Depravity Delivered (Mission Mercenaries Book 4), page 1
Table of Contents
Depravity Delivered
Copyright
Mission Mercenaries
Other Series in the Same World
Synopsis
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Social Media Links
OTHER BOOKS FROM MARIE JAMES
Depravity Delivered
A Mission Mercenary Novel
Marie James
Copyright
Depravity Delivered: A Mission Mercenary Novel
Copyright © 2023 Marie James
Editing by Marie James Betas & Ms. K Edits
EBooks are not transferable. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Mission Mercenaries
Lessons Learned
Mistakes Made
Bridges Burned
Depravity Delivered
Redemption Refused
Other Series in the Same World
Cerberus MC
Blackbridge Security
Ravens Ruin MC
Hale Series
Synopsis
The job I took was personal for my boss, but my abduction quickly made it personal for me.
There’s no forgiveness for the things they made me do to her.
It would be easy to point fingers, but what about the part of me that liked it?
Something triggered that sickness and left me needy.
I made a choice to protect her when I could, but the need to hurt her again is always in the back of my mind.
The crazy thing is, I see that same darkness in her eyes when she looks at me.
If we survive captivity, there’s still no guarantee we’ll survive each other.
Prologue
Ayla
4 months ago
“You have that same disappointed look Mom always had.”
“I do not,” I argue, looking away from my sister because I know exactly what look she’s referencing.
“You’re annoyed with something, and your face says it all.”
Alani stares at the side of my head until I face her. I don’t respond immediately because I know if I share what’s annoying me, she’s going to remind me that she’s an adult, and I can’t coddle her for the rest of her life.
“It’s nothing,” I assure her with a quick smile rather than telling her that I know she left out the fact that she’s in a coed dorm rather than one with all women.
She narrows her eyes at me, the same blue as mine, sparkling with the almost too-bright overhead lights.
I want to growl in irritation when some bro-dude yells about partying twenty-four seven in the hallway.
“I know how important this is for both of us,” Alani says, the direction she’s taking shocking me.
She clasps my hand in hers, and the kind gesture makes my eyes burn.
“It’s college. I have to be here. I promise I won’t get into trouble or skip classes. I know there aren’t extra reserves in the bank to cover me if I fail.” Her voice begins to clog with her own unshed tears. “I won’t let you, or them, down. I promise.”
Them. Our parents. The sting of their deaths is still raw even three years later.
I have a million things I’d like to say. I can count at least a hundred mistakes I’ve made over the last couple of years as her guardian. A hundred things my parents would’ve handled differently had they not died in a car accident when I was twenty. But in a way, I was still a kid then too, thrust into adulthood and asked to raise a fifteen-year-old girl because letting her go anywhere else was out of the question. I don’t regret it.
Do I wish my parents were alive every single day? Of course I do. We both deserved more time with them.
“You have a long drive ahead of you,” Alani reminds me.
“Trying to get rid of me already?” I give her a smile, but I can’t handle much more than a twitch of my lips.
“If you cry, then I’m going to cry,” she warns.
I blow out a harsh breath, trying to get better control of myself. I know I can keep calm in front of her. It’s something I’ve mastered in the last couple of years. She didn’t need to see me cry when life got to be too much. It wasn’t her fault that the stress of making sure she was taken care of and nursing school was almost too much to handle. We got through it then, and we can get through it now. Her leaving for college was supposed to make things easier, but I’m certain her being four hours from our home in Plano will only increase my anxiety level.
“I’m going to need more lemur stuff,” she says, changing the subject, something she has always been good at when the topic of conversation got too serious. “Did you see that girl in the hallway? Everything she brought with her was white, black, and purple.”
“I’ll keep it in mind for Christmas.”
Just the thought of having to wait until the holidays to see her again makes my skin crawl and my throat threaten to close.
I know she chose Lindell University because she needed a break. I know there were times I was more than a little smothering, but it comes with the job of being her sister and her parent. There were rules after my parents’ deaths that didn’t exactly match her age and activity level. She wasn’t allowed to drive after dark. If she needed to be somewhere, I would take her because she definitely couldn’t ride with anyone else. It really put a damper on her social life because there were days I had class or study sessions before I graduated that prevented her from being very spontaneous.
“Stop,” she says, as she swipes at a few tears that have wandered down my cheeks. “I’m going to be fine.”
“Don’t get—”
“Don’t get in the car with anyone,” she interrupts. “I know. Everything in town is within walking distance to campus, remember? We looked at the map together.”
