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Hot on the Trail

Page 27

by Vicki Tharp


  El Verdugo’s brows drew together, and he frowned. “I’ve changed my mind. No deal.”

  What? Quinn’s body vibrated with his fury, and his heartbeat slowed. Down. Down. Down. Ta-da-dump. Hard, single, concentrated pulses, not an out-of-control rat-a-tat-tat. He focused on the man, on the words.

  “Then give me the girl, and I’ll leave.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do that.” The smirk said that El Verdugo wasn’t sorry at all. “Your woman will bring top dollar. You want her? You bid for her. If you have enough, you two are free to go.”

  Quinn could almost hear the comic-book evil laughter as El Verdugo rolled naked in his mountains of money. Not a pretty mental picture. Suddenly the hundred thousand dollars turned into chump change. “And if I don’t have enough?”

  “Then she will go to the highest bidder.”

  “You can’t do that.” The words shot out, and all Quinn wanted to do was take them back. Wanted to hit Delete. Wanted a redo. But that wasn’t how real life worked.

  El Verdugo stood. “I do what I want. If you were a smart hombre, you would get a number and bid. Before I take your dinero and the girl.”

  Quinn shot a look at Moose, who kept his focus somewhere over El Verdugo’s left shoulder. Quinn didn’t for one minute think Moose was mesmerized by the sway of the trees and the heavy splatter of rain that pelted the windows as the storm moved in. “You gave me your word.”

  Moose turned and met Quinn’s hard gaze. No emotion showed on the man’s carefully schooled face. No tic of a muscle in his jaw. No flush of anger or embarrassment. But there was a heat in Moose’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. And Quinn couldn’t say why, but he didn’t think that heat was directed at him.

  “I’ll show you where to exchange your money for a number,” Moose said.

  Quinn opened his mouth, but Moose slapped one meaty paw on Quinn’s shoulder and made a sound at the back of his throat that Quinn interpreted as “Don’t be a dumbass.”

  Quinn shut up while he was ahead. Well, not ahead. But he bit back his words before he got so far behind, he’d need the Hubble Space Telescope to see the finish line.

  Moose escorted Quinn and his money out of the office, down the long hallway, and out into the den, where the screens showed the captives, now with numbers at the bottom advertising the minimum opening bid, like they were all ready for a good time at Sotheby’s. A tuxedoed man with slicked-back hair and a Russian accent picked up the mic and welcomed everyone.

  The men gathered around, the laughter died, and the din of overexcited voices dropped off, but the tension, the furor, sat heavy in the air like noxious fumes waiting for that one spark to ignite it.

  Lightning flashed, thunder boomed. Not overhead, but not too far off, either. The screens flickered, the mic faded, the lights dimmed, but the power stayed on, and Slick went back into sales pitch mode.

  Not that it looked like the women would be a hard sell.

  These men had money. Thousands upon thousands of dollars burning holes not only in their pockets, but also in their souls.

  He and Moose stood alone off to the side, the security guards more focused on the auctioneer than security. He leaned in toward Moose and spoke under his breath. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’re okay with this.”

  Moose pointed to the table set up across the den. “You can exchange your money there. Hurry. No number. No girl.”

  “You. Gave. Me. Your. Word.” With each word, Quinn drilled Moose in the chest with his index finger. Moose didn’t stop him.

  Moose glanced at his watch, but wouldn’t look Quinn in the eye. “You should hurry.”

  Quinn concentrated on Slick’s words. The auction was about to start. Quinn strode over to the table. Exchanged a hundred thousand dollars belonging to the feds for a single number.

  The guy behind the table offered a friendly, totally inappropriate smile for the occasion, and handed Quinn his number. “Lucky number thirteen.”

  Quinn scanned the opening bids at the bottom of the screens. At the low end, they ranged from fifteen grand to the highest, at sixty-five—for Pepita. The number at the lower part of the teen’s screen written in gold letters with a little animation of fireworks in the corner.

