Unlike many of the patrons visiting the array of pleasure establishments that surrounded their hotel, Maggie didn’t associate Amsterdam with a good time. Her job had brought her here on too many missions for her to see beyond the dark and seedy underbelly that did little to hide itself. Where most cities hid their sex trade down dark alleys, within the inconspicuous walls of illegal brothels and the back rooms of strip clubs, Amsterdam proudly advertised theirs in glowing neon signs and glass shopfronts with girls on display as items to be purchased.
Maggie saw little to be proud of in an industry the government profited from through taxation under a guise of protecting sex workers, despite the growing number of vulnerable people lured into the trade and held there by circumstance or force. Though prostitution was legal, sex trafficking was still an ongoing and grossly overlooked problem in the city.
In short, it was the perfect place for people like Ivan Dalca to thrive.
Maggie paced the hotel room and worried at her thumbnail.
“He’ll be back soon,” Leon said from the couch.
Maggie had made him sprawl across it and get some rest until they were ready to act. Leon would need all his strength if he insisted on being on the front line with her, and a team was only as strong as its weakest link.
“He’s been gone a while,” Maggie replied, itching from inactivity. They’d already lost time making travel arrangements, arriving and settling in, then catching up on some much-needed rest for the night. Now this. A new name could leak any moment.
Leon sat up and tried to hide the wince it caused. “You know Ash.”
A doctor on the Unit’s payroll had checked Leon over for signs of serious injury before they left London yesterday. Thankfully, he hadn’t sustained any damage that would cause lasting effects. Yasir and his men had done a number on him, though. Behind his macho front and stubbornness to be included in Maggie’s hunt for the Romanians, Leon was still in real pain.
His leg was causing him issues, especially as the meds wore off. He walked with a limp, though a night’s rest had done a world of good, along with the antibiotics the doctor had prescribed. Maggie was at least glad Leon hadn’t lost his appetite and had made sure he ate the large breakfast she’d ordered from room service, as well as lunch of vegetable soup and a club sandwich.
Leon didn’t complain at her nursing and fussing over him, so she didn’t complain at his insistence on being there. Much.
“If he’s not back in ten minutes, I’m going to look for him,” Maggie decided. Ashton had been gone most of the afternoon.
She could have gone with Ashton but didn’t like the idea of leaving Leon alone. Pain, Leon could handle. A significant part of being a good and effective fighter was the ability to take a beating and remain standing. It was a part of agent training Maggie certainly did not miss.
It wasn’t Leon’s physical condition that worried Maggie, though. Something was off with him, and it had nothing to do with his near-death experience. Both of them had endured plenty of those. This was something else, and whatever it was, Leon was trying his best to hide it.
Like any agent worth their salt, Leon was skilled at concealing his emotions. Maggie doubted many others would notice his imbalance, but she knew Leon too well for him to hide it from her.
Maggie was about to broach the subject when Ashton decided to return.
“God, I love Amsterdam,” said the Scot, barging in and kicking the door closed with a back heel.
Maggie’s relief at seeing her friend safe and sound mixed like a bad cocktail with her annoyance at him for taking so long. “What did you find out?” she asked, instead of reprimanding him for not answering his bloody phone.
Ashton dropped an open box of brownies on the coffee table, then plonked himself on her bed with a childish giggle. “I visited a few places a contact of mine suggested and asked around about new girls.”
“And made a stop at a bakery on the way back?” Maggie had a strong suspicion the brownies weren’t the only thing baked.
Ashton’s grin widened. “A few. I do love brownies.” He took another bite to prove his point and proffered the remaining half. “Want some?”
Maggie pursed her lips. “No. Someone needs to keep a clear head on this trip.”
Leon laughed from his spot on the couch and Maggie shot him a glare. The last thing Ashton needed was encouragement.
“It’ll chill you out a bit, Mags,” Ashton said, tossing a pillow at her. “You’ve been awfully uptight since you got back from your vacation.”
