by Sierra Hill
My hand pushes down into the smooth leather of the purse, slipping into the side pocket, rooting around for the soft material of the pouch that encases the diamond. Locating it easily, I enclose it in my fist and extract it from the purse, all before Dorian has even lifted her luggage off the conveyor.
I just hope the rest of my trip here is as simple as this.
The ride into the City Center of Antwerp isn’t long, but full of interesting stories Dorian shares with me about her college years and her time spent abroad. The woman has certainly lived an interesting, if not sexually liberating life.
As the car turns down yet another narrow and cobblestoned street, I glance down to the address written on the scrap of paper my father handed me, crinkled and damp now from the sweatiness of my palm.
I’m nervous. Of course, I am. I’m in a foreign country I’ve never visited, I’m heading to meet a jewel fence I’ve never met, and this is the first and last big job for my father. And I can’t screw it up.
The car slows and pulls up next to a Gothic-style building, with a gray polished stone and brick exterior taking up much of the block. I smoosh my face to the side against the window, looking up. at the magnitude of the building’s façade.
Spires adorn the ends of the building, reaching up toward the sky as if trying to touch the heavens. Gargoyles sit poised atop dormered window ledges, adding a dark and foreboding presence.
“Here we are, darling,” Dorian’s voice breaks the silence and the whirl of self-doubt flitting through my brain. “Doesn’t look much like what I’d pictured your grandmother’s house to look like. Are you sure this is the right place? I think this is a nightclub.”
My smile is meant to reassure her. When I’d made up the story to appease Dorian’s curiosity, I kept with the details Mudd had given me. I told her she’d be dropping me off at my grandmother’s address. However, looking at the building, and Dorian’s knowledge of the place, I now realize my mistake. Because this is clearly not a house. Not even an apartment building.
It’s definitely a nightclub.
I look back out the window and shrug, the lie rolling effortlessly off my tongue.
“Oh, yeah, well I was going to go to my grandmother’s house, but since it’s late and my grandmother is asleep, I’m meeting my cousin here first. He works here.”
Dorian squints underneath her false eyelashes, giving me a dubious stare but doesn’t question me. Why should she? And why should she even care?
Knocking on the driver’s glass barrier, she signals the driver who comes around the car to open my door and extract my bag from the trunk.
Suddenly my nerves dance, as if someone turned the volume up to high on some Techno-pop dance groove. I have no idea what, or rather, who awaits me once I step out of the safety of this car and into the ominous building.
I’m like a blind rat following a trail of cheese, with the only instructions provided to me being this address and a name. A code name I am to use as a way of introduction.
Jersey.
Using this code name will signal my arrival to the fence for the meeting my father arranged. I don’t know who the fence is, whether they are male or female, or even who I’m to ask for. It’s all very cloak and dagger, which I’m sure my father structured that way on purpose.
He doesn’t trust you.
Which is fine, and nothing I can change now, but it certainly makes it more complex. But it’s just a means to an end. A well-engineered process for completing the job. Get in and out and return home with the satisfaction of knowing I accomplished the goal and I can leave with my freedom intact.
Dorian rests her hand gently on my wrist and gives me a quick, almost motherly squeeze. I nearly flinch at the contact, but my focus is redirected as she removes something out of her Hermès wallet and places it in my upturned palm.
“Darling, if you need anything while you’re here, I’m staying at the Grand Plaza Hotel. Don’t hesitate to call me. I’m happy to help.”
I look down at the card and at the diamonds on her fingers and her bracelets. For a split second, I consider doing what I’ve been taught to do all my life. To swipe those rings right off her long, manicured hands without notice. I could do it so easily, just like I switched out the contraband in her purse. It’s amazing how a little redirection can open up opportunities.
But the thought of doing it to Dorian makes me queasy. She’s been a sweet and helpful asset, and regardless of the fact I’ll never see her again, I hate the thought of damaging that trust. Even if those rings are probably worth a fortune and she wouldn’t even miss them.
I smile sweetly, thanking her profusely for the ride, as I lean in to kiss her on both cheeks the European style I’ve seen on TV, before getting out of the car.
“Thank you, Dorian. I’ll definitely call if I need anything.”
Closing the door with a quiet snick of the latch, I turn to find the driver handing me my meager belongings.
“Thanks,” I acknowledge, unceremoniously throwing the backpack over my shoulder and staring at the building in front of me.
He grunts, turning around and skirting around the hood of the car, as Dorian rolls down the window, a warning tone in her voice.
“Be careful, darling. Nothing good ever happens here late at night for a young girl. If I were you, I’d rethink this and go back to where you came from before it’s too late.”
Her comment is like a bucket of cold ice water thrown over my head, sending chills down my back. But before I’m able to say anything else, the window closes, the tint hiding her face inside.
As the car drives off, I’m left to respond to only passerbys. “I wish it were that easy.”
Chapter 3
As I step inside the large, looming 16th century archway, my senses are assaulted with the loud cacophony of sounds, smells and the sight of strobe lights flashing in time to the techno beat. The music thumps and pounds off a base beat so strong I can feel it in my own bodily vibrations.
