Midnight Games

by Elle Kennedy

  The man froze as the muzzle of Trevor’s SIG jammed into his temple.

  Shouts of outrage broke out all around them as Roussel and the others found themselves in similar positions. Sullivan and Reilly had come flying over the tall fence separating the alley from the street and were now yanking Roussel and his man out of the town car. Liam had his weapon trained on the van’s passenger, while D had swiftly moved to cover the back doors of the van, which remained closed.

  And from above, Ethan watched everything go down, his amused chuckle rippling over the comm.

  “Nicely done,” the rookie remarked, sounding slightly surprised.

  Trevor was surprised himself. Not a single shot had been fired. He and the others had efficiently neutralized their targets before the bastards even knew what was happening.

  Over by the town car, Claude Roussel was red-faced and fuming. Although his harsh French curses marred the air, the man didn’t make a move against Sullivan, whose assault rifle was trained right between Roussel’s eyes.

  But while the Frenchman was smart enough not to charge the person holding a gun on him, he still felt the need to demand, “What is this? Who are you and what do you want?”

  “Just here to inspect your wares,” Trevor said mockingly.

  He’d answered in French, but clearly his accent left something to be desired, because Roussel’s mouth curled in a sneer.

  “Américain!” the Frenchman spat out.

  Trevor dismissed Roussel from his mind and glanced at D. “Open it,” he said.

  With a nod, D yanked on the door handle.

  Tormented wails and muffled sobs cut the night air. Trevor couldn’t see the back of the van, but he heard D’s harsh command for silence. It went unheeded, the female cries getting louder.

  “Japanese,” D announced.

  There was a loud thump, and the van began to rock slightly.

  “Jesus Christ!” D snapped. “Motherfucker head-butted me. Morgan, if that’s you I swear to God I’m gonna—”

  D stopped abruptly, and just like that, Trevor’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach.

  Shit.

  The silence could only mean one thing.

  “Get out,” Trevor told the van’s driver.

  The man’s lips tightened and his eyes flashed with fury, but he followed instructions. His boots landed on the pavement with a thud.

  Trevor gestured with his gun. “Walk.”

  As he followed the driver around the van, he continued to cling to hope, but D’s imperceptible shake of the head was all the answer he needed.

  Swallowing a frustrated groan, Trevor peered into the shadowy space and took a good look at the male hostage Tomas Meiro had been so eager to get his hands on.

  Tall and built, just like Morgan, but that was where the similarities ended.

  The man in the van had a scarred face, salt-and-pepper hair, black eyes—and he was clearly Japanese.

  “Shit,” Trevor muttered.

  No sooner had the word left his mouth than the garage door behind him came to life with a mechanical whir.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 19

  Pain jolted through Trevor’s left cheek as the driver’s meaty fist connected with it. The hostage had taken advantage of the distraction caused by the opening garage door. So had Roussel, whose hand snapped to the gun on his hip the second Sullivan’s head turned.

  A gunshot exploded in the night, and then Sullivan went down with a hearty thump.

  Down but not out—the Australian was squeezing the trigger even as he fell to the ground, sending a spray of bullets into the center of Claude Roussel’s chest before the man could take another shot.

  Shrill screams pierced the darkness. The captive females dove out of the van, several of them still wearing the hoods. The ones able to see crawled away from the van, screaming as three armed men burst out of the garage, guns blazing.

  Trevor dove for cover, taking the driver with him.

  Metallic dings echoed overhead as bullets struck the side of the van. The man who’d clipped Trevor in the face tried to crawl toward the driver’s-side door. As something hot whizzed past Trevor’s ear, he slammed the butt of his gun into the back of the driver’s skull, and the man went limp.

  Diving forward, Trevor repositioned himself at the front of the van and returned fire just as one of the men who’d emerged from the garage rounded the vehicle, machine gun in hand.

  Before Trevor could shoot, a hole appeared in his enemy’s forehead.

  The report of a rifle echoed from the rooftops. Once, twice, three times, and then the only men left standing were Trevor and his teammates.

  Footsteps sounded from the street in the distance. Car doors slammed, engines roared to life, and tires screeched as the patrons visiting the Sapphire Room escaped like rats abandoning a sinking ship.