“With good reason.” Maggie caught the pillow and aimed it back at him, concealing a smile at Ashton’s dramatics when she hit him in the head. “Now, give it a rest and tell me what you found out.”
Ashton sobered and sat up from playing dead. “One of the proprietors I paid a visit to told me a friend of his was expecting some new girls. Dutch guy called Samuel Thomas. He owns a strip club a few streets away and pimps the girls out on the side.”
“Isn’t all that stuff regulated over here?” Leon asked. “He’d need permits, employee records.”
Maggie sat on the edge of the couch. “Not as regulated as you might think, and any documents he needs for the girls can be easily forged.”
“Idiotic law,” Ashton muttered. “Like any of the people working the trade are there through anything other than circumstance and desperation. And that’s those who willingly partake. From what I hear, there’s not many of them left.”
They’d all witnessed the effects of human trafficking firsthand through the years. It was a scar in their memories time couldn’t heal. Leon shook his head. “So many lost girls and women out there.”
“Men and boys, too,” Ashton added.
“Yes.” Maggie shuddered at the memory of a past mission that still haunted her. “Boys, too.”
Needing to do something other than sit around, Maggie got up and rummaged through her suitcase for supplies. Unsure of what or who she’d need, she’d made sure to overpack enough for any situation before leaving London for the second time in as many days.
“A lot of the window fronts are closing, so it’s becoming more underground again,” Ashton continued. “This Samuel guy has a sort of private members’ club in the basement of his strip joint.”
Maggie sat in front of the large dresser by the window and laid out her things. “Guess I’ll be paying him a visit, then.”
“Who are you going as?”
Maggie threw one of her passports over to Leon.
“Celine Delacroix,” he read before examining the rest of the ID. “This isn’t the work of our guy at HQ.”
“It’s one of the new ones Ash got me.” Maggie had a whole host of aliases under her sleeve, but the mess with Bishop had caused her to adopt some new identities the Unit didn’t have on file. Of the three Ashton had his personal forger Gillian design, Celine Delacroix was the only one Maggie had yet to try out.
“What did your side manage to find out about the girl?” Ashton asked Leon.
Maggie got to work while the boys spoke, starting with her eyes. Celine had hazel eyes. A small detail given the fact Maggie doubted she’d ever see this Samuel Thomas again after tonight, but standards must always be maintained, no matter who she was dealing with or how inconsequential the target. While Samuel may be one of many sleazeballs Maggie had the displeasure of encountering, Celine would undoubtedly leave an impression on the man once Maggie was finished with him. Celine’s wouldn’t be a face Mr. Thomas would forget anytime soon.
“From what we can gather,” Leon said, “Tamira Kapoor is an Iranian national. Nineteen. Her father was Javad Kapoor, a noted journalist and political commentator known for what many in the country deemed as radical views, thanks to his criticisms of the establishment and their control over media and broadcasting.”
“Was?” Ashton noted.
Maggie blinked the contacts in place and checked them in the mirror. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her face free from make
up—both of which would need to be fixed.
“Six months ago, he was found dead in his home along with his wife and the younger of his two daughters,” Leon replied. “Officially, they were murdered by unknown assailants during a burglary of their home in Tehran. Unofficially, they were assassinated by those he opposed.”
“A government hit,” Ashton said, none of them strangers to the concept. “What about Tamira?”
Brushing out her hair, Maggie pulled it tight and secured it at the back of her head. Celine was blond like Maggie, which thankfully saved her from having to wear a full wig for a change. Summer was in full swing and though it wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as the heat in Somalia, using her own hair was one less discomfort to put up with on the job. Attaching a blunt fringe piece at the front and a long extension to her ponytail at the back, she was beginning to appear more like the infamous madam in her passport photo.