The small town of Lindell is just right off campus. It’s kitschy and cute. Very quiet and safe. At least that’s what the brochure that came with Alani’s “Welcome to Lindell” packet said. It’s close enough to Austin, about an hour west of the state capitol, to keep from feeling like the town is out of touch with the world, but just far enough away to maintain its individuality.
“I’ll be fine,” she says when all I can manage is trying to blink away my tears. “Now, I’m not rushing you off, but I need to organize my half of the room before my roommate gets here tomorrow. I don’t think she’ll be very impressed with the way I have all my stuff scattered on her side.”
I give her a quick nod, wrapping my arms around her. I don’t hesitate to bury my face in her hair, wondering how Mom and Dad would’ve handled today. I know it would look different from lingering way past my welcome. I should’ve left not long after arriving, let Alani settle into her new independence, but I just couldn’t stomach the thought of dropping her off and heading back home so quickly.
“Trying to get rid of me already?” I tease, as I pull back from the hug.
“Yes,” she says without hesitation, a smile drawing up her cheeks.
I can tell she’s teasing, but it still hits me harshly.
“You call me if you need anything. I know you’re going to be tempted to get a job, but remember, we talked about just using the first semester to settle in and get the hang of everything. I’ve had the trust set up, so you have more spending money your freshman year. You don’t have to worry about work until this summer.”
“I know,” she says, but I also know Alani.
If she thinks she’s more of a burden or if there’s a way to help any, she’ll take it. She’d never tell me, but I don’t doubt she’ll be walking the streets of Lindell looking for “help wanted” signs in the windows no later than tomorrow afternoon.
She gives me one more quick hug before walking toward the door.
“I’ll see you at Thanksgiving.”
I nod, squeezing her hand as I walk past her.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I will. I promise.”
There’s something final and a little unnerving about how quickly she closes her dorm room door at my back, but I know exactly what she’s feeling. I felt the same way when my parents dropped me off on my first day of college. Alani wants the freedom that comes with no longer living at home. She’ll go through all the stages I went through, which means I also know to expect a call within the week, with her complaining about how homesick she is.
I dart out of the way seconds before colliding with a girl carrying a box she can’t see over. She mutters an apology when she walks past, and I refuse to wonder about her story, and why she doesn’t have someone here to help her. Alani and I aren’t the only ones who have arrived today without the help of a mom or dad. We aren’t the only ones to have suffered tragedy. It’s something I have to remind myself of often. Especially when I start feeling sorry for the two of us, when I start getting angry about the things we’ve clearly missed out on.
The lump that has been threatening to form all day finally lodges in my throat as I leave the dorm building and make my way to the parking lot.
I press my hands to the top of my car, knowing how dangerous it would be to drive home, as I sob. Internally, I chastise myself. I should have a better grip on things than I do right now. She’ll be fine. What are the chances that tragedy will strike the same family twice? I couldn’t tell you because the internet didn’t exactly give me much when I searched that very question. It also didn’t ease my mind, since it populated too many stories to count about families getting struck twice by tragedy.
I take a final deep breath, turning my head up to the dark sky, before opening my car door.
Feet shuffle behind me, and I turn a little to see whoever may be struggling to get a box from their car, but warmth hits my back. Although I know deep inside it isn’t Alani, my head also doesn’t go to a dark, ominous place, even as an arm wraps around me.
It’s a prank. Some college kids dared to scare me as a frat initiation or something.
But instead of chuckles and an apology for being a jerk, I feel a pinch in the side of my neck.
It doesn’t occur to me to scream for help until after my lips refuse to move.
My body grows heavy, my limbs hanging at my sides, even when I tell them to kick and scratch, to fight whatever this is happening to me.
I try to blink away the heaviness in my eyes, but my vision dulls, the lights of the parking lot shimmering after each blink, until my eyelids are just too heavy to keep open. The last thing I think about before my death is how grateful I am that I’ve set up Alani’s trust to ensure her school is paid for. Hopefully, she won’t grieve me so long that she runs out of money before graduation.
Chapter 1
Ayla
Present Day
I stare down at the bruise on my forearm, unable to recollect how it got there. It’s not from clumsiness. It’s not marking my skin because I hit it on something. I can’t recall the exact moment I was hurt because I’m hurt so often, it all starts to meld together.
