Read FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6) Online
Authors: Lawrence De Maria
FACETS (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 6) (20 page)
A German Jew who escaped the Nazis as a teen-ager in the nick of time after Munich, Loeb knew the world was no place for cowards. His boy, Eduard, looked his cancer straight in the eye before succumbing just short of his 36th birthday and his granddaughter was made of the same stuff, unlike her mother. Of course, as a widower himself, Josef sympathized with his daughter-in-law. But he had opposed Eduard’s marriage to Catalin Lavalle. Her beauty was undeniable – she had been a finalist for the title of queen of the Fiesta Nacional de la Vendimia, the National Grape Harvest Festival – but her Basque antecedents were murky and her family poor.
“Eva Perón was a Basque,” Eduard, thoroughly smitten, had reminded him.
“So was Ché Guevera,” Josef retorted.
But, as he knew it would, love won out and Josef would not trade Alana for anything in the world. He fought a constant battle with his daughter-in-law over the child’s upbringing. The girl would someday inherit a small empire – the vineyard was but one family holding – built with guile and toughness in a region that rewarded both traits. She had to be prepared. Although still too young to fully understand, Alana knew her grandfather was a feared and respected man in the halls of power in Mendoza, Argentina’s fourth-largest city. She had been bounced on many a knee of men addressed as “Senador” or “Comandante.” And there were other men who visited the hacienda, usually at night, around whom the servants tread carefully. In the end, all of Josef’s planning went for naught. There was one battle that to the end of his days Josef Loeb wished his daughter-in-law had won.
It involved the annual tradition at Saint Adair that students who excelled were rewarded with a trip to Santiago to visit a sister school in a poor section of town, as well as the museums and churches of the vibrant Chilean capital. And perhaps, the girls knew, to do a little shopping at the city’s famous malls. Most of the students came from the upper grades but occasionally a younger student of exceptional achievement and maturity was selected. At just 13, Alana was the youngest ever chosen – and her mother was adamantly opposed.
“You are too young,” Catalin said. “It is a six-hour bus ride, through the mountains. And Santiago is no place for a child.”
“But Mama,” Alana pleaded. “I ski in some of those mountains. And we will be staying at the Convent of Saint James. The nuns and teachers will be with us the whole time!”
Josef, of course, sided with the girl.
“Catalin! You do not give your own daughter credit for common sense. The good sisters will watch over her like a hawk.”
Of that he was sure. Alana’s marks were probably enough to have her selected for the trip, he knew, but his generous contributions to the school didn’t hurt. Eventually, they both wore Alana’s mother down.
“Did you remember to bring fresh underwear?”
Alana cringed as she handed her suitcase to the driver the Mercedes sedan. The man exchanged a glance with Josef Loeb and both suppressed smiles.
“Yes, Mama.”
“Two changes?”
“Mama!”
“Cait,” Josef said, “let the poor child go. She will miss the bus.”
Alana tried to get in the car, but her mother grabbed her.
“Be careful, my baby.”
“I will, Mama. Don't worry. All my friends will be there.”
“Don't fret,” Josef said. “She will be all right. She is a Loeb. It will do her good to see how other children live. And I wager she will buy you something nice in Santiago. And maybe something for her grandpa.”
“Oh, I will,” Alana said, kissing her mother and then Josef. She got in the car and rolled down the window. “I love you both so much.”
Two hours later the bus chartered by St. Adair wound its way along a twisting, forest road. It was a lovely day and the dozen young girls inside opened the windows to savor the fresh air and wave happily at villagers in the small towns they passed. But as the rose higher into the mountains, the air grew cooler and they shut them. Alana was glad of that. There was too much dust and she was wearing her best clothes. Besides, there was now nobody to wave to anyway. They were alone on the road except for a small white van behind them.
“Girls! Please keep it down!”
Sister Rosemary and the other chaperones were having little success quieting the kids, who were chatting, laughing and singing, all the while constantly seat-hopping. “Remember, when we get to Santiago, act like Christian ladies. The children you will visit do not have all that you have.”
Alana’s best friend, Bella, whispered loudly, “Including bossy nuns.”
Alana stifled a laugh as Sister Rosemary stared at them. The nun turned and walked up the aisle, trying not to laugh herself. She lost her balance as the bus lurched to a halt. Students reached out to keep her from falling.
Alana looked out the front window. A truck was straddling the road ahead. At its rear a canvas tarp was thrown open and men with rifles began jumping down. She heard a screech of brakes and turned. The white van had pulled up to the bus bumper. Four men got out. They were also carrying guns. Other armed men were coming out of the forest and converging on the bus. One of them walked up to the door and started pounding on it with the butt of a rifle.
“Open up!”
The driver hesitated and several of the gunmen began firing into the air. Girls screamed and clutched each other as the teachers tried to calm them. Fear was on every face. Finally, the driver opened the door. Two men reached in and dragged out the screaming man. Then they threw him to the ground and riddled him with bullets. His body bounced in the dust long after he was dead.
“God help us!” It was Sister Rosemary.
A grubby bandit wearing a cowboy hat stepped into the bus and looked down the aisle at the terrified passengers. Smiling, he crooked a finger at them and said, “Senoritas, por favor.”
The men, laughing, lined up the women and girls against the bus. A few used the barrels of their rifles to lift the skirts of the older girls. A nun who tried to stop them was slapped to the ground. A bandit raised his rifle butt.
“Enough! Stand back!”
The order was barked by a man dressed in military fatigues. The other gunmen fell sullenly silent at the approach of their leader, who stepped casually over the corpse of the driver. He looked down the line of women and girls. A few of them looked hopefully at him. He smiled.
