Thirty Days of Shame Read online

  30 Days of Shame

  Ginger Talbot

  Thirty Days of Shame

  Copyright 2017 by Ginger Talbot

  This book is intended for readers 18 and older only, due to adult content. It is a work of fiction. All characters and locations in this book are products of the extremely twisted imagination of the author.

  License statement

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is part two of a three part serial. Part one is Thirty Days of Pain.

  Thanks so much for buying “Thirty Days of Shame”! If you’d like to be notified of future releases, freebies, contests and more, please sign up for my newsletter at http://geni.us/Gingertalbot

  Contents

  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

  Prologue

  A rural area of the Pevlova Oblast, several hours east of the Leningrad Oblast, in Russia

  June 2017

  The countryside is a lush oil painting come to life, too beautiful to be real. A warm breeze ruffles the oak leaves, and the sunlight filters through the dense tree canopy, bathing the ground in syrupy golden light. The soft moss swallows the sound of footsteps.

  Not everyone can appreciate the day’s beauty, however.

  The cargo has been unloaded. The cargo is crying. It doesn’t matter. The area is thickly wooded, and there are no other houses for miles. No one to hear their screams, their pleas. They’re about to be hustled into the basement of a crumbling farmhouse, to await the auction tomorrow night.

  Cataha has been waiting for the cargo for an hour. Impatience chews at him as he walks over to the miserable, weeping crowd of women, huddled together on the weed-choked driveway.

  A man with yellow teeth and breath that stinks of onions grins and waves at the cargo. “They’re ready for your inspection, Mr. – sorry – Cataha.”

  Cataha gives the man, Ygor, a look that threatens death if he makes that mistake again. The man knows his real name from past dealings with him, but nobody speaks his real name here. He has chosen a new name – the Russian word for Satan – to separate himself from his past with one clean and vicious slice.

  “Mr. who?” His hand drifts to the Stechkin automatic pistol he has holstered on his right hip.

  “Sorry, sir.” Ygor swallows hard and looks at the ground.

  Once upon a time, Cataha would have killed the man for such a slip-up. Slashed his throat right there, as an example to the others. He doesn’t need weak, stupid dullards working for him. Now, with his forces and finances severely depleted, he is forced to tolerate fools. But not forever. And he has a very long memory.

  He turns to survey the delivery, and his anger recedes a little. A cruel smile curls his lips.

  Twenty women.

  Beautiful. Young. Terrified.

  The heavenly trifecta.

  There are four men guarding them, including Ygor, and one man stationed a mile down the weed-choked dirt side-road. He would like to have triple that number, but he simply couldn’t afford it.

  He used to swim in a sea of rubles, sable and pussy. His mansion could swallow a small town. Now he’s living under a fake name, in hiding, cutting corners everywhere. Hatred gnaws at his gut, and he imagines his enemies strapped down on a table in a room full of sharp instruments. Just like the old days.

  The sale of this shipment will help him get back on his feet again. And the inspection is his favorite part. The sheer terror that twists their faces, the beautiful symphony of their sobs…it sends a rush of blood to the groin.

  Their hands are tied behind their backs, and their feet are shackled together so they can only shuffle, not run. Their clothing is stained, and they reek of fear and sweat and urine.

  That’s all right. They’ll be bathed and stripped for the auction tomorrow night. Then they’ll each have their hands attached to cuffs on chains that dangle from the ceiling, and their shiny, clean bodies will be pawed and prodded by the horde of prospective buyers.

  He’d love to sample the merchandise, but they’re worth more unsullied. Much more. And he needs the funds.

  He can play with them a little, though. As long as their hymens are intact, they still command a virgin price. Tonight will be delightful.

  He walks up and down the rows of women, his gaze cold, fingering the small whip he carries on a hook on the left side of his belt. They see the whip and cry harder. That’s the point.

  He strides up to one of the prettiest ones. She has thick, shiny hair the color of sun-ripened wheat, hanging halfway down her back. Full hips. Her eyes are a pale blue. Her pink lips are plump. He wants to bite them until they bleed. He wants to splatter her pale flesh with cuts and bruises. He wants to feel the snap of bone beneath his fist.

  He slaps her on the side of the head. Best to establish his authority right away.

  “Get on your knees, whore.”

  She glares at him sullenly. He hits her harder, and she staggers but still refuses to kneel for him.

  He sees no fear in her gaze. Only contempt. That infuriates him.

  Once everyone knew his name, and trembled when they heard it. Now this stupid peasant slut thinks she can defy him and continue to breathe.

  “You want to play this game, bitch?” he roars at her.

  Without warning, he reaches between her legs and squeezes hard. She screams in pain and staggers back, bumping into one of the other girls.

