Agent Swann, FBI: Fucked, Blackmailed, and Impounded

Kayla Price was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping her morning coffee and scrolling through her emails on her phone as she did every day before work. As a police officer, electronic correspondence was part of her daily routine—messages from colleagues, updates on cases, notifications from the department…

A new message popping up from an unknown sender made her freeze. There was no text, just a video attachment. For a moment, horrible flashbacks surged through her brain, reminders of the last time an email like this had shaken her world. Against better judgment, she had tried to forget about it, deleting the video and praying that whoever was behind it would give up and leave her alone.

Was this a follow-up from the same sender? Kayla’s heart pounded as she hesitated, then clicked on the link. The moment the screen lit up, loud moaning and tinny grunts blared from her phone, making her fumble in shock. Her hands shook as she scrambled to turn the volume down. Gathering herself, she forced her eyes back to the video.

There, displayed on the small screen, was footage of herself from that night at Bubba’s bar. The dim lighting and shaky camerawork did little to conceal the identity of the dark-skinned woman servicing two white men at once. It was unmistakably her.

Watching this awful video a second time did not make it any easier. Quite the contrary. And this time it was a longer, more graphic version than the edited clip she had last been sent.

Kayla clasped a hand to her mouth, bile rising in her throat as she watched her own writhing, moaning image on the screen. This was a part of herself she had tried to bury, to pretend hadn’t happened. But now the evidence stared back at her again in lurid detail.

How had anyone obtained this video? The back of the seedy bar had been deserted, the sordid encounter kept discreetly to one cramped room upstairs. Could someone have been spying, filming through a crack in the door? The thought made her cringe.

She forced herself to watch until the end, looking for additional clues about the sender. As the video faded to black—after zooming in on the ignominious sweaty climax of two white men cumming inside her body—that same brief, chilling message appeared in stark, plain lettering:

Looks like you enjoyed yourself at Bubba’s! Maybe we could arrange a private encore viewing sometime. I know a certain gentleman who would be very interested in your little adventure. Sweet dreams, copper.

J

Kayla’s blood turned to ice. “J”.

It didn’t take a detective to recognize the thinly veiled threat. This had Joe Carter written all over it. The sadistic redneck she had somehow allowed herself to get involved with. That fat prick!

Over the next few days, Kayla agonized over what to do. Doubtlessly, Joe was ruthless enough to make good on his threats of exposing the video if she didn’t comply with his demands. The thought of her husband, her colleagues, her precious daughter seeing those revolting images...it made Kayla physically ill.

But she was reluctant to give in to Joe’s blackmail and become his plaything without a fight. She had worked hard to build a good, respectable life for herself, and couldn’t throw it all away on a whim. Surely there had to be some other way out of this mess. Some way to get the video back without degrading herself further.

So Kayla bided her time, maintaining an icy silence in response to Joe’s crude emails. She needed to get creative if she wanted to gain the upper hand in this dangerous game. But days went by without inspiration striking, the threat hanging over her head growing heavier.

Then late one night, another message from Joe popped up in Kayla’s inbox. Hands shaking, she opened it. This time, the video showed footage taken at Natalie’s apartment—high-res clips of Kayla on her knees snorting lines of cocaine off Joe’s erect penis, then hungrily taking him into her mouth.

Kayla gripped the edge of her desk, fighting back nausea. She had thought her reckless behavior that night had gone unwitnessed past their little foursome, but somehow Joe had been documenting it all for his twisted purposes.

As before, at the end of the video came instructions:

Time’s up, Officer Price. I want you at this location by Friday night at 12 AM. You’ll find the address below. Come alone, leave your phone at home and tell no one, or this video gets sent to everyone you know.

Bring your full police uniform. And be ready to start your training.

J

Revulsion churned in Kayla’s gut. Training? She could only imagine what depraved ‘lessons’ Joe had in mind for her. The thought of letting that vile man put his hands on her again sickened Kayla to her core.

In her vulnerable position, with a video like that as leverage, he would undoubtedly take full advantage. And the location—a tiny speck of a town she’d never heard of—was miles from where she lived, buried deep in the middle of nowhere.

Still, Kayla had to concede there were no good options left. Defiance would bring her life as she knew it crashing down. As demeaning as it was, could she stomach a brief return to Joe’s perverted world if it meant protecting her loved ones from the damaging truth?

Kayla sat staring into space long after the screen had gone dark, wrestling with impossible choices. Not only did Joe have video of her drug use and tryst at the bar, but he also knew she was a police officer, happily married with a daughter. The implications were terrifying.

At the break of dawn, Kayla came to a decision. She would make the trip to Joe’s farm, but she would go on her terms, prepared and clear-headed. No more reckless behavior or substance abuse clouding her judgment. She had to keep control of herself and the situation. It was the only way she might get through this with her dignity intact.

***

Friday arrived too quickly, the day passing in a tense blur. Kayla made an excuse to her superiors about taking a long weekend for personal reasons, then stopped by the precinct locker room on her way out.

She tucked her service revolver into her purse, choosing to arm herself despite the risk. If Joe tried anything unlawful, she wanted to be ready, though she prayed the weapon would remain unused.

