Anti-Hero (Wild Heart Ranch Book 4)

I’m quiet as I let myself into the large multipurpose space, knowing these little ones are on constant alert.

Seeing it now through adult eyes is another reminder of how awful this all really was—and still is. Nothing has changed. Against the far wall are the same ten sets of bunk beds. The other half of the space is split between a stocked kitchen and a living room. Teddy bears, baby dolls, and condoms are out on the counters, just like before.

Suddenly, I’m exhausted, and we haven’t even begun.

There are a dozen kids in here, which means there’s probably another handful scattered about the complex. Nobody says anything or looks in my direction, and I vividly remember hoping that by avoiding eye contact, I wouldn’t get picked.

That hardly ever worked.

“Who are you?”

I jump at the too-close voice and spin to face an enormous guard. I lose my breath as I recognize him.

Erik was right. Not all of them were johns.

“You look familiar. Have you been here before?”

Falling into character, I blink at him and lean into my Mexican accent as I answer in a high, breathy voice, “No hablo English. I sorry.”

“Hm,” he says, running his grubby hand along my bare arm. “I usually like the younger ones, but you’re cute.”

That was something I heard a lot, despite how young I’d looked at the time. It was a sentence that always chilled me to the bone. Still does.

I bite my lower lip, push down the bile, and clasp my hands in front of me. He goes in for a gross kiss, and I raise my still-joined hands, using their connection as leverage to viciously elbow him in the balls. He cries out, so I break his larynx and then his nose.

Spinning my curved blade in my palm, I shove it into his temple. Unlike Erik’s elegant little trick with New Orleans, this guy dies instantly. Damn, probably should’ve used the stiletto. Ah well. Plenty of bad guys to practice on.

A quiet gasp fills the space, and I look up to find a bunch of small faces with fear-widened eyes. It’s possible that murdering a bad guy while wearing a gingham dress and pigtails might not make me come across as a good guy. Or particularly sane, for that matter.

I set the knife on the counter and hold up my hands.

“Quien hablan español?”

Who speaks Spanish?

Ten of the kids shakily raise their hands. The other two kids look Asian, but I’m not sure how to ask about their language. I pull my phone from my other pocket and open the translation app. I hit the Hello button until the little boy responds to the Thai prompt and the little girl responds to the Korean. I speak in Spanish and let the translation give the message, first in Thai, then in Korean.

“My name is Ant. I used to live in this same building, and that guard I killed used to hurt me too.”

It’s easy to see who’s also been hurt by the guard, but perhaps our shared history gives them something to trust about me.

Shaking off the awful feeling, I continue, “I now save people from places like this. We are going to help you get back home, or if home isn’t safe, we’ll find a safe place for you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then suddenly, I’m surrounded by these kids who have seen way too much. I kneel and find myself hugged on all sides, which nearly takes me out.

“We have to be super quiet,” I whisper to them. “Does anyone know how many kids are on this island?”

A little boy holds up his hand. “There are fifteen, and I overheard Mr. Dante say another plane is coming in tomorrow.”

“Did he say where it was coming in from?”

“Brazil.”

“I’m on it,” Erik whispers through the comms.

I verify the count of the children in here at a dozen.

“Okay, my friend will take care of the kids on that flight. Do you know where the other kids are?”

He shifts on his feet, upset. “I don’t know. They go wherever Mr. Dante takes them,” the little boy says, tears forming in his eyes. “Please, don’t leave them here. We can’t leave them here.”

I shake my head. “We are only leaving the bad people. We have a friend waiting for us on a boat docked outside. I’m going to get you all there and then go back and help my friend find everyone else. Okay?”

They all nod, and I continue, “I’m going to need your help getting out of here. You’ll have to be very quiet. Do you think you can do that?”

Silently, they all nod their heads. I recognize the look of terror and daring hope in their eyes and remember with absolute clarity the gut check of having to trust someone I feared because all my options were bad. I quickly wipe away a tear, realizing that maybe I had been as brave as Erik says.

“What about the guards?” one of the little girls asks.

“My friend is taking care of them.”

