Mission Delivery (Ex Ops Series) by Jessie Lane Page B

went right.
    As I passed one of the couches towards a hallway on the left, I saw a bridle and butt plug with an attached tail to it. Apparently, someone was into pony play.
    I was never going to be able to look at the horses on my dad’s farm the same way again.
    Without an in depth inspection of the residence, the only things we could see were all of those implements that had been meant for pleasure yet had been turned into something deviant and ugly. What the fuck would we have found if we dug deeper?
    I didn’t want to find out.
    No, I wanted to get in, see if our missing woman was still alive to be rescued, and then get the fuck out and go home to my woman—my very pregnant woman who had been way more understanding than I had expected when I disappeared for weeks at a time during the last four months while working these missions. What kept me going during the mission was the thought that, the faster we found the woman, the faster I could get home. It was the only thing that kept me from waging my own bloody path of destruction in my search for the sort of monster who would torture women that way.
    When we had gone nearly to the end of the hallway, the sound of flesh slapping flesh reached our ears from the last doorway on the right. Riley tried to quietly turn the doorknob yet found it locked and ended up kicking it open instead. I had barely made it into the room when the situation deteriorated to life or death.
    Our target had grabbed the woman he had been abusing and pulled her in front of him as a human shield with a knife against her throat. That knife of his had evidently been very busy before we arrived.
    The woman he held was covered in weeping cuts, a red trail from her breasts to her thighs. The scary part about her obvious torture was that the tears streaming down her face were silent. She didn’t even whimper when he roughly hauled her by her hair in front of him to save his sorry hide. It was as if he had trained her to keep her misery to herself. Anyone who had lived through that kind of hell didn’t deserve to die when freedom was standing right in front of them.
    For a few seemingly endless seconds, I looked into the woman’s green gaze, seeing only my wife.
    My gorgeous Belle had been kidnapped eight months prior by a ruthless cartel drug lord we had been investigating for black market weapons deals. Belle still carried scars from a mad man’s knife, much like the silent, defeated woman in front of me would carry for the rest of her life.
    As I watched between one blink and the next, Riley took the kill shot, splattering half of our subject’s head on the wall behind him. The woman collapsed to the floor in a heap of sobs; however, those cries had not been ones of sorrow. No. With a look of relief shining in her eyes, she shed tears of joy. Of freedom.
    It had taken four months—four long months —to track down the women a Cuban Don named Lazaro Sandoval had sold over the last couple of years. It had not been easy, but with this mission, we had finally ended our recovery of the women. One by one, we had located them, dead or alive.
    To our dismay, most of the women had been found dead. Their bodies were buried or burned to ash by their tormentors and left somewhere in a place their owner thought would never be discovered. The only reason we had found their remains was because Arturo was creative with that knife of his. It didn’t take long after he took it out and the blood started flowing before each of the men started sobbing the information we were looking for.
    Thankfully, Sandoval had only been a seller in the sex slave underground for a couple of years. In that time, however, he had documented the transactions of over a hundred thirteen women, all of which we would have never known about had it not been for Brett ‘Ice’ Grady. He was a former Green Beret who had worked with Lucas. He was the President of the Regulators Motorcycle Club that owned strip clubs, one of which ran a small