From the top shelf, she retrieved her neatly folded police uniform—crisp, navy blue, the Metro PD insignia gleaming faintly in the dim light. Joe’s last email had been explicit about bringing it. She’d stared at the message until her vision blurred, bile rising at the thought of him turning her badge into some sick fetish. But she packed it anyway, shoving it into her duffel bag alongside a change of clothes. If she was walking into his trap, she’d do it with every piece of herself intact.

Reggie was working an evening shift, so Kayla left him a vague note about getting out of town for a few days to clear her head after a tough case. She hated lying, but it was better than making him worry. After a long hug with her daughter, Kayla headed to the train station to begin her journey into darkness.

Boarding the train, Kayla took her seat carrying only her duffel bag. Better to pack light for the trip. She had dressed in a conservative white top and blue pants, concealing her gun under a short leather jacket.

As the train lurched into motion, the gravity of what awaited pulled at Kayla’s heart. The rhythmic clattering of train cars would usually lull her to sleep, but tonight her mind was far too wired to relax. She stared out the window at the city sliding by, the familiar streets and buildings gradually giving way to sprawling suburbs and then rural countryside.

With each passing mile, Kayla felt herself being pulled further from the safe, respectable life she had built and into a dangerous underworld she thought she’d long since left behind.

But she had no choice. Joe Carter had made sure of that. The disgusting videos he held as blackmail ensured Kayla’s cooperation, binding her to his demands. She shuddered as flashes from the footage flickered anew through her mind.

It sickened her to remember how she had degraded herself that night, so out of character from the upstanding police officer and family woman she strived to be. If anyone saw those revolting images... Kayla swallowed hard. She couldn’t let that happen.

As the train rattled on, other passengers occasionally passed by Kayla’s seat on their way to the restroom or dining car. She kept her gaze fixed out the window, but she could feel curious eyes roving over her strong, chiseled features and athletic build.

At 6’ and 175 pounds of lean muscle, Kayla stood out, even in her casual clothing that failed to entirely conceal her massive thighs and broad shoulders.

She ignored the attention. Right now, she had more important things to worry about. The passing scenery, fields and trees blurred together as her thoughts raced anxiously about what lay ahead.

When dusk fell and the lights flickered on inside the train car, a throat cleared nearby, making Kayla start. She turned to see a middle-aged white man sitting across the aisle, watching her intently. He seemed to have noticed her furtive movements.

“You alright there miss?” He asked in a casual drawl, though his eyes were assessing.

Kayla released her reflexive grip on the concealed gun and smoothed her expression. No need to appear paranoid, even if she felt ready to crawl out of her skin with nerves.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she replied evenly.

The man looked skeptical. “If you don’t mind me saying, you seem a mite on edge for a lady taking a pleasure trip.” His weathered face cracked into a knowing smile that immediately put Kayla on guard.

She forced a polite return smile. The last thing she wanted was a conversation with a nosy stranger, but years of community policing had trained her to engage.

“Everything’s fine, sir, but I appreciate your concern,” she replied, her rich, smooth voice belying the turmoil inside. “Just have a lot on my mind with this trip,” she added dismissively, hoping to end the conversation there.

But the man leaned forward, dropping his voice to just above a whisper. “Now, I couldn’t help overhearing when you bought your ticket earlier. And that bag of yours looks mighty light for heading all the way out to Deer Creek Junction.”

Kayla’s pulse spiked at the mention of her destination—the rural town nearest Joe’s farm. She cursed herself for not being more discreet when purchasing the tickets. Clearly this stranger had his suspicions about why an anxious city woman of color was traveling alone to the backwoods.

Thinking fast, Kayla scrambled for a plausible cover story, one that would get this nosy man off her back. She forced a light, airy tone and a conspiratorial smile, speaking as if sharing a harmless secret.

“You’re right, I’m not just going for a personal vacation. My boyfriend surprised me saying he booked us a weekend at some charming country B&B near where he grew up. But he’s been acting kind of mysterious about the whole thing, so I’m a little nervous. Silly, right?” She gave a small self-deprecating laugh, praying her lies sounded natural.

Instantly the man’s demeanor changed, his expression softening with understanding. “Well say no more, ma’am! Can’t blame you for getting some butterflies about meeting beau’s family and all. I’m sure you two will have a lovely stay.”

Kayla exhaled in quiet relief as the man sat back in his seat, looking away. Her ruse had worked. Hopefully, that would be enough to keep well-meaning passengers from prying into her business, however benign their intentions.

The train rumbled deeper into rural farmland. Darkness fell outside the windows, swallowing the fading light at the horizon. Kayla leaned her head against the glass, staring out at the blurred shapes of barns and trees whizzing past in shadow. She thought of the cozy house she had left behind and the family within it—scenes of domestic warmth that now felt impossibly distant.

What would Reggie and Zoe think if they knew where she was headed tonight? The shame of it burned. They deserved none of the fallout from her rash behavior. She had to protect them, whatever the personal cost.

Lost in thought, Kayla didn’t notice she had company again until the smell hit her—stale cigarettes and poor body odor.

She glanced up to see a rough-looking man edging into the empty seat beside her. His flannel shirt bore suspicious stains and he badly needed a shave. Those beady bloodshot eyes leered, fixed unabashedly on her breasts.

Kayla shifted away pointedly, pulse quickening. She thought about moving seats but didn’t want to appear intimidated. Maybe if she ignored his untoward attention, he would lose interest.

No such luck. The man settled himself into the seat, manspreading until his thigh pressed against hers. Kayla grimaced.