Club goers mill about, as I search the room for someone who looks like they expect me. My gaze sweeps across the large, open expanse, landing on the shape of a man standing high above the club’s floor, his hands gripping the railing, as he casually surveys his surroundings like a king measuring the depths of his kingdom.
His posture is stiff. Guarded. Purposeful.
His profile comes into view as he twists, speaking to someone who is at his side. I notice the clench of his jaw, tight and menacing. A jaw that looks like it’s been etched from marble and formed by an artist’s hand. A nose sculpted and regal, not overly long or crooked, but with enough character to know it’s not perfectly untouched.
He continues to scan over the crowd, listening to the person next to him, until his gaze reaches mine. It locks in on me like a dark, sinister tractor beam, pinning me down and sucking me in.
I can’t tell the color of his eyes from this distance, but I know they’re dark and piercing. They hold dark secrets that may never see the light of day. Those eyes aren’t the eyes of a man who asks questions. They get their answers and what they need through control.
It gives me both a shiver of thrill and fissure of fear.
The connection is palpable, his gaze penetrating me. Like a sharp object slicing through my skin and boring into the very depths of my soul. His stare is so intense that it burrows under the layers of my skin until it hits the very core deep inside me, splits me open, and bubbles up to the surface.
My blood boils thick like hot lava, rushing to the very tips of my fingers and flesh. The way he stares at me has me wanting to relinquish control of everything - my thoughts, my body and my soul – and give it all to him without protest.
His gaze hasn’t altered, but I finally break the connection when I’m startled by the soft, distinctly female voice next to me.
“May I help you, miss?”
There’s a strong foreign accent filtering through her English. Maybe French or Dutch, I can’t tell which, but I know I’v
e never heard anything quite as elegant.
As I twist around, I find a beautiful and exquisite hostess wearing a short, tight black lace dress, at least four-inch heels and her long white-blonde hair intricately braided around the crown of her head.
I feel incredibly inadequate and frumpy next to this woman in my grey cargo pants, white off-the-shoulder sweater, and Chucks.
I can barely even hear myself speak over the music. “Oh, yes. I’m not sure if I’m in the right place or not…”
My throat is scratchy, and I cough. “But I was told to um, meet Jersey. Or, I mean, I’m Jersey. Or, shit…”
The woman, who can’t be more than a few years older than me, lifts her brows in amusement, looking perplexed, but smiles softly and presses a few buttons on her tablet she holds in her hand.
“Jersey?” she repeats with a quirk of her head, and I nod.
She taps in the code name and then says, “One moment, s’il vous plait.”
Ah, French.
It makes everything sound so much more pleasing and unearths a sadness in me that I didn’t continue my foreign language studies in high school. It’s such a beautiful and elegant language, but due to my other “studies” that my father had me doing after school, I never got to spend time learning it, only a few basic terms.
The woman taps an earpiece in her ear, a blinking blue light I hadn’t noticed before, and she speaks. “Oui. I have a guest here who says she’s here for someone named Jersey. Or,” she flicks a glance at me. “Is Jersey. She doesn’t know.”
There’s a pause and she nods her head. “Yes, but…”
It’s apparent she’s been cut off by whoever is on the other end, and she opens and closes her mouth, saying nothing.
“Mm-hmm. Oui. D’accord. Oui. Merci, monsieur.”
She ends the conversation and the blue light disappears as she turns her head and smiles.
“One moment, miss. Someone will be down momentarily. May I take your bag?”
I scrunch my nose and give a quick jerk of my shoulder away from her, gripping the strap tight in my hands. “No,” I snap, ridiculously flustered. “That’s okay. I’ve got it.”
A group of young people – mostly women in short dresses and high heels – walk through the doors and the hostess turns her attention to them as I slink back into the shrouded darkness of the wall. Hiding in the shadows, not at all inconspicuous, wondering what the hell comes next.
Not more than five minutes pass, and a large black man in a sleek royal blue suit that clings to his enormous bulk approaches, stopping just shy of a foot in front of me. Towering over me like a Redwood in a forest of pine needles. Because of his sheer size and the fact he didn’t provide me a name, I’ve labeled him Hulk. Seems fitting.
“Come with me.”
He abruptly turns and begins walking down a dark corridor, illuminated only by the track lighting lining the walls just inches above the floor.
A little dazed from his curt behavior, and probably mildly jet lagged, I clutch my bag and rush to catch up nearly tripping at his heels when he stops at an elevator that is hidden so discreetly into the wall, I wouldn’t have even known it was there. He enters a code into a panel, blocking the keypad from my view with his hulking form.
The door opens without a sound and Hulk steps in, keeping his back to me. I follow closely behind, leaving enough space for my comfort, and enter the lift as I feel the whoosh of the metal doors closing behind me. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of what I’m doing and where I’m at. I have no idea who these people are or if I’m safe.
I wouldn’t put it past my father to send me into the lion’s den. He’s never really had my best interests at heart.
Mr. Hulk doesn’t turn around and remains facing the opposite set of doors which soon open, and we step into a quiet, even darker corridor. There’s no club thumping or music beats up on this level. Just the sounds of my sharp intakes of breath and the rubbery squeaks of my shoe soles on the floor filling in the stillness of the hallway.
