by Taylor Lee
Without a word, the surly guard banged on the side door and barked out an order. The gates slowly swung inward. When he was sure they were out of earshot, Brady tipped up his chauffeur’s brimmed cap and grinned at Clint in the rearview mirror.
“Apparently they expect a redneck like you to have a driver with a pony tail,” he said with a chuckle. “And how many tags do you think they managed to place on this chariot while they were deciding if they would kill us or let us through?”
Clint smiled in return, casting a knowing glance around the interior of the heavily appointed limo. Even though they had been assured that the limousine was soundproof as well as bulletproof, neither he nor Brady took it for granted. Hell, they could have high intensity mikes in every bush, he thought, and no telling what kind of sensors they’d slapped on the limo while they were inspecting them. Keeping his eyes on the road ahead, Brady tapped out a prearranged signal to Jake and the others, confirming that they were inside the gate.
Rounding the circular driveway, Clint and Brady exchanged an appreciative whistle as they pulled up in front of the Asian-styled mansion. Hopping out of the limousine, Clint tipped his large white Stetson to Brady and headed up the impressive marble staircase. He stopped for a moment to fully appreciate the heavily carved twenty-foot double doors at the top of the stairs. Even though their reconnaissance team confirmed the extraordinary wealth of the man he was meeting, Clint was still unprepared for the magnificence of the Villa nestled within a virtual forest, high atop a hill overlooking the sparkling lights of Seoul. Raising the dragon-headed brass knocker with gleaming jade eyes, Clint lurched back when the door swung open. Apparently anticipating Clint’s arrival, the towering man in the doorway looked more like a Sumo wrestler than a butler. The giant threw him an appraising glare, and unless Clint misunderstood, that was laughter he saw for a splint second on the stern man’s visage.
Knowing that his starched Levis, leather belt with the jeweled bull’s head buckle, and fringed vest—topped by the Stetson—were unlikely garb for their usual visitors, Clint reinforced the image by sticking out his hand with a hearty, “Howdy!”
If a seven foot tall, four hundred pound man could sniff, this one would have. Ignoring Clint’s outstretched hand, he merely shuttered his narrow eyes and motioned Clint inside. Not giving him time to study his surroundings, the Sumo ushered him to the entrance of a large room. Quickly assessing the situation, Clint counted seven men inside. All but two were Asian. A couple were likely Japanese, three were Korean. One of the Caucasian men stood by the fireplace, eyeing him suspiciously. The man’s bearing screamed military. From his experience with Jake and the team, Clint read Russian in the scowling man’s features. Over by the sofa, conspicuous in his dress blues, stood a tall, good-looking, dark-haired American. The slight graying at his temples added to his distinguished appearance. The silver oak leaf insignia on his uniform signified his rank as Lieutenant Colonel.
A small impeccably dressed Korean man stepped forward and bowed to him. With an expansive wave, he welcomed Clint inside. His cultured voice spoke to a wealth of languages and experiences in the cultivated regions of society.
“Good evening. You must be Charles Stimford. I am Sung Song, your host. It is a pleasure to welcome you to my home, Mr. Stimford.”
Eschewing his own New York Upper East side society background, Clint played his cornpone role to the hilt. He grinned and stuck out his big hand.
“Ah, shucks, Sung—Can I call ya Sung? The name’s Charlie. No one except my wife on a bad day calls me Charles. And that’s a sure signal she’s looking to expand her credit limit.”
A couple of the men laughed, but the others regarded him with open disdain.
Seemingly amused by the dismayed expressions on his other guests’ faces, Sung Song smiled as he drew Clint into the room.
“Gentlemen. Mr. Stimford—ah, I mean, Charlie, is visiting from America. Oklahoma, correct?” At Clint’s confirming nod, Sung continued.
“Mr…. Charlie, is what they call an oilman, is that correct?”