  He moves forward and keeps squeezing, and grabs her by the hair so she can’t get away from him. She is frantic, writhing, as he crushes her sex with a vise-like grip. His men rush over to watch, their eyes alight.

  “Did your parents keep you pure?” he demands.

  She keeps squirming, tears of pain welling in her eyes, but refuses to speak.

  He already knows the answer, because these women were referred to him by a doctor on his payroll.

  The women are young, disease-free virgins, from very poor families. That is important, because they will be ignored when they report their daughters missing.

  The women came to a town where they believed they’d be working at a factory. They all had to submit to a medical exam when they arrived. Then all the women recommended by the doctor – the prettiest ones, who still had their hymens – were shuffled off to a separate dormitory. Last night, they were rounded up at gunpoint and hustled into a truck. The uglier women had no idea how lucky they were.

  He glances at the other women, who are cringing and crying. This blonde bitch is setting a bad example. He can’t let them get the idea that they can defy him. He needs them terrified. Compliant.

  It’s worth sacrificing one to frighten the others into submission. It will make the others more appealing to the buyers.

  And it will be so much fun.

  He twists his hand in her hair u
ntil she screams in pain, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. “You know what happens to women who try to give me crap? Let me show you, while your friends watch. I know you’re a virgin. And your first fuck is going to be your last, because right after I take you, I’m going to end you.” He starts to drag her away from the group so he can throw her down on the ground and stab her tender hymen with his dick.

  And still she refuses to beg, or even speak. She’ll be begging soon enough, when he knocks her teeth down her throat and she’s choking on her own blood. He’s stiff just picturing it.

  Today is a good day.

  Except it isn’t.

  One of his men is on his walkie talkie, and his expression is panicked. He must be talking to the lookout.

  “What is it?” Cataha yells angrily.

  “The police are coming!” the man shouts back.

  All four of them run for their truck, leaving him behind with the women.

  “What the fuck?” he roars.

  Fury chokes him. Not again. Not again!

  The local cops have all been bribed. This must be Politsiya. Federal police. How? How do they keep finding his operation?

  It’s that journalist, the one who writes for Reforma. Somehow, the wretched bastard keeps tipping off the police. Cataha has been shut down repeatedly this year. Brothels raided, women rescued and blabbing, his men arrested. Every time he starts to get ahead, he’s knocked back down again.

  Screaming with rage, he pulls out his gun and points it at the defiant blonde whore’s stomach. Just as he pulls the trigger, someone strikes him on the head from behind with what feels like a rock, so hard that he jerks the gun and misses the spine and vital organs, just catching the side of the blonde’s midriff. The rest of the bullets spray uselessly into the grass.

  The blonde goes down with a cry of pain, doubling over and wailing.

  The woman behind him bashes him twice more with the rock, shrieking like an Amazon. His head is exploding with pain and the pistol falls from his hand into the dirt. He falls to his knees and scrabbles after it, and the vile bitch kicks it hard, sending it flying into the underbrush. She’s as strong as hell. Stupid peasant bitch. Then she kicks him in the head with all her might, and he vomits into the dirt.

  Her hands were free, her feet were free…

  So his useless men did such a shit job tying up the women that at least one of them was able to get free to grab that rock. He needs his fucking gun! He would have mowed down every last one of those bitches and made sure they didn’t talk, but now he’ll be lucky if he escapes with his freedom.

  When he finds his men, he will open them up with a dull knife and unspool their intestines inch by inch.

  He can hear sirens now.

  He wants to kill every single woman there, but he has no time for revenge. He doesn’t even have time to go after the pistol. He runs for his car, vomiting uncontrollably, blood streaming down the back of his head.

  He flees, knowing that the disrespectful bitch he shot probably won’t even die. The thought infuriates him. He hopes that someday he’ll be able to track her down and finish the job.

  But now, even as he’s tearing down the road, tires spewing up clouds of dirt, he’s planning how to deal with that journalist. He’s just lost a huge amount of money, and the good will of his prospective buyers. He can’t risk pulling together another shipment until he knows he’s plugged the leaks.

  Cataha will live up to his name. He’ll drag that reporter straight to hell.

  Chapter One

  Day zero…

  Columbus, Ohio, July 2017

  It’s 10:30 a.m. and I stifle a yawn as I head to my lunch shift at the Cuppa Joe diner. I’ve already been awake for five hours.

  My aunt and my cousins were still sleeping when I woke up and spent two hours on the dark web, visiting websites that teach me how to hack, then practicing my newly acquired skills. I do that every day. I’m trying to find the answer to an urgent question. What is Operation Salvat?

  When I finished websurfing at 7:30 a.m., I woke up my aunt Anastasia and my cousins Helenka and Yuri.

  After a quick breakfast, we peeked through the curtains of our apartment before we left, scanning for anyone or anything that didn’t belong there. Only when we were sure that we were clear did we leave the apartment.