  What kind of man would kidnap his own daughter to sell on the black market?

  No. Not a man.

  A demon.

  A devil.

  A disciple from hell.

  Jenna’s starting bid was twenty-five thousand. Ninety thousand dollars for them both. That gave Quinn an extra ten thousand dollars to go up on his bid. If bidding was what he should do.

  But what did he know? He was a helo pilot, not a task force agent… and a damn idiot. That’s what he was. Thinking he and Jenna had any business going undercover. Sweat beaded on his forehead, the auction paddle as heavy as a hundred-pound dumbbell in his hand.

  The first screen, the one with the lowest opening bid, went dark, and Quinn propped himself against the wall. Slick rattled on about the “merchandise,” listing qualities like she was something as insignificant as a Ming vase or a Picasso.

  The men whispering among themselves became quiet when a door opened. The woman from the first screen stepped through, her steps hesitant, faltering.

  Another flash of lightning and she jumped, then froze, her chest rising and falling in gigantic, gasping gulps. Stringy blond hair and glazed eyes. Skin hanging on a frame that might have once been young and healthy. Like an old horse sent to the auction where the only people bidding were the kill buyers.

  She couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, but for a business like this, she was long in the tooth and well past her prime.

  But everyone always says there’s a buyer for every horse. Or in this instance, a customer for every woman. The bidding started slow, but the auctioneer was good, and the bids increased by fifties, hundreds, a thousand, and more.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Sold.

  A bell rang. A man slapped his friend on the back. Hearty congratulations. Final price—twenty thousand—a 30 percent increase over the minimum bid.

  There was no way in hell Quinn could afford to buy back both Jenna and Pepita.

  Nausea slicked Quinn’s mouth, coated his tongue. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and tossed it into the back of his throat. It stuck there, threatening to choke him. He willed his throat to relax, and when he swallowed hard, the lump of liquid went down as smooth as ground glass.

  His stomach churned. The alcohol burned. The liquid refused to settle. Quinn stepped around the corner and made it to the foyer in time to vomit into a giant potted palm.

  The guard at the door wrinkled his nose but said nothing. The older man and the woman he’d bought walked past him. Tears streamed down her face as she weaved on her bare feet, the old man’s grip on the back of her neck keeping her from falling.

  The guard opened the door. Wind whipped, blowing horizontal rain through the door, but that didn’t stop the old man. With effort, the guard closed the door behind them.

  Quinn made his way back to the auction, his thoughts dark, his feet clumsy. From the interest shown, there was little chance he could afford Pepita. But how could he not try? A kid, for Christ’s sake.

  As an adult, Jenna stood a better chance of finding a way of escaping or surviving long enough for Boomer and Mac, or the task force, to find her.

  But that wasn’t any woman. That was Jenna. His Jenna.

  He wouldn’t be able to stand there and watch her walk out that front door and possibly never see her again. And with as many ARs as there were in this place, there wouldn’t be anything he could do to stop them.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic. No matter how many times Jenna said it aloud, her brain refused to listen. If she could lower he
r heart rate down to a level where her blood didn’t roar like Niagara Falls behind her eardrums, she might be able to hear herself better.

  Jenna crouched in the corner beneath the camera, hoping it put her out of view. Sweat breaking out between her breasts made the dress clingy and stick to her like chef-grade cling film. There was no telling whether Quinn knew where she was. Whether he was even there yet.

  She assumed she was on her own. To do otherwise could be fatal. One woman had already been dragged down the halls. Not kicking and screaming. Sobbing and pleading.

  It sounded like they had taken the woman from a room across the hall. Counting herself, the woman across the hall, the one two doors down she’d seen dressing—that made three women. Someone cried in the room on one side of her. A toilet flushed in the room on the other side. Five. Minimum. How many women were there? Clearly, they were not here of their own free will.

  Where did they take the sobbing, pleading woman? And where was Pepita? Was she even here?