“Evening ma’am,” he said, the words slightly slurred. Up close, she caught whiffs of alcohol on his breath. Wonderful. A drunk letch was just what she needed right now.

When Kayla didn’t reply, he leaned in closer, dropping his voice suggestively. “Awful lonely riding this here train all by yourself, eh? Bet you’d enjoy some, uh, company.”

His hand landed on her knee, grasping with clammy fingers. Anger flashed through Kayla. In one smooth motion, she seized his groping hand and bent the fingers back sharply, applying painful pressure.

“I suggest you return to your seat and forget this encounter, sir,” she said icily, “unless you want to explain to the conductor how you broke your hand.”

The man yelped as she increased the tension, his face scrunching with pain. After a few seconds she released him, shoving his hand away in disgust.

For a moment the drunk just stared at her, stunned and cradling his throbbing fingers. Then he scrambled back to his original seat without another word.

Kayla met his gaze across the aisle until he looked away, cowed. Her heart pounded, adrenaline still surging through her veins from the confrontation.

She hadn’t lost her edge—few dared tangle with a Black woman of her caliber once they sensed the strength coiled within her athletic build. But the encounter left Kayla unsettled. Did danger already stalk her journey, even before reaching her destination? She would have to stay vigilant.

For the remainder of the trip, Kayla ignored her traveling companion’s occasional sullen glances, keeping one hand on her concealed revolver. The world outside the train windows sank deeper into rural wilderness as they approached the remote town of Deer Creek Junction.

When they pulled into the sleepy station a little after midnight, Kayla looked around and found her cart to be almost empty. She tensed, nerves once more on high alert. Time to disembark into the lion’s den.

The train station was small and dimly lit, no more than a narrow enclosed platform. As Kayla stepped off onto the scuffed concrete, she found herself alone. An old depot was the only structure in sight, surrounded by expansive, swampy fields broken up by scraggly treelines.

The train hissed and groaned, preparing to pull away into the night. She stood frozen, unsure what to do next. Had she come all this way for nothing? The thought was both comforting and unsettling.

Then tires crunched on gravel and a pair of headlights swung into the adjacent parking lot. Kayla squinted against the glare as a mud-spattered pickup truck rolled to a stop before her. She noted rust spots dotting the body and a sizable dent in the front fender—clearly a work vehicle that had seen better days.

Unease gnawed at her insides. This must be her ride, sent to pick her up.

As the driver’s side door creaked open, Kayla’s hand slipped back to her revolver, heart pounding. She tensed, ready to pull it at the first sign of threat.

But instead of Joe or one of his cronies, the figure that stepped out was female—a tired-looking, middle-aged blonde wearing a red flannel shirt and work jeans.

“You must be Kayla,” the woman said without much warmth. “Name’s Maggie. Joe sent me to collect you.”

“Yes, that’s me,” Kayla replied, halting a few steps from the open car door. Her hand stayed near her concealed hip holster. “How do you know Joe?” she asked warily.

Maggie rolled her eyes. “We’re old friends, if that’s what you want to call it. Now are you getting in or should I leave you out here to freeze all night?”

Kayla debated her options, then reluctantly moved toward the truck. She had expected Joe himself to meet her, not this dour woman who apparently had ties to him. But the deserted train platform left her little choice.

Maggie jerked her chin toward the truck bed. “Throw your bag in back and hop in. We got a bit of a drive ahead of us.”

The passenger door squealed as Kayla hoisted her athletic frame up into the high cab. She sank down onto the worn leather seat, tucking her bag on the dirty floor mats. No need to leave her belongings out of reach.

The inside of the vehicle was cluttered with old food wrappers, tattered maps, and a grimy rifle rack bolted behind the seats. A miniature Confederate flag was stuck to the dashboard. The musty odor of sweat, motor oil, and tobacco smoke hung heavy in the air.

Maggie glanced over with an unreadable expression before reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a black cloth.

“Apologies for the inconvenience, but I have to blindfold you for the rest of the trip. Joe’s orders.”

Kayla frowned but gave a curt nod. “It’s fine. I expected nothing less.” Not that such precautions were necessary—she could barely see three feet beyond the window, much less make out any landmarks in this godforsaken place.

Leaning forward, Kayla allowed Maggie to tie the cloth over her eyes. She settled back as the truck rumbled to life and pulled off the lot.

Long minutes passed in tense silence. As the truck jounced down the rural roads, Kayla sat rigidly in her seat, pulse thrumming. She didn’t know where they were headed, only that trouble waited at the end. Her sole comfort was the revolver pressing into her hip, but she made no move to draw it.

Then Maggie broke the uneasy quiet. “So... you’re the uppity cop gal who’s got Joe in a twist.” Her tone held a mix of resentment and resignation.

Kayla bristled but held her tongue, unsure how much the worn-out woman knew about her history with Joe. Maggie seemed to take her silence as an invitation to continue.

“Can’t say I envy you. Joe’s put me through hell over the years.”

Kayla stiffened. Was this a kindred spirit, or some devious ploy to soften her defenses? She decided to assume the former, for now. “If he’s so awful, why help him at all? Why not just leave?” she replied.

Maggie scoffed. “You clearly don’t know Joe. Leaving’s not really an option once he sinks his claws in. I tried once years back and he made me regret it badly. Learned it’s better to keep your head down and survive however you can.”

