The Taking Of Keeley

An eBook By Reese Gabriel.

CHAPTER ONE

Harlan Graves was the Man of the Hour. The Great White Hunter seated at the right hand of the Big Boss himself. It hadn't taken much to earn this honor from Pedro "El Lobo" Vendras, just the permanent elimination of Chico "La Cucaracha" Morales, his chief rival for the narcotic and flesh trade in this particular stretch of rock strewn, god forsaken Mexican desert.

La Cucaracha, which in English meant the cockroach, had died of a single bullet wound to the head fired from a high-powered rifle and Harlan Graves would not lose one minute's sleep over pulling the trigger.

As a paid assassin, Graves saw himself as a public servant and whenever possible, he sought to exterminate the worse of two evils. In the Vendras-Morales dispute it had been a toss up and the sooner Graves collected his fee and high tailed it back across the border, the better.

For now he was relying on the tequila as anesthetic to bear the company of the bloodthirsty killer and his posse, all of whom were currently gathered at a trio of food and liquor laden oak tables stolen from a nearby monastery.

The house itself, a forty-room villa set at the top of a virtually impregnable mountain pass, was a combination den of iniquity and military arsenal. A few years back the Federal Judicial Police, in a rare campaign of actual law enforcement, had tried to storm the place and been sent back to Mexico City licking their wounds.

As a warning against further incursions, El Lobo-The Wolf-had mounted the heads of five of them on his front gate. After that, the Federales went back to taking their payoffs like good little policemen.

One of Graves few consolations as he considered how much power he'd just handed The Wolf by eliminating his chief competition was that, unlike La Cucaracha, El Lobo drew the line at selling drugs to children under ten.

Big sport that he was.

"Another toast," thundered the square jawed, mustachioed warlord, raising his glass like the reincarnation of Zapata. "To the gringo."

"To the gringo," repeated one and all.

It was unanimous, of course.

In addition to the ever-present machine gun toting bodyguards standing vigilantly behind him, Vendras also kept a loaded Berretta nine-millimeter beside his wineglass. On more than one occasion he'd been known to settle disputes with it, as well as addressing such minor problems as poor table manners on the part of his lieutenants.

"Senor Graves," he poured another shot into Harlan's glass. "Eat. Drink. Mi casa es su casa."

Graves downed another bolt of the biting gold liquid--the only thing of value in the whole damned country, in his opinion.

"Gracias, Jeffe. You are indeed a great host."

Jeffe meant chief, though he might as well have called him god under the circumstances.

"This is nothing," scoffed the robust, barrel chested man in the white linen suit and slicked back hair. "You have not yet tasted the real meat, my friend. Jose!" he called out, "Traiga las putas."

A dozen young Mexican beauties were marched in, their fine brown bodies scarcely hidden by skimpy, brightly colored dresses. Heads lowered, looking more like condemned prisoners than the night's entertainment, they formed a line facing El Lobo.

There was no doubt they would do as they were told. Girls like this learned their lot early in life, having been unfortunate enough to grow up voluptuous and beautiful in a country where strong men took what they wanted without consequence.

They were playthings, to be exploited. So long as they gave pleasure and amusement, or brought profit in a bordello, they would live, maybe even well. Otherwise, they would meet an untimely end, probably somewhere out in the desert with a bullet to the brain.

This particular group was exceptional. Ranging in age from eighteen to around twenty-five, they were individually and collectively a treasure. Most had silky black and brown hair, though there was a redhead and even one little kinky haired blonde with a strapless dress that barely covered her thighs. There wasn't a single one any man wouldn't happily take to bed, putting her through the paces of whatever tricks she'd learned so far in Vendras' service.

You could bet those tricks would be extensive, too. Businessmen like El Lobo never left anything to chance. He'd have had these beauties trained, under the lash if necessary, to perform, satisfyingly and thoroughly, beating and breaking them till they became little more than sex animals ready to gratify the most perverse male desires imaginable.

Girls like these, to put it bluntly, were most generally used as fucking machines, working eighteen to twenty hours a day chained to filthy beds in roach infested rooms. It they were lucky enough to even have beds.

And then there was the torture. For while most of the customers would be content to simply spill themselves in one or another orifice, there were always a few who were out and out sadists, unable to get off unless a girl were brought to tears or screaming. Most houses, even the cheap ones, had a supply of whips and canes and, of course, men were free to bring their own props, everything from oversized dildos to the amazingly versatile cigarette, which could be lit and extinguished over and over on a girl's tied or chained body.

Graves remembered the first time he'd seen bite marks, a nasty infection having developed on a girl's breast. He'd asked the young whore why she hadn't sought medical help. She said she had, but that her owner, a used car dealer and city councilman in the town of Rios Ochos, had told her she wasn't making him enough money for him to go paying for a doctor or medicine for her.

Just for asking, the councilman had had the eighteen-year old runaway beaten. Graves took pity on her and left a hundred US dollars for her care. Just to make sure the man didn't try and keep the money himself, he'd promised to return a month later to check on her.

She was doing fine, at least as far as the bite went. Out of gratitude, she gave him the best blowjob of his life, her body being the only thing left for her to say thank you with. He'd offered to get her back to the States afterward, but she'd told him she had nothing to go back to.

Vendras' men were calling out to the girls now, shouting obscenities to them and blowing kisses. The nature of the comments made it abundantly clear what the men intended to do with the shapely females when they had their hands on them.

"Graves," Vendras elbowed him, the incidental contact creating in Harlan an instant desire to take a shower. "You see these women? They are the most obedient whores in all Mexico. One snap of my fingers, and any one of them will crawl to you, on her belly. Like a worm. Watch closely, though. I will show you something even better. Muchachos!" He picked up the gun. "Silencio!"

The grand host fired three rounds into the vaulted ceiling, already riddled with bullet holes. A rain of plaster fell on the remnant of the seven-course dinner and into the liquor glasses.

Needless to say, Vendras had their undivided attention.

"Strip, putas! Dance for the gringo."

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