Page 69 of Coveted By Cupid

“It could be worse,” Ruger says, shrugging. “Cupid could flay the skin off his penis instead. That’s always a fun one. What’s that technique called again, Scalpel?”

“Penile degloving,” Scalpel answers, disinfecting his medical equipment like he knows he may need to intervene at some point to keep our prisoner alive long enough to get answers.

Artem swallows loudly, his eyes shifting between me and the castration tool in my hand.

I give him a minute to inspect his future before I tell my crew, “Strip him.”

Our captive panics when Crypt moves forward, taking hold of his pants. He flails his body from the hook he’s restrained to, cursing and yelling at us to stay away from him.

Crypt grunts when Artem kicks him, but it doesn’t stop him from yanking our prisoner’s pants and boxers down his legs. When Artem is naked from the waist down, Crypt steps back.

Ruger cocks his head, squinting. “I didn’t know they came that small. No wonder he’s an angry prick. Cupid, you may want tail-docking scissors instead. The emasculator may be too big for this job.”

We all laugh, even the Mercy Ravens.

“Can we just cut off his dick already?” Oaks asks, doing his best not to get sick. “I want to get home to Muscles at a decent hour.”

“Fine by me. Grab his legs,” I say, stepping forward.

Ruger and Crypt each grab one of his legs, anchoring Artem in place. He struggles to break free, but cannot.

I’ve got the emasculator’s jaws around his pathetic cock when Artem cries, “Wait. Wait. Wait. I’ll tell you everything. Please, don’t hurt me.”

Scalpel snickers. “Wow. He broke fast.”

Agreed. It’s amazing how swiftly a man will flip on his people when you threaten to castrate him.

“Start talking,” I say, keeping the tool in place.

“His name is Kirill Volkov,” Artem says, licking his lips nervously. “He’s in charge of the Northern Rocky Mountain Region to the border of Wyoming.”

There’s typing sounds coming through the laptop as Chase works. “Got him. Kirill Volkov. Age fifty-eight. From Saint Petersburg, Russia. Did time in Black Dolphin Prison for a plethora of horrendous crimes similar to what the Black Market Railroad is known for. No mention of him after he left prison, meaning he’s been able to avoid authorities.”

My hand tightens around the emasculator. “Where is he?”

Sweat builds at Artem’s temples. “He moves—a lot—preferring to stay in his van to handle most of the business.”

“He’s not telling the whole truth,” Gauge says through the laptop. “Most traffickers have a holding area or an unfamiliar vehicle they use for moving the people they take. It’s too risky to use the same vehicle they use for abducting the women to transport them to a new location.”

“You heard him. Where does he hold the women he abducts?”

Artem trembles with fear, a tear tracking down his cheek. “Please don’t hurt my brother.”

Too late. His brother is a dead man walking, much like himself.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” I growl in warning.

“The older industrial park in Fort Collins. Trucks roll into a pole building to pick up the women before transporting them to buyers or slave dens.”

“Which building?”

“An old one on the outskirts, right near the highway. Looks dilapidated from the outside.”

“There are dozens of abandoned warehouses and pole buildings in that area,” Atlas says. “We need a better idea of the location for my men to go in without alerting them of our presence. We can’t give them an opportunity to escape.”

“Give more details or I’ll start snipping.”

“The red one!” he shouts, spittle flying from his mouth as he breaks down into harsh sobs. “It has a rusted roof. Please! Don’t cut me.”