“Yep. That black gold has been watering my family tree for three generations now. I can tell you, you soon forget the stink and the grit under your nails when those wells just keep on printing money.”
Three hours later, having refused the proffered cognac of his host, instead insisting on Budweiser, Clint had ingratiated himself into the circle. In addition to their obvious passion for making money, he learned that the men were gamblers. And in Sung Song’s house, the game of choice was a high level auction. The merchandise? Young women advertised as virgins.
“So, Sung, let me get this straight. We tell you what kind of wimmen we like, and the general over there rounds them up. Then me and my buddies here bid for ‘em? Zat about right?” Surveying the nodding heads, he continued, “And then, if you ain’t shitting me, the highest bidder gets the gal or gals, depending on his buying power. Did I get that right?”
“Yes, Charlie, that is an excellent summary of our evening’s entertainment.”
“Just one more question. I figure I got a pretty good idea what we do with the gals when we win ‘em. Whoever wins ‘em gets first crack at them. But the lucky sumbitch can make back some of his bid price, if he’s willing to share his prizes with the rest of us. That about right?”
When the other men nodded, Clint threw them a narrow gaze.
“But what do we do with the little gals when we’re done with ‘em?”
He guffawed. “My wife does a pretty good job of turning a blind eye to my shenanigans, but even she might resist me bringin’ a load of young blondes back from a Korean buying trip.”
Sung paused, measuring his words.
“That, Charlie, is up to the winner. Given that the young women are now damaged goods, we defer to Lt. Colonel Jasper.” He nodded to the colonel and added, “Who graciously takes them off our hands.”
Clint gaped in amazement at the dark-haired Lt. Colonel. “Damn, General, you mean, you kill them?”
Jasper gave a diffident shrug. “Occasionally. But more likely they end up in the brothels. There is a high regard for white women in this country. Long after my friends have deprived them of their virginity, if the girls are smart—and discreet—they can make a comfortable living in any one of the hundred brothels in the Iowotan quarter alone.”
Clint shot the Lt. Col. an interested gaze.
“If I’m understanding, you got yourself a profitable little gig here, General. You get ten percent of the winning bid price, and another ten percent if the ladies become problematic for me and my friends here.”
When the smug man just shrugged again, Clint leveled a penetrating stare at him and didn’t hide the chill in his voice.
“Just curious. How do you find the girls and why do they come with you?”
Lt. Col. Jasper replied with a pleasant smile, “In answer to your first question, this country is rife with young women, primarily from the Eastern bloc, who are fleeing tortuous conditions in their home country. As for how I entice them to come with me, the uniform helps. Provides a semblance of security. And, of course, rufinol ensures that the young women I attract are willing participants.”
Clint frowned at the disgusting, yet oh-so-distinguished-looking man. “You know there’s a name for men who provide wimmen to other men for money.”
The Lt. Col. quirked a brow. “I prefer the less inflammatory term. I consider myself a businessman. Like the rest of you, I provide a service. As I’m sure you are aware, Charlie, there is a price for meeting one’s somewhat salacious needs with discretion.”
Chapter 4
Brady shook his head and grimaced when Born This Way blared out over the loud speakers to the screaming delight of the gyrating young men and women crowding the dance floor.
“Damn, even five thousand miles from home you can’t get away from the ‘Lady’?”
Anthony laughed at his friend’s glower.
“C’mon, Brady, you know no matter how much they say
they hate us, every kid in the world wants to be an American. And who can be more outrageously American than Lady Gaga?”
“Yeah, but damn, how about Madonna or Beyoncé? Or hell, even Springsteen or the Stones… or—” Brady stopped in mid-sentence and sprayed his mouthful of beer across the table.
Swiping his hand across his mouth, he choked out, “Fuckin’ Christ, Anthony, do you see what I see?”
Anthony let out a soft groan, his heart chugging in his chest as he watched Tiffany saunter toward their table.