  Of course, we checked around us continuously as we walked to the private gym where we get free self-defense lessons, courtesy of a local women’s group. And we did the same when we walked back to the apartment building.

  We’ve only been training for a couple of months now, ever since we went on the run from Sergei, and I wouldn’t say we’re ninja-level, or even badass-level, or, okay, the least bit scary. But we’ve learned some cool tricks that would at least give us a chance if Sergei or my Uncle Vilyat or any of the other shady figures from our past came after us.

  I relax a little as I approach the diner. The sidewalks are crowded in the downtown district during the day. Crowds are anonymous. They swallow me up and I’m just one cell in a multi-celled organism. Invisible, indistinguishable.

  Cuppa Joe has a green awning and a big plate glass window that turns into a bright mirror during the day. It’s a movie screen reflecting back the comfortingly dull daily rituals of downtown life. Right now, like clockwork, office buildings spit out streams of cubicle drones on their lunch break, and they flow towards the strip of road where all the restaurants huddle together.

  I stare at the mirror-window as I stride up, looking for my reflection. As usual, it takes a couple of seconds before I can pick myself out of the crowd.

  But then, I’m not really me anymore.

  Three months ago, at the beginning of April, I was shoved into the back of Sergei Volkov’s limousine. He changed me, broke me, leaving me to put myself back together again. Broken things are never the same after you glue them back together, though. I am reinvented and made new, from the inside out.

  Now I wear glasses, although I have perfect vision and the plastic lenses are clear. I slashed my long dishwater-blonde hair into a chin-length wavy bob and dyed it brown. I used to wear very little makeup; here I paint and cake it on. Red lipstick, rosy blush, cat-eye eyeliner. Anything to blur the resemblance of my new self, Sarah Maynard, to my old self, Willow Toporov.

  They say change is good. But this is disguise, not change. My aunt, my cousins, me…we’re not much freer now than we were back in California, living under my Uncle Vilyat’s suffocating, abusive regime. Every decision we make, from what we look like to our daily schedule, is calculated to erase our old selves.

  Then again, Aunt Anastasia is no longer having her bones broken and her face tenderized by the man who swore to love, honor and cherish her. Nine-year-old Yuri has stopped flinching every time someone raises their voice or makes a sudden movement. Thirteen-year-old Helenka won’t be married off to a gross old mob boss for political advantage in a few years.

  I’m not sure why I’m in such a dark mood right now. Everything is going well. Two months ago, a sympathetic hotel clerk gave us a few hundred bucks of her hard-earned money so we could make it all the way to Columbus. Since then, I’ve managed to find passable fake identification for my aunt and cousins, and the kids can start school in September. Anastasia’s been weaned off prescription drugs, and she’s on the computer all day long taking online classes. She’s working towards a certificate in computer security. She and I have hacking contests sometimes. She’s at least as good as me.

  There hasn’t been a single sign of trouble, but I realize as I walk into Cuppa Joe that I’m unusually jumpy today.

  The familiar din pounds my ears, a mixture of conversation and music pumping from the jukebox.

  I stand by the door and do a quick visual sweep of the room. Nothing jumps out at me.

  Why is the hair standing up on the back of my neck?

  There’s already a decent mid-morning crowd as I punch my timecard and go into the kitchen to memorize the day’s specials. I scan the cu
stomers again through the window; lots of regulars, nothing seems out of place.

  But I remember what one of our self-defense instructors tells us all the time. Trust your gut.

  My gut is tying itself in knots.

  I’m still a few minutes early. I duck into the break room, head to my locker, and grab my apron and order pad.

  After I’ve tied on my apron and stuffed my pad and pens in the pockets, as well as some bills and quarters so I can make change, I call my aunt.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask her.

  “Of course.” Her voice is wary. “Why wouldn’t it be? Has something happened?”

  I don’t want to freak her out, but I want her to be on the lookout for…I don’t know what.

  “I don’t know. I just have a weird feeling. Can you make sure that Helenka and Yuri are okay?”

  “Sure.”

  A minute goes by. I hear her walking around the apartment, and then her voice is back, panicked. “Helenka is gone.”

  Fear blossoms inside me, and the stuffy room suddenly feels like a suffocating trap.

  Think. Don’t panic. Panicking never solved anything.

  “What about the alarm?” I demand. We have an alarm system with sensors on every door, every window.

  “Hold on, hold on…” I hear her hurrying down the hallway. “It’s still enabled. Someone entered Helenka’s code five minutes ago. I was in the shower; I didn’t hear. And Yuri was playing a video game with the headphones on.”

  That is against protocol. If she was in the shower, both Yuri and Helenka should have been on the alert, in case someone started kicking in a door or window.