“Does that mean he’s killing them?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I smile and wonder if I shouldn’t check in on her in a few years. “You won’t have to worry about them anymore, I promise. Now, we have to go. You have thirty seconds. Take your pillowcase and quietly—quietly—grab some clothes and whatever’s important to you.”

Most of the kids, having been stripped of the things that kept them tethered to their old life, grab only a handful of clothing. The brave little boy and another girl finish with their things and then gather clothing and items for the missing kids.

“If someone tries to stop us, I will handle them, but you can’t scream. You can’t make a sound. Even if I get hurt. Do you understand?”

I have to repeat the translation for the little Thai boy and resort to rudimentary sign language when that doesn’t work. I know he understands when his eyes widen in fear.

Carefully, I lead them out of the building. As we round the corner to take the pretty cobbled path leading to the dock, a young woman in a maid’s uniform nearly runs into me. The kids gasp but then swallow their reactions. I check with them, and they verify she is nice to them. From the looks of things, no one has been nice to her.

When I explain the plan in Spanish, tears spill down her cheeks, and she says two more little boys came in with one of the billionaires last night and are at the pool while he’s playing some sort of card game. She offers to grab them and asks if she can gather the rest of the innocent house staff as well.

Even though I’m taking a chance by trusting her, I know in my heart she won’t give us up. The people who work here don’t want to be here, and the children’s familiarity with them will help them feel safe.

We agree to meet at the path in ten minutes.

“I’m Ant,” I say, grabbing her shoulder.

“Maura,” she responds, pulling me into a brief hard hug before running off.

The children and I make our way down the path without further interference, but run-walking across the exposed dock is terrifying. Thankfully, the lush trees block most of the view from the resort.

A handsome man wearing canvas flip-flops, frayed khaki shorts, and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a white tank top jogs down the gangway to meet us. He’s sporting a deep tan and slightly overgrown hair whose tips have been bleached by the sun, but his accent sounds like English royalty.

“Hey there. I’m Tolly, Erik’s friend. Let’s get everyone on the boat as quickly as possible, yes?”

I translate his message and lead the kids aboard. Tolly startles when he realizes who I am.

“Ant,” he says, putting his hand to his chest. “You are the bravest person I have ever met. And I know Erik.”

I mirror his gesture, then we refocus on the task of getting these kids safely on the boat. Waiting for us on board are two very large men in tactical gear holding automatic rifles. Both are tall, handsome, and well-muscled with shaved heads. The only significant difference between them is the color of their trimmed beards—one is an orangey Irish red, and the other a rich shiny black.

Another man, older, sharply dressed in some kind of boat steward uniform, gestures toward the yacht’s nicely appointed saloon. The tactical twin with the red beard checks my backpack as the kids file into the posh room, clinging to each other.

As terrified as these children are, they still look at me with trust.

“I need to go back to grab the house staff,” I whisper to Tolly as Red Beard returns my backpack. Wasting no time, I pull off the dress, revealing a tank top and cargo shorts. “They’ll be waiting for me at the top of the path. After that, I need to help Erik find the rest of the kids and place the explosive devices on all the buildings.”

He nods, offering his arm for support as I unbuckle the Mary Janes and strip off the frilly socks. “My team here already helped Erik with bomb placement, so you just need to focus on the kids.”

“You have a team?” I ask as I shove my feet into thick socks and combat boots.

“Technically, they’re part of my estate’s security force,” he explains, pointing to the nearly identical merchants of death, “but they don’t like it when I leave them behind in the sleepy English countryside.”

Raising my brow at the number of weapons his guys are packing, I pull out a makeup wipe. “Tolly, question,” I say as I remove the first layer of sparkle.

“Yes, Ant.”

I gesture at the two hovering specimens as I grab my shoulder holster from my backpack. “You borrow these guys from MI6?”

The guy with the black beard grunts and Red Beard curls his lip.

Tolly laughs. “I believe you’ve offended the Ronalds.”

I tilt my head as I holster my gun. “You have more than one Ronald?”

He lifts his chin toward the pair in question, both of whom are giving me the stink eye. Not exactly the people I want to offend in the middle of a dangerous—and still very active—op.

“Apologies, gentlemen.”