Her bleak words sent a chill through Kayla. This woman must be another of Joe’s victims, compliant out of fear. What horrors had she endured at his hands? Pity almost stirred Kayla’s heart before she reminded herself that Maggie had still willingly participated in Joe’s schemes tonight. She was not to be trusted.

“So what’s he have over you then?” Kayla asked bluntly. “Blackmail? Threats?”

Maggie shook her head. “Nothing so dramatic. My brother owed Joe money years back so I agreed to work it off for him at that rat hole trailer park Joe runs. Only the debt never seemed to get paid down. He keeps me compliant with enough drugs and... favors.” Even from behind the blindfold, Kayla could picture Maggie’s face twisting with shame.

A wave of disgust rose in Kayla’s chest. So Maggie was essentially Joe’s sex slave, provided with enough illicit enticements to keep her chained in servitude. The redneck’s depravity knew no limits.

After about thirty minutes of tense driving, they turned off the main road onto a bumpy gravel path. Unable to resist, Kayla nudged the blindfold up for a quick glance.

They were on a narrow track tunneling into dense forest. Darkness pressed in on all sides, with no streetlights or signs of civilization. Tree branches scraped the roof and the sides of the truck as they pushed deeper into the woods. The seclusion sent Kayla’s senses into overdrive.

Beside her, Maggie caught the movement and quickly pressed a hand over the blindfold. “Hey, no peeking! Try that again, and I’ll have to tell Joe.”

“How much farther?” Kayla asked, hating the wariness that crept into her voice. Her hand strayed closer to the gun at her hip.

Maggie scoffed, her tone dismissive. “Settle down, Missy. We’re almost there.”

Fifteen minutes later, the truck lurched to a stop. A strange heaviness settled over them, the engine idling.

Then Maggie spoke in a flat voice. “Alright, you can take off the blindfold now.”

Kayla yanked the cloth from her face and blinked into the dim light. Through the windshield, the truck’s headlights cut through the gloom, revealing a weed-choked clearing.

An old farmhouse with a saggy porch squatted in the center, flanked by a massive barn and several rusted outbuildings, their paint blistered and peeling. Smaller shacks dotted the perimeter, their dark windows gaping like hollow eye sockets. In the background, a towering grain silo loomed against the indigo sky. The sight sent a chill crawling up her spine.

“Welcome to Redemption Farm, sugar.” Maggie put the truck in park but made no move to exit. “Hope you’re ready to be reformed,” she added with ominous finality as she cut the engine.

In the sudden silence, Kayla could hear crickets chirping and the low of cattle in the distance. She peered out into the gloom, trying to get her bearings, but could only make out indistinct shapes in the darkness beyond the headlights.

Reformed? Kayla’s skin prickled with unease, but she hid it behind a mask of cop composure. “Is Joe here?” she asked.

Maggie shook her head and leaned over to pop open Kayla’s door. “Nah, it’s just Eames and his boys for now, darlin’. Joe’ll be along soon enough I reckon—once you’re all settled in.”

The way she said ‘settled in’ made Kayla’s stomach lurch. She was beginning to suspect this decrepit farm was meant to be more than a simple rendezvous point.

Despite her uncertainty about Maggie’s loyalties, having the company of another woman had been a welcome buffer against the creeping dread. Now it looked like she would have to face Joe’s cronies on her own.

“This is as far as I go,” Maggie said, as if to confirm Kayla’s fears. “Eames will be waiting for you inside. He’ll show you what to do next. Just... keep your wits about you.” She refused to meet Kayla’s eyes, staring rigidly ahead at the dark house.

Kayla glanced between Maggie and the ominous farmhouse, hesitating. The woman’s tense, defeated body language sent fresh unease rippling through her every nerve. But the confrontation with whoever this Eames was—and ultimately with Joe—could not be delayed any longer.

Grabbing her duffel bag, Kayla stepped out of the truck, ankle boots crunching on the gravel drive. Without looking back, she started walking across the weed-strewn yard to the faded blue farmhouse, each step heavy but determined. This would not be where she was broken.

The air was alive with the drone of cicadas and pungent with the sickly-sweet stench of rotting hay. Behind her, Maggie’s truck revved up and drove off into the night, leaving Kayla alone with her dark fate.

Onward she went, up rickety porch steps, warped wood groaning beneath her weight. The front door loomed ahead, its once-bright yellow paint curling away in strips, like a snake shedding its skin.

Kayla paused, drawing a steadying breath as she pulled aside the screen door. She knocked three firm raps against the weathered wood, the sound carrying out over the moonlit fields, eerie and hollow. Standing tall, she rested one hand near the revolver concealed at her hip.

After an unbearable stretched silence, heavy footsteps approached from within, slow and measured. Kayla swallowed hard, her pulse quickening.

The door creaked open, revealing a stooped, gaunt man with leathery skin and lank gray hair. His ruddy face was etched deep with lines that made it difficult to pin down his exact age, though Kayla placed him somewhere in his sixties.

A scraggly, unkempt beard framed his thin, tobacco-stained lips, which curled downward into a rigid, sour twist. The pungent stench of cheap whiskey and sweat clung to his stained wifebeater, which stretched over wiry, sinewy arms, still lean with a lifetime of hard labor. His bloodshot eyes, rimmed with suspicion, raked over Kayla’s athletic frame as she stood planted on the porch.