Leon continued to update Ashton on the intel the Unit had gathered on Tamira. “She was missing, presumed dead until now. She was attending university in Istanbul when the hit on her family was carried out. According to the school, she went missing soon after. My guess is whoever killed her parents and little sister sold her off to traffickers.”
“Why not just kill her?”
“Money would be my guess. Especially if the hit was contracted. As long as Tamira was out of the picture, her father’s enemies would be satisfied, while those carrying out the dirty work stood to make some extra cash by selling her instead.”
Maggie finished off the bright red lip she’d painted with a beauty spot above it to complete the severe face Celine wore. It matched her profession as a premier dominatrix and supplier of girls-for-hire through her own high-end and, most importantly, discreet agency, which made her the ideal persona to adopt when dealing with Samuel Thomas. If Gillian the forger had done her job as she had with the other two aliases Maggie had used, he would have heard of Celine Delacroix—and her reputation—before.
“That would explain how Tamira came to be trapped in Dalca’s operation,” Maggie added.
Ashton rubbed the nape of his neck. “Poor lassie.”
“That’s everything we have on her so far,” Leon finished.
Ashton sat for a moment, taking it all in. “What was she studying at university?”
“Computer science,” Maggie said, getting up and selecting her clothes for the evening. “She’s some kind of prodigy.”
Ashton’s eyes lit with a conspiratorial glow. “Tech whiz. Well, here’s hoping she gets back in touch soon with more information.”
Maggie didn’t have time to wonder about that look on her friend’s face. She’d witnessed it enough to know when Ashton was thinking ten steps ahead of the game. Instead, she ignored him and headed for the bathroom to change into Celine’s outfit. “In the meantime, we’ll follow your lead, Ash. Let’s see what Mr. Thomas has to say.”
“And if he doesn’t talk?” Leon asked.
Maggie imitated the cracking of a whip. “I’ll make him squeal.”
Chapter 16
Clad in a black leather pencil skirt, killer heels, and a sheer white blouse with spikes around the collar, Maggie marched to the front of the strip club entrance and ignored the line of eager patrons waiting to gain access.
“Wait in line,” barked a burly bouncer in broken English.
Maggie arched an eyebrow. Celine was the one who gave orders, not the other way around. “Do I look like the get-in-line type?” she asked in heavily accented English, allowing Celine’s French nationality to shine through in both her voice and the tilt of her nose as she regarded the bouncer.
Holding the man’s stare, Maggie waited without saying a word. After a few seconds, the bouncer averted his eyes and swung the door open for her without another word.
Either Samuel wasn’t paying his hired muscle enough to care, or he was paying too much for an incompetent member of staff. Either way, Maggie clacked past the bouncer with a deliberate sway that made the long, sleek ponytail down her back swing like a pendulum.
Samuel Thomas’s place was like many strip clubs the world round. It had the universal scent of stale, overpriced beer and cheap perfume that clung to your skin, just as much as the clouds of opaque cigar smoke that billowed around the raised stage the dancers performed on.
Celine was no stranger to clubs like these. For her standards, Samuel’s establishment could be considered quite tame, catering to a vanilla crowd looking for a cheap thrill. Celine’s area of expertise could be regarded as more niche and alternative.
Like arms dealer Ekaterina Kovrova and Felicity Greene the jewel thief, Ashton’s forger had fabricated a detailed life for Celine Delacroix. Counterfeiting official documentation like passports and driver’s licenses was one thing, but it was the mark of a truly gifted forger when they could create a reputation for their aliases. The Unit was skilled at it, of course, having the right contacts and ample resources to make it happen, but so far Gillian the unassuming housewife from the countryside had more than proven the worth of her substantially priced wares.
By nature, the criminal underworld preferred to keep itself private and off the radar, and on the whole, it was populated by a relatively small circle of nefarious key players. Word of mouth and general gossip was rife among its members, and it was important to at least be a name others had heard of if you dared enter their world, if not perhaps someone who they’d had direct dealings with.
