| BOOK SIX | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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The dark side of globalisation, where good and bad co-existed, is the port in the storm for criminal organisations. Warren Enterprise is not exempt. In fact, the syndicate has used anonymising software to communicate and cryptocurrencies to trade since the beginning of time. It's how Warren built close relationships, wartime allies and strong connections with some of the world's most notorious drug dealers.
Although untraceable web operators are useful to buy and sell contraband and obfuscate internet protocol addresses, the submerged mass of maleficence, a place of sin and evil, where it is easy, unchallenging and inexpensive to buy and exploit young, vulnerable women and innocent children, is not somewhere the syndicate visited desirably.
Until recently, the intricate nature of the dark web was uncharted territory. However, in the aftermath of Carter Hughes' disappearance, browsing online auctions to raid local modern-slavery endeavours is an everyday requirement for the innovative, tech-savvy Nate Alzaim.
I have been forced to watch the unimaginable, the unspeakable tragedies of illicitness, in the hope of tracking down and identifying nine-year-old Carter and, in doing so, the inexpungible images of indecent children and sickening collection of child pornography spun an incessant wheel of atrocities at the forefront of my mind. Not even vice, drugs and alcohol had the effective power to let me forget. It is a permanent reminder of the gruesome realities of the criminal underworld, of all who have suffered and continue to suffer at the hands of unquenchable traffickers.
I think about the videos, the nameless, unidentifiable boys, glassy-eyed and soulless, pleading for their fathers, and the sad, scared little girls, pale-faced and roughed up, crying for their mothers, every night when I lie awake in bed, unsettled with too much left unsaid, studying the imaginary cracks in the ceiling, wondering if they had ever made it out of enslavement alive, if their kidnappers had sold them to the highest bidder yet, or if the angel of death had touched on their last breath.
I used to believe I had experienced the greatest ordeal, that Yolanda Kelleher, the drug-taking, alcohol-imbibing headcase and paedophile, who had a penchant for incest, was the pinnacle of pain, deviltry and deception, that living with the ghosts of my past, post-traumatic stress, as a result, was the epitome of misery and dashed hopes. But I drew strength from the vicissitudes of life and lived to smile for another day. I cannot, unfortunately, say the same for the missing children of our world, for the boys and girls in those recorded videos on invisible internet projects.
How do I unsee it?
How do I extirpate the bilious bile in my throat?
How do I turn a blind eye to salvage my sanity?
Ignorance is bliss.
Nate's laptop sat on the roof of the Bentley. He watched a burgeoning live trade of human trafficking taking place clandestinely, in the heavily guarded historic estate, with an extensive country house and acres, on the edge of London. And, by an unlikely coincidence, I just so happened to be in the same neighbourhood with an entourage of heavily armed soldiers.