Kayla fought to keep her expression neutral as she took in the man’s appearance. This had to be Eames, though he looked more like a character from a horror movie than the overseer of a farm. His cold, rheumy eyes lifted to meet her steady gaze, and she sensed the wheels turning behind them—assessing, calculating.

“Who’re you?” the man said in a scratchy baritone, his words carrying a distinct southern twang.

Kayla straightened her posture, projecting an air of calm authority. She’d dealt with plenty of unsavory characters in her line of work, and something about this man set off her danger alarms. Still, she couldn’t afford to show an ounce of weakness. Not here, not now.

“Good evening, sir. My name is Kayla Price,” she stated firmly, her rich voice a stark contrast to Eames’ gravelly drawl. “I apologize for the late hour, but I’m here to speak with Joe Carter. Could you direct me to him, please?”

The old man’s eyes narrowed, and he took his time responding, letting his gaze trail across her athletic curves. The leer in his expression made Kayla’s stomach churn, but she held her ground.

“That right?” Eames drawled, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone. “Ain’t seen a Negra ‘round these parts in a long time, ‘specially not a big ol’ bull like you.”

He leaned against the doorframe, casual and menacing all at once. With deliberate slowness, he turned his head and spat a wad of tobacco juice onto the worn boards by Kayla’s feet. The dark liquid splattered, nearly touching her boots.

Kayla bit back a scathing retort. The blatant racism and disrespect boiled her blood. But reacting to it would likely provoke him further. For now, she had to restrain her temper and play this carefully. Too much was at stake.

Taking a deep breath, Kayla forced herself to relax, unclenching her fists at her sides. She met Eames’ gaze steadily. “Is Joe here?” she asked, her voice level.

Eames chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Might be,” he said cryptically. “Might not. What’s it to you, blackie?”

Kayla kept her cool. “As I said, he’s expecting me. We have business to discuss.”

“Business, huh?” Eames smirked, revealing a crooked row of tobacco-stained teeth. “Well, ain’t you a fancy piece.”

He pushed himself off the doorframe, standing to his full height. Though still a head shorter than Kayla, there was a wiry strength to him that suggested he was more dangerous than his aged appearance might indicate.

“Joe ain’t here right now,” Eames said. “Besides, Joe don’t dirty his hands with this sort of work. That’s what he’s got me and my boys for.” His rheumy eyes glinted in a way that sent a shiver down Kayla’s spine. “But don’t you worry none—we aim to make you feel right at home til he gets here.”

‘This sort of work’, huh? So, Eames had known she’d be coming. Why not admit it from the start? Was he trying to rattle her, test her nerves, see how much she’d bend? Either this man was crazier than he looked, or a lot sharper. And until she knew for sure, she’d assume the latter.

After an uncomfortable beat, Eames pulled the door wide with a squeal of rusty hinges. He gestured for Kayla to enter with a mocking bow, his eyes never leaving her face.

Kayla hesitated, every instinct screaming at her to turn and run. But that wasn’t an option. She was in too deep now, and backing out would only make things worse—far worse. With a sharp exhale, she shook off the doubts and stepped over the threshold, into the dim interior of the farmhouse.

The inside was as neglected as the exterior, with peeling wallpaper and threadbare rugs covering creaky floorboards. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, the front room took shape: sparsely furnished with mismatched, worn-out pieces. A sagging couch faced an ancient TV set, while a rickety table pushed against one wall, its surface cluttered with empty beer cans and overflowing ashtrays.

Mounted over the brick fireplace was a moth-eaten moose head that seemed to follow Kayla’s movements with glassy eyes. Unsurprisingly, a large confederate flag draped over the opposite wall. The air hung thick with the stench of stale tobacco, unwashed bodies, and contemptuous masculinity. The combined odor made her stomach turn.

Kayla’s cop instincts kicked in, eyes darting around, assessing every nook and corner, taking in potential exits and threats. An open doorway led further into the house while at the far end, a set of rickety stairs presumably went up to a second floor. She heard muffled voices and movement from somewhere unseen. His sons, or someone else?

Already, this dilapidated dump gave her the creeps. She would need to stay sharp.

Behind her, Eames closed and latched the door with an ominous thud. He turned to leer at Kayla again. A chill ran down her spine at being trapped with this unpredictable country cousin. The revolver pressing into her hip beneath the jacket gave her some comfort.

“Make yourself at home,” Eames said, gesturing vaguely toward the couch. “Though I reckon a city slicker like you might be too prissy for our humble abode.”

“I’ll stand, thanks,” Kayla said coolly, not wanting to lower her guard or dirty her clothes on the filthy furniture. “How long until Joe arrives?”

Eames shrugged, moving past her to collapse into a threadbare armchair. He pulled a pack of unfiltered cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, filling the air with acrid smoke. “Hard to say. Could be an hour, could be tomorrow, or next week. Joe ain’t exactly punctual, if you take my meaning.”

Kayla’s heart sank. The thought of spending an indefinite amount of time in this rat hole with Eames was almost unbearable. But she couldn’t let him see how uncomfortable she was.

“I see,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “And I suppose there’s no way to contact him?”

Eames barked out a harsh laugh. “Ain’t got no cell service out here, Negra. And even if we did, Joe don’t take kindly to being rushed. Nah, you’ll wait until he’s good and ready, just like the rest of us.”

