The Flesh Cartel #3: Choices

together.
“No,” Mat said. “So you could save yourself.”
I’m sorry.
“I hate you. Coward. Weakling. Monster. Slave .”
Dougie would’ve cried if he’d had a drop of water left in his body to spare.
    “We’re about an hour out, Sir,” Roger said.
    Nikolai sat up straighter in his chair, switching his phone from one ear to the other. He already knew that, of course, had the RV’s GPS tracker up on his computer screen, had been monitoring it closely ever since he’d gotten home. But he still appreciated Roger calling to check in. A truly faithful man. A real rarity in this world, and Nikolai felt a burst of pride knowing he’d been the one to shape him.
    “Good to hear, Roger. How are my new projects?”
    “Well, the pretty one’s alive , at least. I’ve been monitoring him on the infrared cameras, like you asked. Haven’t opened the door to the cell since I put him there.”
“Good.”
“He’s not moving much anymore. Mostly just sits huddled up in the corner like a rodent. Should be good and ready for you by the time we get there.”
“Good. And the other?”
Roger sighed the sigh of a man who didn’t get paid enough to put up with this shit. Which was kind of true, because Roger didn’t get paid at all. Unless you counted room and board and Nikolai’s approval, and of course the privilege of being allowed to live after getting too old for his prior master’s tastes.
“Frustrating?” Nikolai prompted.
“You could say that, Sir. Utterly uncooperative. Tried to seduce me. Me !”
Nikolai allowed himself a laugh at that.
“So frankly, I’ll be happy to be rid of him, Sir. No offense. I just think he needs a firmer hand than mine, and these guards you hired are good at roughing him up, but that’s about it. Maybe next time you could send me with a staff of gorillas.”
“I know. But this one needs the mistreatment. You’ve done well. Thank you. ”
Roger sighed in absolute, exquisite pleasure. The pleasure of a man who knew how much his master’s thanks was worth. “I love you, Sir.”
And I you. “See you in an hour.”

    Mat woke to the RV switchbacking up a steep hill, the crunch of gravel under its tires. He was still strapped facedown to the bed, but nobody was touching him now, and it was easy enough to see out the opposite window. Trees. Endless trees. Familiar trees: mixed stands of poplar and hemlock, rhododendrons, and the occasional black walnut. Verdant and mountainous. It reminded him of home —their old home, before the UFC, before Vegas—of the narrow Appalachian corridor through West Virginia.
    Two of the heavies were missing. Up front, perhaps, with his not-ally; he heard voices there, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying over the noise of the straining engine and the tires on the road. The third heavy looked half asleep, slumped in a chair at the little kitchen table, chin propped on one hand and lidded gaze on Mat. Not that Mat could take advantage; the last three days had taught him how unbreakable the straps were.
    Mat looked back out the window instead. Hoping for a road sign, a landmark, anything he might be able to navigate by when they escaped.
All he saw was more mountains and trees. Not a crossroad, not a sign, not even a building or a driveway that might lead to one. They were truly in the middle of goddamn nowhere , on a single gravel roadway cutting through the wilds.
The nothing went on so long he got sleepy watching. Then again, he was so worn out and hardused, he sometimes got sleepy in the middle of being raped, on the rare occasions a guard was gentle about it.
But this did not bode well for their escape.
Another turn. The RV slowed. A driveway. A house—no, a mansion. Well, a sprawling, logsided chalet, anyway, the sort of thing you’d expect of a ski lodge or a lakeside resort. A beautiful vacation home for rich freaks who bought people, then? He supposed it made for a good place to hold your sex slaves captive; no place to run, no neighbors to hear the screaming.
As the RV drew nearer, a lean, tall figure emerged from the glass-fronted home and onto the wraparound deck, then practically glided down the stairs. Male, definitely. Strong, confident—the kind of carriage Mat recognized in other fighters, in men who knew how to take care of themselves and felt no fear. He held himself as regally as Madame had. Almost certainly their new “owner.” Then the RV turned, and he fell out of Mat’s field of vision.
A moment