  Jenna checked for escape routes. The dead bolts—top quality. The doors—solid wood. The window—a possibility. Three floors up, or not. But there was no way around the camera. If she broke it, someone would come check.

  As her mind went from option to option, from scenario to scenario, Jenna’s heart slowed, the force-of-nature pounding behind her ears eased to a more usual thud dadud dud, thud dadud dud, thud—

  Wait. That wasn’t the sound of her heart in her head.

  That pattern, that rhythm. She’d heard it before. Around the campfire. Thud dadud dud…

  Pepita!

  Jenna opened the closet door. The sound grew louder. Thud dadud dud.

  Jenna tapped on the back wall of the closet with the heel of her palm using the same pattern that she’d heard. The pattern was repeated against her ear.

  “Hello?” she said, half-whisper, half-not. No response. She called out louder. “Hello, hello?”

  “I want to go home. Please. Let me go home.”

  “Pepita? It’s Jenna, is that you?”

  “Sí!” She pounded hard against the wall. “Prima! Prima!” Pepita yelled.

  “Shh, shh, shh. Pepita, you have to be quiet. Okay? Knock once if you understand.”

  Pepita knocked once, and the sound of her crying carried through the wall and into Jenna’s chest, where it grabbed her heart in a stranglehold and refused to let go. Jenna struggled to breathe. In through her nose, out through her mouth. You can do this.

  “Pepita, I need you to stay calm. Okay?”

  Again, the one tap.

  Lightning flashed, thunder clapped, the lights flickered. The red light below the camera blinked off, then on. Heavy footsteps down the hall.

  Another door opened.

  Another woman gone.

  Jenna didn’t have much time.

  Rain blasted the window, running down in sheets and rivers and floods. Lightning lit the room, blinding her. Static electricity buzzed through her system. The clap of thunder shook the house and rattled the windows, and then the room went pitch black. After the blinding flash, she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. She glanced up at the camera. No red light.

  More lightning and Jenna stepped to the window and looked out. No lights anywhere except for the flash of the storm as it battered the mountain. She threw open the window, dropped the screen, and stuck her head out. Rain spilled in, soaking her hair, her dress, the wood floor. Another flash raised the hair on her arms, the ozone thick, the static electricity thicker.

  From somewhere below came the hum of an engine. Not a car. The first-floor lights came on, but the second and third floors remained dark. A generator.

  Jenna glanced at the camera. The red light came on. She froze, her heart kicking back into a high gear even a Ferrari didn’t have.

  But the room remained dark. No one would see her unless lightning struck again. The heaviest part of the storm had passed over the house. The rain came in slick sheets, and the wind roared up the side of the cliff, battering the trees and buffeting the house.

  Any second, the lights could come on. She had to leave—now. Jenna looked down.

  Bad idea.

  She climbed onto the windowsill, and her boots slipped on the slick surface. She shucked the boots and threw them on the floor, out of sight beneath the camera. She pulled her feet through and sat on the edge, her legs dangling out. She looked up as lightning rippled across the sky, the thunder a deep rumble that galloped off into the distance.

  A rain gutter ran above her window. A thin, sloping ledge about four inches wide, below. She could do this. Reaching up, she wrapped her fingers over the gutter and gave it a firm tug. It held tight. She grabbed it with her other hand and lowered her feet to the ledge, her bare soles giving her enough friction that they didn’t slide off.

  Slowly, carefully, she inched her way toward Pepita’s window. She wanted to close her own window, but there was no way she was letting go with either hand. Against the wind and driving rain, she tucked her head, the water running down her forehead and into her eyes making it near impossible to see.

  As she panted from fear and effort, water drained into her open mouth. She choked and spat it out. The muscles in her arms and shoulders burned, and her legs shook. The wind tore at her clothes, and her teeth started chattering as the temperature dropped, the wind and rain sapping the heat from her body.

  At Pepita’s window, she kicked lightly on the pane.

  Pepita threw the window open. “Prima!”