  Stepping over the unconscious body of the driver, Trevor ran to his fallen comrade’s side. “Sully, you good?”

  Sullivan was flat on his back, palm slapped against his neck to apply pressure to a wound that was oozing blood. “Peachy,” the man replied in a careless tone. “I took it in the vest.”

  Liam appeared and helped the blond Australian to his feet. “And the blood pouring out of your neck? Did the vest get that too?”

  Sullivan moved his hand from his neck and replaced it with the sleeve of his black shirt. “Just a graze, mates.” His gray eyes landed on Roussel, whose lifeless body was sprawled next to the town car. “That bloody asshole nearly blew my head off.”

  The howl of sirens could suddenly be heard.

  “Fuck,” Trevor muttered. “We’ve gotta get out of here.”

  From his position by the garage, D cocked his head in the direction of the whimpering Asian girls lying on the pavement. Miraculously, none of the women had been hit during the gunfight. Same went for the man who wasn’t Morgan—he was sprawled at D’s feet, mumbling wildly into his gag. In Japanese.

  Unfortunately, French and Spanish made up the extent of Trevor’s language repertoire. D, however, surprised them all by yanking off the captive’s gag and addressing him in perfect Japanese.

  The sirens got closer.

  “D, we’ve gotta go,” Trevor called urgently. “It’s not Morgan. That’s all we need to know.”

  “Go,” D called back. “I’ll be there in a second.”

  Trevor touched his earpiece and said, “Hey, our hero, you there?”

  Ethan, who’d proven himself as skilled a sniper as Luke, chuckled. “I’m here.”

  “Fly back to the nest.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Trevor glanced around at the bodies strewn on the ground. The driver of the van wasn’t dead, only unconscious; he should have a fun time explaining all this to the law enforcement officers who’d be arriving any second.

  Guilt washed over him as his gaze landed on the women who’d been transported here from the docks. They must have traveled a long way, judging by their bedraggled appearances.

  Every instinct in Trevor’s body screamed to go and untie them, to hold each one in his arms and offer words of comfort, but he and his team couldn’t afford to be here when the police showed up. The girls would be well taken care of once that happened, and maybe they could even aid law enforcement in shutting down Meiro’s sex trafficking network once and for all.

  Beside him, Liam seemed equally reluctant to leave the girls. Trevor could see only the man’s blue eyes through the ski mask, but that soft expression said it all.

  Trevor clapped a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “They’re safe now. We, on the other hand, are not.”

  With a nod, Liam tore his gaze away. “I know. We should get the hell outta here.”

  Fortunately, D’s exchange with the hostage had wrapped up. The injured man was now attempting to stand up, but the task proved difficult thanks to his broken leg, which jutted out at a grotesque angle.

  It was a miracle the man was able to move at all. As he fell t
o the ground, he gazed imploringly at D and a stream of hurried words left his mouth.

  Trevor didn’t need a translator to know that the man was begging for assistance.

  “Let’s go,” D said curtly. He turned away from the pleading man and strode toward the others.

  Five minutes later, Trevor, D, and Sullivan were in the sedan peeling away from the brownstone. In the rearview mirror, Trevor caught a glimpse of red and blue lights, and then half a dozen police cruisers and two ambulances sped into view.

  Removing his ski mask, he stepped on the gas and put distance between them and the approaching cavalry. Liam and Reilly had taken the taxi and would find their own way back, as would Ethan.

  “So what did the Asian have to say for himself?” Sullivan demanded from the backseat.

  Sully’s sleeve was still pressed to his neck, and since his shirt was black, Trevor couldn’t be sure how much blood the Australian had lost. It was hard to tell with Sullivan—the dude could be out five pints and still be functioning properly.

  “His name is Takashi Fujiwara,” D answered. “He and his girlfriend used to run one of the Tokyo brothels where Meiro ships his kidnapped tourists. Fujiwara screwed Meiro and Hiroshi Tachikawa, the crime boss who handles the Tokyo side of the operation—Meiro sends Tachikawa the blue-eyed blondes, and Tachikawa ships Japanese girls to Meiro’s European brothels.”