Kayla had had enough of this dancing around. “Let’s get one thing straight,” she said, using her impressive height to look down on the seated man. “I’m here because I have to be, not because I want to be. So let’s cut the crap and get down to business. You obviously know who I am, and Joe must have left you instructions or a message for me. Plus, Maggie said you’d explain what happens next. So talk.”

Eames chuckled. “Feisty one, ain’t ya? Don’t rightly see what Joe finds so appealin’ in yer kind, but that’s his prerogative I s’pose.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice into a nearby can. “Now why don’t you have a seat and we’ll have us a nice friendly chat.”

“I prefer to stand.”

“A’right then, stand. But this ain’t no trial, Negra—just us folks getting to know each other proper. ‘Haps you can start by tellin’ me a little about yourself?”

Throughout his speech, Eames kept glowering. Kayla got the sense her gender and ethnicity alone were enough to earn his contempt. His mock-polite tone grated, but she decided to placate him for now. Through all of this she had to remember her end goal: get those videos destroyed.

“Not much to tell. I’m an officer with Metro PD. Married with a daughter.” She kept it brief, offering nothing he wouldn’t already know from his sordid interactions with Joe.

“Police, huh? Can’t say I’m too fond of your kind. Always harassing hardworking white folk, sticking your noses where they don’t belong.” His voice took on an edge. “But seems you got yourself into a pickle, copper... into some things that wouldn’t look too genuine down at the precinct.”

Kayla bristled. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I’m here to meet with Joe. This arrangement is between him and me.”

Eames leaned forward. “I might not be privy to all the details, but I knows enough about yer ‘arrangement’, Negra. And I aim to begin your correctional trainin’ while Joe’s away, as per his and mine agreement.”

A cold tendril of dread crept down Kayla’s spine. Whatever these backwoods cretins had planned for her, it was definitely more than a simple meeting.

She straightened her shoulders, fingertips discretely brushing the revolver hidden under her jacket. “I don’t require any training, thanks. Now are we done with the chitchat? It’s getting late. If Joe’s not going to show, we’re done here.”

Eames guffawed. “Listen to the Negra barkin’ orders! We’ll break you of that habit soon enough. Now tell me the real reason a fine upstanding lady of the law like yourself would drag her ass out to our humble neck of the woods in the middle o’ the night. You come here to settle things the old-fashioned way?” His eyes raked over Kayla again, lingering on the gun-shaped bulge barely discernible under her jacket.

Kayla winced. Damn, he knows I’m armed. With her backup plan busted, she had to rethink her strategy, perhaps try a smoother, more honest approach.

“Oh, I think you know exactly why I’m here, Mr. Eames. Joe Carter has... information... that I’d rather not see made public. I’m here to negotiate its return.”

Eames frowned. “Negotiate, huh?” He lifted his lanky frame from the recliner and ambled over to stand uncomfortably close, rheumy eyes fixing her with a hard stare.

“Let me tell you how things work ‘round here, Negra. You don’t negotiate with Joe Carter, nor with me, nor nobody else. You do as you’re told, when you’re told. And right now, you’re gonna sit tight and wait for further instructions come mornin’.”

Kayla forced herself not to recoil as his tobacco-sour breath hit her face. This was going downhill fast. She didn’t want to spend a minute longer under this roof, let alone a full night. But balking now would get her nowhere. She had to play this game to its conclusion.

“Now I’m gonna need you to hand over that piece you’re packing. Can’t have armed guests under my roof, ‘specially not Negras. House rules.”

Kayla stiffened, her hand instinctively moving to her concealed weapon. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Eames tsked, shaking his head. “Come now, I may be a simple country boy, but I ain’t stupid. You’ve been favoring that hip since you walked in. Now hand it over nice and easy, and we can get on with the evenin’s particulars.”

Kayla frowned. Giving up her gun to this leering old racist was a crazy gamble. But refusing might provoke him into forcibly disarming her, or worse.

Keeping her movements non-threatening, Kayla reached under her jacket and withdrew her holstered service revolver, holding it by two fingers. She extended it toward Eames with barely concealed disgust.

“Don’t get too attached,” she said. “I’ll be wanting that back as soon as my business here is concluded. And just so we’re clear, I don’t need a gun to defend myself if things go south.”

Eames smirked as he took the weapon, his rough fingers brushing hers. “Smart move, copper.” He checked the cylinder, eyebrows raising. “Fully loaded too. What, you planning on taking us all out?”

“Just being prepared,” Kayla replied. “Old cop habit.”

Eames snorted. “Well, you can forget about them cop habits while you’re here. You’re in our world now, Negra. Ain’t no fancy badge gonna protect that big brown ass of yours out here.”

He tucked the gun into his waistband and gave Kayla a warning look. “Go on, now, walk ahead of me, nice and slow. Your room’s upstairs in the back where we can keep an eye on you.”

Kayla’s boots creaked on the old wooden floorboards as she ascended the narrow staircase, duffel bag clutched in one hand. The musty smell of neglect and decay grew stronger with each step. Behind her, Eames followed closely, his heavy breathing audible in the oppressive silence.