Maggie trusted Gillian’s talents, having relied on them to clear her name with the Unit just weeks before, so she wasn’t worried about Celine going unrecognized. It was pulling off what she had planned that concerned her.
It was verging midnight, and the club was near capacity, a sea of heads shrouded in the dim light as they all faced the strippers dancing and twirling around the poles with expert dexterity. While most of the observers were focused on the girls’ bodily assets, Maggie couldn’t help but note the vacant expressions behind many of the women’s eyes. Either through defeated resignation, the haze of drugs, or a concoction of both, many of the girls had removed themselves elsewhere, in mind if not in body.
Maggie made sure to retain Celine’s unaffected façade and harsh yet mischievous expression at the curve of her lips and behind her own watchful, present eyes. Being around working girls was all in a day’s work for Celine, just like any pimp.
“Champagne,” Celine ordered, slinking through the huddle of men waiting to be served at the bar. “Dom Perignon, if you have it.” Charisma oozed from a woman like Celine, who was more than aware of her sexuality and how to use it to her advantage. She smiled at the group of men she’d skipped by, and none of them muttered even the slightest complaint, their gazes lingering over her with hunger.
“How many glasses?” asked the barmaid.
“Two,” Maggie said. Celine had no intentions of drinking alone.
“We have no tables available,” the barmaid warned, aware someone with Celine’s order would expect one to be provided.
“That’s quite all right,” Celine replied.
A man in his thirties sitting next to her on a bar stool slapped his thigh. “You can sit on my lap.”
A few of the surrounding men laughed, their boyish bullshit almost causing Maggie to break character and curse them out. Fortunately, Celine was no stranger to dealing with men. She turned to the man in question and leaned in close, so her lips brushed his ear, and allowed him a moment to breathe in her sweet perfume and feel the heat from her body.
Just before the man had time to enjoy the sensation, Celine grabbed a handful of his crotch and squeezed.
The man yelped and tried to break free from her hold, but Maggie held him in a vise grip and whispered. “Of all the people I’d like to sit on, you are most assuredly not one of them.”
His eyes bulged, face growing red as she squeezed harder. Then, as quickly as she had grabbed him, she let the idiot go.
Celine ignored him as he fell to his knees and cupped
himself, nodding to the barmaid. “Put my drink on his tab.” She stepped over him and slinked into the now-vacant bar stool and sipped the glass of bubbles the barmaid slid in front of her.
The rest of the men ignored her after that and returned to ordering drinks and drooling over the girls who wouldn’t crush their junk, unless they wanted them to, of course. Maggie sipped her champagne and examined the room, searching for her target.
It didn’t take long to spot him.
Samuel Thomas was a large man in all aspects. His booming laugh rang through the music in a huge, barrel-chested cackle that drew attention from his girls on the stage. He sat surrounded by a group of women, all of whom Maggie suspected worked for Thomas, which was their only reason for being there. His thick hands and wrists were encrusted with garish gold jewelry that glittered when the overhead lights touched them and matched the gold tooth that winked at Maggie as he smiled over at her.
Celine raised her glass and took a deep drink, locking eyes with Samuel only to turn her head away as if shy or intimidated by his attention. It wasn’t exactly in Celine’s character to react in such a way to a stranger’s interest, but Maggie knew from experience that it would garner her the results she required.
It was an old trick, but highly effective. If a mark believed it their idea to approach you, they never suspected anything untoward until it was too late. Especially from a woman.
Samuel Thomas got up from his booth near the stage and headed straight for her with singular intent. The buttons on his expensive floral shirt stressed over his ample gut, his neck so engulfed by a second chin that it would make breaking his neck difficult.
Difficult, though not impossible.
A further two bouncers stationed by Samuel’s abandoned booth watched as their boss crossed the room toward her. They assessed Maggie for a few seconds before disregarding her as a non-threat and settled back to their long shift of babysitting the strip club owner and deterring punters from starting any trouble.
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