I lift my eyes, wondering what made the noise that drew me out of my head, but no one passes in front of the doorway to my room. I’ve never seen a door hung on the hinges that remain.
Most would think that leaving would be easy, that attempting an escape would be too hard to resist with not being trapped inside, but my shackles don’t come in the form of iron around my wrists. They have something much stronger that keeps me here, that keeps me compliant, that makes me do the things they demand of me without argument.
I fought them at first, of course I did, but these men don’t deal with threats of death, at least not threats to me.
My face is emotionless as a shadow darkens the door. I learned that showing fear is exactly what most of the men here want. They like us scared. They want us to beg them for our freedom. Not giving them exactly what they want the second they arrive is the only way I fight them now, unless fighting them is what they demand, when really they want compliance. It took me a long time to figure it out, but once I did, the bruises, like the one on my forearm, were less frequent.
“There’s my pretty blue-eyed girl,” Pirro says as he enters, his accent thick with his Hispanic heritage.
I hate the sight of him, but I love these days. I’m damn near salivating at the bulge in his jeans. I know what it means, but there’s always the off chance that he’ll refuse me, that he’ll make me beg, make me feel absolutely worthless before giving me what I want.
“Good morning,” I tell him, unsure of which man I’m going to get today.
I’m a nurse, so I deal in treatment, not diagnosis, but I’d put money on the fact that Pirro is a true psychopath. His moods change more than any person I’ve ever met before.
There’s a tremble in my hands that I bury in the sheet around my waist as he strokes over the bulge in his jeans, his chuckle telling me that even after four months, I’m no more capable of hiding my excitement than I was the first time he walked in here and explained what he had for me.
Someone screams down the hall, and his grin falters, replaced with frustration. It tells me that he’s not very happy with whatever he’ll have to deal with, but I can only hope he gives me what I want before transitioning his focus to other matters.
Another scream, one that’s cutoff in a way that makes me want to cry, echoes into the room.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, reaching into his pocket. He tosses my weekly desire on the bed in front of me, but I learned my lesson about reaching for it.
Nothing happens around here until permission is given. I lost my privilege the first time because I was too eager.
“Go ahead, you stupid bitch. I don’t have all fucking day.”
“Thank you,” I tell him as I reach for the prepaid phone.
There’s only one number on this phone, and it’s labeled DON’T FORGET. It brought tears to my eyes the first time I selected it. It was the final reminder to play my part and keep my mouth closed. It’s as effective as it would be if it was named correctly.
“You would not believe who I saw in town yesterday,” Alani says, her voice jovial and full of excitement.
“Who?” I ask, my voice now calm and collected. It’s what’s required if I want to keep the privilege of speaking with her once a week.
“Derek Kaye, the bass guitarist from Beyond the Lies.”
“He’s a little far from California, isn’t he?”
I look up, locking eyes with Pirro as I speak with Alani. He listens to every second of my calls, waiting for me to attempt to alert her to my whereabouts as if I have any clue other than somewhere in Mexico.
“They played at a venue in Austin this weekend.”
“Did you get to see them?”
“I had to work.”
“I told you about—”
“I know,” she says, her mood shifting a little. “I don’t have to work, but then again, I really do, don’t I? I’m bored here, and with you away, I need something to do with my time.”
I frown, wishing I was there, wishing she were safe.
“I needed this for myself,” I lie.
“And Christmas?”
Silence fills the line.
“I figured it was going to be just like Thanksgiving. I’ve already asked Blakely if I can go to her house.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, clearing my throat because crying will make this call end faster.
“It’s fine,” she mutters, but I know it’s not.
She’s feeling discarded, but it’s better than the alternative.
“What am I supposed to do for summer break?”
“I’m working on it,” I tell her, my eyes once again looking up at Pirro.
He rolls his hand in front of him, telling me to hurry up.
“I have to go. There are—”
“Other people waiting to use the phone,” she grumbles. “Talk to you next week.”
The line goes dead, but Pirro checks to make sure when I pass the phone to him, before sliding it back into the front pocket of his jeans.
“It’s time to go to work,” he says, standing at the end of the bed.
There’s no arguing, no telling him I don’t feel well. It wouldn’t exactly be a lie. I haven’t felt well a single day since I arrived, and that sickness just grew when my expectations were laid out. I fought against them, uncaring about what happened to me. There was no way I’d ever do the things they wanted, but then Raul Cortez, the man who owns this place, sat across from me and wordlessly handed me a photo.