As they reached the landing, Kayla’s eyes darted around, taking in her surroundings. A dark, narrow hallway stretched before her, lined with peeling floral wallpaper and several closed doors. The ceiling was so low it almost brushed her high, multi-braided ponytail. Cobwebs clung to the corners and a thick layer of dust coated every surface. This place hadn’t seen proper care in years. She shuddered to think what it was used for.

“Last door on the right,” Eames said, giving her a rough shove forward.

Kayla stumbled but caught herself as she walked on. Her cop instincts were on high alert, cataloging every detail. Grimy portraits hung in tarnished frames on the faded walls, their subjects’ faces lost in the gloom. A faint scrabbling sound came from behind one of the closed doors—rats, most likely. A thick splintery door waited at the end of the hall, a crack of faint light leaking out from under it. Kayla approached it warily, hesitating before turning the tarnished brass doorknob.

As the heavy door swung open with a protesting groan, something hard pressed against her lower back. Her blood ran cold as she realized Eames was holding her own gun on her.

“Get in,” he said, jabbing the gun harder into her spine, his earlier pretense of civility evaporated.

Heart pounding, Kayla stepped through the doorway. The room was even more dismal than she’d imagined. Dim light from a single bare bulb cast deep shadows across cracked plaster walls and a water-stained ceiling. A narrow iron bed frame sagged in one corner, its thin mattress lumpy and stained. Dust motes swirled in the stale air.

Sparse furnishings stood in muted gloom—a rickety wooden chair, a small dresser with one drawer hanging askew, a cracked porcelain basin and pitcher in one corner. And there, set high in the opposite wall, a small window with thick iron bars on the outside.

No other exit.

Before Kayla could take in more details, Eames shoved her roughly from behind. She stumbled forward, dropping her bag as she struggled to keep her footing.

“On your knees, bitch,” Eames said. “Now!”

The gun barrel shifted to press against the back of her skull, the cool metal sending shivers down her spine. Kayla’s mind raced. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She’d come prepared to face Joe’s twisted games, but Eames’ sudden aggression caught her off guard.

Based on what Maggie had told her, and what she’d seen of the old farmer, Kayla had pegged Eames as a paid lackey—here to go over the basics while they waited for Joe. But the cold steel of the gun pressed to her head told a different story. Had she gravely misjudged the situation?

Slowly, reluctantly, Kayla sank to her knees on the gritty floorboards. Her police training screamed at her to fight back, to disarm her assailant, but she forced herself to remain still. One wrong move now could prove fatal, and there was more at stake here than her own life.

Beneath her legs, dark stains marred the rotting floorboards. Kayla recognized old blood splatter when she saw it. How many others had been held here before her? Were they ensnared women like Maggie? What had happened to them?

Kayla looked up at Eames past her shoulder. In the harsh overhead light, his pinched features looked even more brutal—small, mean eyes glittering with malice, a mouth twisted into a cruel smirk. This was a man who enjoyed inflicting pain.

“That’s right, copper,” Eames said. “Not so tough now, are ya?” He circled around to face her, keeping the gun trained on her head. “Now listen up, Negra. It’s time for you to start appreciatin’ your stay here at Redemption Farm. Learn to show proper respect for your betters.”

When Kayla opened her mouth to tell him what she thought of that idea, he grabbed a fistful of her braids and yanked her head back, forcing the barrel between her full lips. Cold metal clacked against her teeth, the acrid taste of gun oil flooding her mouth as her words died in a strangled croak.

Kayla gagged reflexively, fighting the urge to retch as the barrel pressed deeper, scraping the back of her tongue. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, fear and revulsion threatening to overwhelm her.

“You gonna behave?” Eames said, twisting the gun. The front sight post grinded against her palate.

Kayla tried to respond, but only managed a muffled gurgle around the intrusion in her mouth. Saliva dribbled down her chin. Images of her brains splattered against the wall flashed through her mind.

“I said, are you gonna behave?” he repeated, more forcefully this time.

Again, Kayla attempted to answer, choking out a garbled sound that might have been a yes. But it wasn’t enough for Eames.

“One more time, bitch. Nice and clear now.”

“Yeth,” Kayla managed to slur past the gun barrel.

A wicked grin spread across Eames’ weathered face. “Good Negra.”

He continued in a more solemn voice, not letting up on his harsh grip, “Now, we got ourselves a set of rules ‘round here, and you’re gonna learn ‘em quick if you wanna keep breathing. First rule—you do what you’re told, when you’re told. No back talk, no hesitation. Got it?”

Kayla managed a muffled “Mmhmm...” around the gun barrel.

Smack!

Eames’ free hand whipped across her face, snapping her head to the side. Pain exploded through her cheek and jaw as the steel barrel inside her mouth cracked against her molars.

Shit, that wiry bastard hits hard.

“Speak up, bitch!” he said. “And you’ll address me and every other man in this house as ‘Sir’. Try again.”

Kayla tasted blood in her mouth. She wanted nothing more than to spit it in Eames’ ugly face, but that would be way too reckless. Swallowing her rage and the coppery tang, she forced herself to pronounce, “Yeth thir,” past the gun.

Eames’ lip curled. “Better. Here’s rule number two: you speak only when spoken to. I don’t want to hear a peep out of you unless someone asks you a direct question. Clear?”

Kayla nodded silently, her dark eyes burning into his.

“I asked if that was clear,” he said, jamming the gun deeper. “Answer me properly.”