  “So Fujiwara and his girl were stealing from Meiro and Tachikawa?”

  D nodded. “They stole a shit ton of dough, and sometimes they would arrange for the private sale of certain girls. They’d tell Tachikawa that the women died of a drug overdose, or a customer’s beating, or whatever, but really they were reselling them. Fujiwara and the girlfriend fled Tokyo after they got caught. They’ve been hiding out for the past year.” D paused meaningfully. “One of their hideouts was in Munich.”

  Trevor got the message. So Noelle had nothing to do with any of this.

  Hell, maybe Morgan didn’t either.

  “What the fuck!” Sullivan burst out, voicing Trevor’s thoughts. “We show up tonight looking to save Morgan’s ass, and we unintentionally thwart a human trafficking deal? Where the bloody hell is he?”

  “Good question,” Trevor said grimly.

  D sounded just as frustrated. “We know that Meiro hired Eddie Lassiter to assemble a team to hit the compound.”

  “Do we?” Sullivan countered. “We know Meiro hired Lassiter to do something. That’s it, mate.”

  Trevor stopped at a red light and let out a breath. This entire night had been one long roller-coaster ride. From the mind-blowing sex with Isabel, to the emotional confrontation that followed, to this rescue attempt gone awry, to Morgan’s continued absence.

  They’d put all their eggs in this goddamn Lassiter basket, banking on the fact that Meiro had to be responsible for Morgan’s disappearance because he’d dealt with Lassiter, but who the hell knew anymore?

  In fact, the only real piece of knowledge Trevor possessed at the moment was that they were right back to where they’d started.

  Square fucking one.

  • • •

  It was just after one in the morning. Meiro wasn’t up in his penthouse sleeping, but on the security floor watching his casino with the vigilant eye of a guard dog. To his great disappointment, the lovely Valerie had remained in her suite all night. He longed to see her, even if it was a fleeting glimpse on a security camera.

  Their evening on the Splendid Lady had been a rewarding one. He knew the woman desired him—her fervent response to his kiss proved it. And when she’d pushed him away afterward, his annoyance had been rivaled by genuine pleasure. It had been a long time since he’d had to pursue a woman this diligently. Nowadays, women flocked to him wherever he went. Not only was he a wealthy man, but he was also a handsome one, a guarantee that he would never be lacking for female attention.

  Valerie’s resistance excited him. Aroused him. He was determined to win over the exquisite redhead, with her fiery nature and sparkling green eyes.

  Make no mistake, his sweet Valerie would not be leaving his city without first gracing his bed.

  Meiro’s phone buzzed in his pocket, interrupting his thoughts. Good. Roussel had finally decided to check in.

  But the number on the display did not belong to Claude. It was unfamiliar, raising Meiro’s hackles.

  “Who is this?” he said in lieu of a greeting.

  “This is Serena, Mr. Meiro. I apologize for the late hour, but I’m afraid it can’t be helped.”

  Meiro stalked toward the door. In the hall, he waved at his bodyguards to give him some privacy. They moved to the end of the corridor like obedient dogs.

  “What happened?” he demanded. He’d heard the note of weariness in the madam’s voice, which told him something had gone wrong tonight. “Where is Claude?”

  “I don’t know. Dead, I assume.”

  The woman conveyed no emotion. He hadn’t expected her to. The years had hardened Serena Theroux—indifference and detachment were common traits among whores.

  As Serena informed him of the ambush that had occurred behind the Sapphire Room, Meiro became incensed. “Who were they?” he snapped. “Were they caught on the security cameras?”

  “Yes, but they wore masks. And I didn’t linger in hopes of seeing their faces. All the guests made it out before the police arrived, as did I, but most of the girls weren’t so lucky. Felipe informs me there were many arrests.”

  Meiro muttered a furious expletive. “Where are you now?”

  “The safe house, with three of the girls.”

  “Stay there. I’ll call you back.”

  Meiro hung up, but before he could dial another number, the elevator at the end of the hall dinged and the doors opened to reveal his wife.