I know better than to ask further questions about their service histories, which seems to set the Ronalds at ease.

Tapping my chin, I turn back to Tolly. “Mind if I ask another question?”

“If you dare,” he answers with a charming grin.

“When you say estate, do you mean castle?” I ask, grabbing another wipe to go after any makeup I missed.

He shrugs. “Well…not in the strictest sense, no. There aren’t any turrets if that’s what you’re asking.”

I narrow my eyes. “But I bet there’s a title.”

Tolly draws back, placing a not-so-innocent hand on his chest. “Someone likes his British dramas.”

I do, but that’s beside the point. Attempting to maintain some semblance of dignity while struggling to wrap my knife belt around my ribs, I send him my fiercest arched brow.

He bites his lower lip, then huffs a laugh. “Fine,” he answers with an exaggerated bow. “Lord Ptolemy James Filbert Llewellyn Middleton III of West Shropshire at your service. Happy?”

Even in the middle of all this, I can’t help but crack up. “I’m thrilled. I could also use a little help. Do you think your Ronalds would mind going back up with me?”

“That was the plan.”

At Tolly’s go-ahead, the Ronalds face me and stand at the ready.

I whistle as I stand in their shadows, craning my head to look into their eyes. “I’m glad y’all are on our side.”

Ronald Red Beard sends me a wink.

Shaking my head, I turn to the kids and translate what’s happening. While I’m assuming they’ll be traumatized and silent, their eyes sparkle and several hold their hands over their mouths as if to stop themselves from laughing.

“What? Did I leave some makeup behind?”

“Sus coletas,” one girl ventures.

Your pigtails.

I send a scathing glare to Tolly and the Ronalds, who all have the grace to look sheepish. Grumbling under my breath, I undo the pigtails, shaking out my shaggy hairstyle.

“Oh, how very fashionable,” Tolly says, grinning along with the kids.

“Shut up. I’ll be right back with the house staff.”

Stifling laughter, the Ronalds accompany me to the top of the path, where we meet Maura along with three other ladies in maid uniforms, two little boys, and one barefoot guy in some sort of island bellhop get-up.

The man hastily removes his little hat, tossing it to the ground along with the uncomfortable-looking jacket, leaving him in a white T-shirt and tan Bermuda shorts.

The relief I feel seeing those two little boys cannot be measured, and I’m also thrilled to see the women. The man, however, is another thing entirely.

“Is he safe around the kids?” I whisper to Maura as we quickly make our way back across the dock.

She nods, her expression serious. “José will protect them with his life.”

The Ronalds and I escort them onto the boat, where the children surround us. They run up and throw their arms around the staff, including José. Rather than looking pleased, José stitches his brows together. After a quick headcount of the kids, he starts shaking his head.

“Where are the triplets?” he asks, grabbing my arm. “Tres niñas japonesas.”

Three little Japanese girls.

Fuck these awful fucks and their awful, predictable predilections.

“I don’t know, but that sounds like the three we’re missing. We’ll look for them and won’t leave until we find them.”

One of the women wearing a maid uniform, young and timid, steps forward. “They were sent to villa number three.”

José’s eyes widen with panic. “That man is horrible. Please don’t leave them behind,” he pleads, tightening his grip on my arm. “He does these…tea parties…with the little girls.”

God, I wish Anders were here. But since he’s not, it’s up to me. I come up with an idea that I immediately hate.

“How does he feel about little boys in dresses?” I ask, my stomach churning.

“Yes.” José nods, thinning his lips. “Sometimes he requests that too.”

Before I even ask, Ronald Black Beard hands me the gingham dress.

“Keep your boots on,” he rumbles in a deep English accent. “In case you need to run.”

I nod in agreement, pulling the dress over my head. Reaching under the dress into my shorts pocket, I grab the rubber bands and quickly put my hair back into the pigtails. The little girl who found them so funny before looks up at me with wide eyes, like she understands exactly what I’m doing.

I turn to Tolly. “If there’s trouble, take off. Erik and I can fit anyone we need to take with us on the plane. Keep these kids safe.”

Tolly sends me that weird sideways English salute, then orders the Ronalds to accompany me as I head back up the path.