  “Knock out the screen so I can climb in.” The gutter cut into Jenna’s hands, and her fingertips were growing numb from the cold.

  Pepita broke out the screen, and it tumbled into the bushes below. Jenna swung into the room and wrapped Pepita into her arms. “Oh baby, are you okay?”

  Pepita cried, but she nodded against Jenna’s shoulder. Jenna took a step away and cupped Pepita’s face. But with the power off and the lightning farther in the distance, there was little Jenna could see. But Pepita was alive. That was all that mattered.

  The lights flickered but stayed out. Had anyone been watching the monitors? Did they know she was out of her room? Was someone coming up the stairs to find her right now?

  Jenna turned Pepita and pushed her toward the window. “Come on. We don’t have much time.”

  * * * *

  Another woman was brought down. No. Not another woman. Crystal. No wonder Kurt couldn’t find her. El Verdugo had her kidnapped.

  Was this why Kurt had been killed? Because he and Crystal had discovered the human trafficking ring? Was that what that message to her father had been about? Making him proud?

  Why hadn’t they gone to the cops?

  Crystal could barely stand, her eyes glassy from drugs, but that didn’t keep her from struggling. Good or bad, that only drove her price up. Apparently, these kinds of men liked their women with spunk.

  Scratch that. Male, yes. Human, questionable. Men, no.

  He couldn’t call them animals because he’d never seen an animal that perverse.

  The lights flickered again. The screens went blank as the cameras went offline. One by one, they winked back on. Jenna was out of the picture. She’d walked under the camera and hadn’t come out.

  The bidding grew fierce as Crystal struggled against the man’s hold. The guard wrapped an arm around her stomach and another across her shoulders to keep her in place.

  Someone yelled out, “Careful with the merchandise!”

  Another said, “You break it, you bought it.”

  There were chuckles and backslaps and drinks tossed to the backs of throats. And still, the bidding increased. Quinn moved around the room, trying to find a way to sneak away without being noticed. But Moose dogged him like he was a rare steak. If he couldn’t shake the guy, he’d have to recruit him.

  Quinn edged closer
to Moose, careful to keep his voice down. “You seriously don’t see anything wrong with this?”

  Moose kept his focus forward. Not on Crystal, or the screens. “I told you. It’s business.” The words were laid out there, flat and one-dimensional, enduring but not believing.

  “No,” Quinn said. “These aren’t cars or contracts or cocaine. These are real people. Real women. Not a commodity to trade on Nasdaq.”

  Nothing from Moose.

  “Selling the drugs? I get it. Real money. And it’s not like you’re forcing people to buy it. But this is different. And that girl”—Quinn pointed a finger at the last screen—“she’s El Verdugo’s own daughter.”

  Moose met Quinn’s eye, bobbed his chin toward one of the many armed security guards. “What do you expect me to do about it?”

  Nothing to do but lay it out there. What was it his dad always used to say? “If you never ask, the answer is always no”? “Help me.”

  Moose cut him a look, eyes narrowed, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “You some kind of comedian?”

  “No joke.”

  “I’m claustrophobic and allergic to dirt. Six feet under wouldn’t do me.”

  “Where do you think these women will be when these guys finish with them? When they overdose or kill themselves, or the guy is bored and ready for the next one? Do you think they give them a pat on the ass and tell them ‘thank you for your service’?”

  Lightning flashed, practically scorching the corneas off his eyeballs. The crack and boom of thunder, instantaneous. The house shuddered, the windows shook, a bauble on the chandelier fell. The room went black, and the group of men grumbled and groused. Glass shattered—a tray of drinks.

  In Quinn’s ear, Moose whispered, “Follow me.”

  Quinn didn’t question. He placed his hand on Moose’s shoulder so he didn’t lose him in the dark, and did his best not to trip him up. They passed through a door, and he silently closed it behind them, shutting out the sounds from the den. They were in an interior hallway. Quinn dragged a free hand along the wall, stumbling at the same time Moose said, “Stairs.”

 

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