  “Renee!” he said in surprise, swiftly tamping down the irritation he’d experienced at the sight of her.

  Renee Meiro, née Beaumont, crossed the long hallway with a masculine stride. She wore a fitted black dress that brought out the severity of her face. Her features were too long, too angular, and her mousy brown hair was pulled into a tight bun, drawing not so welcome attention to her too high forehead.

  The woman held no appeal, at least not to her husband, but Meiro still greeted his wife with a polite smile and a kiss to her pockmarked cheek.

  “What brings you to the Palace, mon amour?”

  “You were not answering your phone,” she said coolly.

  Meiro frowned. “I didn’t receive any calls from you tonight.”

  “You did,” she insisted. “I phoned several times.”

  An edge crept into his voice. “I didn’t receive any calls from you, Renee.”

  She reached into her oversize Chanel bag and fished out her phone. She pressed a few keys and handed it to him.

  Sure enough, his wife had dialed his number four times tonight.

  The number he no longer used.

  “I told you to update your contact list, mon amour,” he said in annoyance. “I had the number changed last month after I misplaced my phone in Venice, don’t you remember?”

  It suddenly occurred to him what that meant—he and his wife hadn’t spoken in nearly a month. How time flew.

  “Right. Right,” Renee said with a brisk nod. “That was my error, Tomas. Forgive me.”

  “Always.”

  Smiling, he leaned in and kissed her cheek again. This time, they both visibly winced, but pretenses had to be maintained. After all, they had the eyes of two sets of bodyguards on them.

  “Now, what brings you here?” he asked for the second time.

  “The MONA gala is tomorrow evening. I came to remind you of that.”

  “At such a late hour?”

  Renee’s face was devoid of expression. “I was out with a friend. The Palace is on the way home, so I instructed the driver to stop.”

  Meiro resisted a laugh. His wife’s secrecy about her lover was almost comical, especially since he’d already known the tr
uth about the woman before he’d married her. Yet Renee still refused to speak of her sexual preferences.

  “And how was your friend?” He couldn’t help but ask, his tone slightly mocking.

  Her brown eyes narrowed. “My friend is quite well, Tomas. How is your new companion?”

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  “The redheaded Brit you’ve been spending time with,” Renee clarified. She offered a soft chuckle. “You have exquisite taste, Tomas.”

  “As do you.” He grinned, a rare occurrence in his wife’s presence.

  Renee rolled her eyes before lowering her voice. “Now, I know you’re enjoying yourself with her, but tomorrow night I will need my husband by my side. I’ve assured the museum director that we will both be in attendance.”

  “And so we will.”

  “Good. We’ll finalize the details in the morning.” She held out her hand. “Will my husband escort me out to the car?”

  “Of course.” He linked his arm through hers and promptly led her to the elevator.

  “How goes the hunt?” His wife’s pointed inquiry made his shoulders go rigid.

  Meiro shot a discreet look at the bodyguards standing behind them, then gave Renee a slight shake of the head. “Still hasn’t borne fruit,” he muttered.

  “Pity.” She squeezed his arm in an unexpected gesture of support. “You will have your vengeance soon, mon chéri.”

  Renee’s words continued to echo in his head as he watched her car and driver whisk her away.

  Vengeance.

  Oh, how he longed for that. But Lassiter’s fuckup had cost him. It was a setback that gnawed at his insides, infuriated him beyond belief.

  Finding Takashi Fujiwara had been a pleasant stroke of good fortune, but now even that had blown up in his face.

  Roussel, his best fucking soldier, was most likely dead, and who knew what had befallen Fujiwara? Dead as well? Or was he in police custody along with the Sapphire whores?

  Meiro’s entire body vibrated with anger. Soon. He’d have his vengeance soon enough.

  First things first. He needed to clean up tonight’s mess and find the assholes who’d ambushed his goddamn whorehouse.

  • • •

  It was six in the morning and spirits were so low one would think a national icon had just died. Isabel had managed to sneak out of the Palace by joining an early-morning yoga class at the hotel fitness center and then ducking out halfway through the session. Now, she was with the others gathered in Noelle’s suite at the White Sands, feeling as discouraged as everyone else.