The man stops and turns at a doorway but doesn’t look at me. He simply says, “Wait here.”
And I do. What else am I supposed to do? I have no idea where I’m at, much less who I’m supposed to be waiting for, but I do as he says, anxious for what comes next.
As he disappears through the door, every nuance of this job finally comes into clear view, like I’m looking through a magnifying glass and it’s just come into focus on that small, infinitesimal subject that finally turns into something recognizable.
I’m both significant and insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Both necessary and unnecessary. I’m just a conduit and a wheel in a cog. The mule to bring this deal to fruition.
I’m inconsequential to whoever is behind that door awaiting my arrival. In a matter of minutes, I’ll finish this job and be on my way.
But all the secrecy has me curious. Is this what all my dad’s jobs are like? Code words and dark interiors?
I guess I understand it to an extent since this is an illegal transaction and I am in possession of a stolen jewel. I have no clue how Mudd wound up with this stone or what the bidding process looked like, and how he settled on a buyer, but it doesn’t matter to me now.
It’s just weird, in my opinion, to meet the buyer at a club. I thought I’d conclude the deal with the fence someplace else. Like in the jewelry district. It’s confusing to be in such a different environment from what I expected.
Spinning around, there’s a bank of tinted windows behind me, and I step up to the glass, looking down over the crowd below. Sex is in the air, infiltrating the rhythm of the music as dancers grind and move seductively together, their bodies fluid, a beautiful ribbon of motion.
To my left is the spot where I saw that man standing a while ago, but who is now gone. I scan the area again in case I can spot him again.
But before I can locate him, the door creaks open, a flash of golden light shining across the floor, as the scent of tobacco and bourbon seeping out along with the arc of light streaming over the darkness.
I inhale deeply, the deliciously warm scent filling my nostrils and giving me confidence.
“He’ll see you now.”
Chapter 4
My feet don’t take me more than a step inside the doorway when someone moves in from behind me, encroaching on my space and blocking my exit.
Fear sparks inside my heart, and on instinct, I try to use my bag as a weapon to disarm and throw him off, but my actions are thwarted as Hulk’s large hands grip my biceps, whipping my bag from my shoulder and binding my wrists together in one fell swoop.
I try to turn my head to see what the hell is going on and who is behind me when suddenly, I’m shoved from behind into Hulk’s chest, my head yanked back forcefully by my hair and my scream muffled by a rough hand clamped over my mouth.
My vision is taken away from me when a hood, smelling distinctly like male musk and sweat, is thrown over my head, shrouding me in darkness.
I struggle to breathe, my anxiety and panic creating a whirlpool of fear cresting through me descending down my stomach, triggering the rise and swirl of bile up through my throat. I force myself to focus and breathe through my nose, in and out, and keep my shit together to avoid embarrassing myself.
My fight or flight instinct is great, but fighting is pointless against the massive rock in front of me and whoever is behind me, now using some plastic binder to cinch my wrists together, cutting into the sensitive flesh there. With my hands bound and my sight completely blocked out, I’m forced to my knees with a strong pair of hands on my shoulders.
Tears sting my eyes as I crumble to the floor in a heap, but I will myself to remain tough and resolute.
You’re here to do a job. You can do this.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The voice. It’s sharp as a knife and cuts through my panic that is now settling into a low simmer.
While the words are terse and meant to intimidate, the sound s
omehow has the opposite effect. The voice is very male, rich and radiates heat, sending tremors through the air and settling over me like an elixir to a sore throat.
It penetrates my fear and somehow bolsters my confidence. Challenges me to speak up and push out of this captive shell of mine.
But as I fumble to find my voice through my parched throat, the voice barks at me again.
“You’re not fucking Mudd. So, I ask again. Who are you?”
My voice trembles and betrays me. “I’m his daughter. Mudd sent me to deliver the product.”
There’s some shuffling nearby, and while I’m still completely blinded, my head moves toward the direction of the sound. Two pairs of shoes tread over the floor to my right. And in front of me, the man’s voice. Close.
“Here you go, boss.” It’s Hulk’s voice.
It’s the sound of a zipper and my bag being opened. My backpack. They’re looking through the contents of my backpack.
There’s a low murmur and grunt.
“Gemma Lynn Phillips. Born February 16, 1999. 3416 Washington Street, Hoboken, New Jersey.”
Silence.
There’s a faint tapping noise, as if the man asking me the questions is thrumming my plastic driver’s license against something hard in an inpatient manner. As if he’s thinking or waiting for some revelation.
“Tell me, Gem-ma,” he says, extending the syllables in my name to punctuate the end. “Why is it that I have the twenty-year-old daughter of Mudd Phillips in front of me, who looks like she should be in a college classroom instead of this club, and not her father? Hmm?”
Suddenly, I’m blinking past the flood of brightness emitting through the room as the hood is whipped off my head and the room – and people in it – are revealed to me.
I scan the room quickly, noticing Hulk and another man, just as large, standing off to the side, and then the man who is obviously in charge and grilling me in front of me. And then I carefully assess my exits, developing an exit strategy should I have the chance to take it.
