Page 17 of Maddy's Justice

Others, the very lucky ones, would become household servants in heavily guarded mansions or estates. By the time these young women reached this level of debasement, they were so terribly wrung out, escape was not even a thought. The number of suicides was close to one hundred percent.

Finally, there were those who found an even more sadistic way to turnover their girls.

“Damn, Jim, it’s your night,” the island’s owner said to James Leland, U.S. Senator and Chairman of the Senate Finance Committee. He was also a solid, God-fearing, family values Republican.

“Seems to be,” Leland chuckled as the dealer pushed the pile of poker chips toward him.

The senator was one of six men seated around a poker table. They were on a small private island in the Gulf of Mexico eighty miles north of Tampico. The island’s name was Isla Cantador. The island was originally named from the belief that Spanish sailors could hear singing coming from it as they sailed past.

The island itself was barely a speck in the sea. Two miles wide at its largest width and five miles long. Roughly six thousand acres, it was all but useless except as a private reserve for friends of the billionaire owner. It was also long and straight enough for a ten-thousand-foot aircraft runway. How the drug smugglers had overlooked the place was anyone’s guess. At least until now.

Along with Leland, there were two other government types, both quite useful to the other attendees. One of the men, Frank Taylor, was a Deputy Director of the Internal Revenue Service. The other, Carl Fortran, was the head of the enforcement office of the Securities and Exchange Commission in New York City. Both men were civil service government employees and longtime members of what is now known as the Deep State and both were regular guests on the island.

The house they were in was a modest, eight thousand square feet with eight bedrooms on the second and third floors. Each had its own full bath and an ocean view balcony. There were also two fully furnished cabanas. These were housing for the owner’s special guests. Part of the entertainment. From the outside, the cabanas looked quite nice. Inside they were cell blocks. Last, but not least, was a very comfortable bunk house to accommodate the well-paid security detail. There were eight security members, including the poker dealer and bartender. All were handpicked by a psychopathic Brit, a former member of the famous SAS commando regiment by the name of Evan Carlin.

The other players at the table were the island’s owner and two special businessmen friends of his. Both of whom were itching to get at the main event of this getaway weekend.

“Thank you, darlin’”, the senator said with his Southern twang. There were two women as part of the staff and another woman to oversee them. They were all watching the game and serving the players.

Senator Leland was making his first visit to Isla Contador. His sexual itch for young girls, especially young Latina girls, had been discovered by one of the businessmen at the table. Seeing an opportunity to reel in a big political fish, the senator was flown to the island and spent the past three days enjoying the island’s playthings. No one in Washington considered Leland to be the brightest bulb on the tree. His naivete about his importance and invulnerability were easily exploited. There was enough film of him involved with the young girls for a full-length movie. If that was not enough, the poker room was outfitted with special cameras. Tonight, only two were being used. One on the front of the senator. The other held a clear shot of his cards. The fool did not realize the men at the table were throwing away winning hands and letting him win. Any grand jury in America would indict him for what was obviously bribery.

Leland, as Chairman of the Senate Finance Committee, was also serving as Chairman of the Joint Committee on Taxation. This was a Committee made up of five house members from Ways and Means and five senators from Finance. Leland, as chairman, was a behind the scenes senator with enormous power. As far as taxes and tax breaks go, what James Leland wanted, James Leland got.

Sometime soon, an emissary of the island’s owner would pay the good senator a visit back in Washington. The visitor would have photographic evidence of Leland’s corruption and a legislative agenda to push through to the president’s desk. Senator James Leland didn’t realize it yet, but James Leland was bought and paid for.

“Well, it’s after midnight,” the island’s owner announced. “You boys have an early flight out of Cancun to catch,” he continued referring to the senator and the two powerful bureaucrats, both of whom were already hooked and reeled in by the same people who now owned Leland. “I think it’s time to call it a night.”

“I’m just getting warmed up,” Leland said, laughing and pointing at his pile of chips.

“Yeah, if I sit here much longer, I’ll be signing over the island to you,” its owner joked. “Cash everyone in before they head for their rooms,” he told the dealer. “Sorry, no companionship tonight.”

“That’s okay,” Leland replied. “I gotta admit, I’m a little worn out from before.”

“Getting old, Senator?” Frank Taylor asked with a smile.

“Your day will come, my boy. Your day will come,” Leland said.

Taylor chuckled and said, “It’s already here. I could use a good night’s sleep myself.”

When the others had departed for their rooms, the island’s owner was sipping a scotch with his security chief. He waited for his hostess and sometime concubine, the woman who lived on the island full-time and ran it for him, Odessa Storm. At least that is what she claimed her name was.

Odessa was a Russian émigré with ties to the Russian Moscow mob. A beautiful, former whore herself, she was now the owner’s sadistic assistant.

“How much did the senator win?” he asked the dealer.

“Two forty-seven and change, boss,” the man replied. The two-forty-seven was two hundred forty-seven thousand. A de facto bribe fully recorded.

Odessa arrived and announced that everything was set for the next day. The girls were all cleaned up, patched up, fed, and sleeping peacefully. Each had been given a sedative that would put them out until morning.

“Good, I want them all rested and fresh,” the owner replied.

* * * * * *

“Another beautiful day in paradise,” the island’s owner said to no one in particular.

He was standing in front of the island’s runway hangar and waved as the Cessna Citation roared past. It was after 8:00A.M.and the government people were heading home. Watching with him was Odessa Storm and the omnipresent former British SAS member, Evan Carlin.

Carlin was five feet, eleven inches and one hundred eighty pounds. In a suit, the man looked like a fit banker or accountant. In reality, he was a soulless, sadist who had been allowed to resign from the SAS. Either that or face prison time for war crimes in both Bosnia and Afghanistan. There was one condition. Leave the UK and do not come back.

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