealthy amount, her skin sliced from her young, frail body.

"Are you deaf? Get out!"

Trak swiftly released one knife, hitting the man in his sternum. The shocked expression gave Trak the satisfaction he needed in the moment. It was small, but it helped to keep his focus. Taking a step closer, he gripped the whip, ripping it from his hands and tossing it aside.

"Who are you?" gasped the Russian.

"I am someone you know. Someone who has stopped you more times than even I can count. This time. I will stop you permanently. Welcome to hell."

When he was done, Trak sheathed the two massive Bowie knives, leaving pieces of what was once a man behind. In many ways, it didn't satisfy him at all. In some ways, he knew that he'd rid the world of one of the worst criminals on the planet. But it didn't help the young girl at his feet.

He knelt beside the girl, verifying what he already knew. She was dead.

"Rest, little one. You are at peace now."