“Yeth... ith clear,” Kayla choked out. Too late, she added a “thir”, which earned her another slap to the face and more blood for her to swallow.

Eames gave her a cold stare. “Remember, you’re nothing but a worthless nigger whore here. Your fancy badge don’t mean shit. You belong to us now. Yer body, yer mind, yer soul. It’s all ours to use as we see fit. Understand?”

Kayla’s fists clenched at her sides, blood boiling as she glared up at him. This was madness. But her current situation left her little choice but to play along or eat lead.

The gun barrel tapped impatiently against the inside of her cheek. “I asked if you understand, pig.”

Another strangled affirmation from Kayla.

Eames grinned, clearly relishing her submission. “That’s more like it. You’re learnin’ already, Negra.” He eased up on the gun a fraction, allowing Kayla to breathe. “And lastly, rule three—there’s no escape. Don’t even think about running. We’ll hunt you down like the bitch you are and make you wish you were never born. Got that?”

Kayla nodded frantically, despite the steel jarring her mouth, desperate for this degrading ordeal to end.

But Eames wasn’t satisfied. He crouched down, bringing his face level with hers. His eyes were devoid of mercy. “You know, we got a saying ‘round these parts—the only good nigger is a dead nigger. Funny thing is, same goes for pigs. And you? You’re both. A pig nigger under my roof. How do you think that’s gonna end?”

He jammed the gun barrel against the back of her mouth, gnarled finger tightening on the trigger. Kayla’s breath stalled, heart pounding. This was it. She was going to die here in this godforsaken shack, her body left to rot in some unmarked grave. No one would ever know what happened to her—not her husband, not her daughter. They’d be left to wonder forever. And for what? Because she couldn’t keep her legs closed for one reckless night in the outback?

“Keep this in mind, Negra,” Eames said. “The only reason you ain’t feeding my hogs right now is ‘cause of Joe and mine’s agreement. But it just might be worth it to renege for the pleasure of pulling this trigger.”

To drive his point home, he shoved the gun barrel hard down Kayla’s throat. She gagged horribly, drool trickling from the corners of her mouth as she fought to breathe around the cold, hard intrusion.

“That’s it, choke on it, pig,” Eames said, cruelly twisting the gun as he withdrew, scraping her teeth on the way out. A thick strand of saliva connected the tip of the gun barrel with her dark lips before breaking off to trail down her chin.

“Now, I ask again, are you going to be a good little nigger slave and behave yourself?”

“Yes... I’ll be... good, Sir,” Kayla managed in between coughs and persistent gags, hating herself for every syllable.

“See that you do.”

Without warning, Eames flipped the gun over and slammed the handle into the side of Kayla’s head. Blinding pain exploded behind her eyes as she crumpled sideways. She lay dazed on the filthy floor, ears ringing, warm blood trickling down her face.

For a moment, she thought she might black out. But years in the boxing ring had toughened her. She would not give Eames the satisfaction of seeing her pass out.

His voice came as if from far away. “That’s just a taste of what’s to come, pig. By the time we’re done, you’ll be begging for scraps at yer Masters’ feet.”

As the room stopped spinning, Kayla pushed herself back up to her knees. She met Eames’ gaze defiantly, refusing to let him see how shaken she was.

He smirked. “Tough bitch, ain’t ya? Good. The weak ones break too easily. No fun at all.” He tucked her gun back into his waistband. “Get some rest, pig. Your training begins at dawn.”

With that ominous pronouncement, he strode out, slamming the heavy door shut behind him. The conclusive click of the lock sliding into place sucked all hope from the room.

Alone at last, Kayla doubled over, retching. She spat, trying to rid her mouth of the foul metallic taste. Gingerly, she prodded at her throbbing temple. Her fingers came away sticky with blood, a goose egg already forming, but the cut didn’t seem too deep.

With a groan, Kayla pushed herself to her feet. The room spun, and she had to brace herself against the wall to remain upright. Every step to the narrow bed sent fresh jolts of pain through her battered skull.

Sinking down onto the lumpy mattress, Kayla buried her face in her hands. What had she gotten herself into? This was so far beyond anything she had anticipated. How could she have been so naive, thinking she could handle whatever Joe threw at her? Now she was trapped, disarmed and humiliated, left to the mercy of cruel men with no conscience.

And this was only the beginning. What horrors awaited her when dawn broke? For the first time since embarking on her fateful mission, Kayla wasn’t sure she’d make it out alive.

As the adrenaline drained from her body, exhaustion swept in like a tidal wave. Yet sleep felt impossible. Her gaze fell on the iron bars. In the faint moonlight, she could make out the silhouettes of frayed clouds. Beyond that, only darkness.

Even if she could squeeze through, it was a long drop to the ground. And then what? Miles of rural wilderness in every direction, teeming with unknown dangers. She truly was alone out here.

Besides, running wouldn’t fix anything—not unless she got her hands on those videos first, or she would be right back where she started. And until Joe arrived, that option was off the table.

Wallowing in self-pity won’t help, she reminded herself. She was Officer Kayla Price—decorated law enforcer, mother, wife, survivor. She would endure whatever these bastards threw at her, find a way to clear her name, and make it home to her family. She had to.

For now, she needed rest. To heal, to think, to plan. Kayla stretched out on the stained mattress, not bothering to undress.

Outside the barred window, the night deepened. Crickets kept up their endless drone.