“Take the women into the woods.”
Grinning wickedly, his men pulled the women out of line and started to drag them away. Some girls fruitlessly clutched at their arms.
“What about these,” one of the bandits asked, pointing to the girls. “They all have bee bites on their chests. We’ll make women out of them.”
“All right,” the leader said. “Take two more. But no children.”
The other bandit moved down the line of girls. In a brutal sexual triage, he lifted skirts and jammed his hand down their underwear. He finally reached Alana, last in line. She stood calmly as his filthy hand felt for pubic hair.
“Ah. Peach fuzz. A little young, maybe, but I think you will do, girlie.” His hand lingered and his face broke into a leer. What few teeth he had were stained by juice from cocoa leaves.
“Your breath smells like my dog’s anus,” Alana said, and spit in his face.
The startled bandit withdrew his hand and brought it back to strike her. His arm was grabbed by the leader.
“Pick two others. Go have your fun.”
The bandit tried to protest but was pushed away roughly. Grumbling, he grabbed two other screaming girls and dragged them away. The leader turned to look at Alana. He lifted her face with a grimy hand.
“Such beauty,” he said. “No tears.” He turned to another gunman. “Put the rest of them in the truck. But not this one.” He took Alana gently by the arm and walked her back to the white van, where a much older bandit stood.
“My grandfather will find and kill you.”
“That is why we do not kidnap for ransom, little one. Too dangerous. I want nothing to do with families.” He nodded to the old bandit. “Mateo, put her in the van. Give her something to drink. She is too valuable for the houses in Santiago. She will fetch a fortune in Buenos Aires. I know a place that likes them young and…unspoiled. Don’t let any of those animals near her.”
He walked away. Alana looked back at her friends being herded to the truck. Screams, and an occasional gunshot, echoed through the nearby trees.
“Don't look back,” the old bandit said, not unkindly. “It won't do any good. Just count your blessings.”
Alana turned to him, her face impassive.
One Year Later
“You are special, Alana. That is why I have not let them turn you out yet.”
“If I’m so special, why can’t I have a joint?”
Pappas laughed.
“You are too young, and it is not good for you.”
“But I’m old enough to fuck. Is that good for me?”
In the brothel Alana had been singled out for her innocence and ethereal beauty. Her only sexual partners were handpicked by Pappas, who was also training boys. Alana knew that while she would eventually be marketed as nubile “virgin” – her hymen surgically repaired to facilitate the illusion – she would also be expected to perform as a sexual athlete.
“It doesn’t seem to have done you any harm, darling. I’ve never had a girl who enjoyed sex as much as you do. I’m pretty sure you will never have to learn how to fake an orgasm.” Pappas gently ran a hand over Alana’s pubic mound and leaned over and kissed her left breast. “Am I wrong?”
Alana laughed and brushed the hand away. Vera was right, of course. The training had been an enjoyable experience. The boys were handsome and endowed, and tried to outdo each other in pleasuring her. Pappas, a mature beauty in her own right, seemed genuinely fond of all of them, and often joined their romps.
“You are soon to be 15, and will have to earn your living,” Pappas sighed, laying back against the pillows. “But it will not be too bad for you, my little princess. You will entertain only the richest. Maybe a young potentate will take a liking to you and bring you home. You will be set for life.”
“I’d rather an old impotentate, if it’s all the same.” Alana yawned and stretched her naked body languidly.
Pappas laughed delightedly. “Oh, Alana. You have been paying attention.” She got up and threw on a bright red robe. “Stay here, I have a treat for you.”
A moment later she returned with a handsome young boy of Alana’s age.
“Carlo!” Alana squealed with delight. “You are back.”
The two embraced. The older woman started to leave.
“Where are you going, Vera?” Alana asked. “Don’t you want to join us?”
“Not tonight, dears. Enjoy yourselves. I will see you are not disturbed.”
Alana and Carlo had been brought to the bordello within weeks of each other. After realizing that rescue was not forthcoming they found some solace in each other’s arms. Although their training included other young men and women, as well as private sessions with the madam, they were allowed exclusive time with each other. Highly sexed as she was, Alana enjoyed all her encounters with the other trainees, but none more than those with Carlo.
After an hour of teen talk, they had sex. Despite rising passion, they heard loud noises, including screams, coming from elsewhere in the huge compound.
“No wonder the old bitch didn’t want to stay,” Carlo said, slowing his movements. “There must be a big party going on. Rowdy bunch. Probably some sado shit.”
“Who cares?” Alana said. “Don’t move. I want to show you something I can do. We can come together.”
A few moments later, as they reached their peak, the door crashed open. Before either could react, a man in black fatigues rushed to the bed and pulled Carlo off by his hair and calmly slit his throat, then dropped him to the floor. Alana screamed and reached for her lover, who was gurgling horribly. The killer grabbed her and threw her on the bed.
“Go easy with her!”
Another man entered the room. A tall, commanding figure holding a smoking machine pistol.
“Put her in my jeep.”
Carlo’s killer wrapped Alana in a sheet and picked her up effortlessly. She clawed at his face. The other man patted her gently on her cheek.
“Easy child. You are going home. Cover her eyes.”
“Yes, Capitán.”
She felt herself being carried down the stairs. The man’s hand on her face smelled of cordite, the odor reminiscent of her days hunting rabbits or deer with her grandfather.
“Alana, for the love of God, please help me.”
Alana ripped away the hand. Vera Pappas and several other men and women, in various states of undress, were kneeling on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, guarded by men with automatic weapons. Vera’s hands are lifted in supplication.