She looked like a vision. Her outrageous get-up screamed a potent mix of sex and schoolgirl innocence. Sure to stoke every guy’s secret fantasy. Her long fiery-red ponytail tied up in a bright plaid ribbon swung in a teasing swish of red-gold when she walked. The leather skirt slung low over her curvy hips highlighted a wolf’s head belly button ring with glowing topaz eyes. The skirt landed a couple of inches below her butt, and when she twirled a flash of red satin peeked out. A matching leather vest hung open, revealing a scrap of black lace encasing her bountiful breasts. Remembering the bespeckled mess of a woman they’d met two days before, Anthony wondered where the hell those breasts had been when she was knocking the shit out of the Kkangpai fighters. The coup de grace was her five-inch thigh-high stiletto boots, showcasing a pair of legs that would make a Las Vegas showgirl weep with envy.
Tiffany grinned as she passed their table on the way to the dance floor, her jade green eyes sparkling wickedly. The crowd of eager Korean men in her wake testified to the stir she caused.
She leaned over and murmured in a husky voice to Brady, “See something you like, surfer dude?”
Brady responded with a low chuckle, “I gotta say, sweet cheeks, you clean up real good.”
Impressed, Anthony marveled at Brady’s comeback. He couldn’t have answered her if he’d been tortured. He could only raise his bottle to her and mutter “Ditto” as she sauntered by.
Watching her expertly work the throng of eager dance partners, Anthony struggled against the rampant arousal coursing over his body. Hell, he thought with a grimace, it wasn’t as though every man in the room wasn’t similarly afflicted. He tossed Brady an ironic grin. “So this is the woman we thought couldn’t attract our perp?”
Brady took a long swig from his beer bottle and said in a nonchalant voice, “We’ll soon find out. Speaking of the fucker, guess who’s at your six?”
Clint’s description of Lt. Col. Jasper was dead on. Lounging against the bar, he looked like the epitome of a U.S. Army officer, decked out in his heavily decorated uniform. From the gray at his temples to the lean, sculpted physique, he could have come from central casting. Bile rose in Anthony’s throat at the dissonance between the clean-cut image of an American soldier, and the soulless monster they knew to be a serial rapist and murderer.
It took Tiffany less than a half hour to work her way to the bar. She perched on a high bar stool, swinging her crossed legs in front of her—coming dangerously close to revealing the promised treasures under her wisp of a skirt. Surrounded by young men who struggled to keep their tongues in their mouths, she ignored the distinguished Army officer studying her from across the bar.
Anthony watched her toss back a stiff shot of whiskey, then purposefully catch the eye of the Lt. Col. scrutinizing her. She licked the rim of the shot glass and threw the villain a saucy grin. Jasper smiled. Tossing back his drink, he plunked his glass down on the bar and threw a bill beside it. As he approached Tiffany, the horde of young men paying her court parted to let him through. Jasper sidled up next to her, and whispered something in her ear that brought a rosy flush to her pale cheeks. She tossed her head with a grin and slid off the stool, her skirt tangling on the ridged edge, revealing a flash of firm thighs… and an enticing glimpse of red panties.
As they walked to the door, Jasper’s arm possessively wrapped around Tiffany’s shoulders, Anthony stifled a growl. Murmuring into his hidden comm, Anthony alerted Jake and the team that Tiffany had made the mark. So much for questioning her skills. It had taken her all of thirty minutes to capture the asshole that had thwarted a police force rumored to be the one of the most ruthless in the world. All it took was a scrappy attitude, a first class ass, and a pair of tits that would make a monk forget his vows. Like a lamb to slaughter, she led the unsuspecting mark into the trap set by some very pissed off U.S. Army patriots.
Chapter 5
Tiffany pretended to sip on the clear drink Lt. Col. Jasper handed her. When he leaned forward to talk to the driver on the other side of the sliding screen, she dumped the remainder of the drink on the carpeted floor of the limo rubbing it in with her shoe. Knowing that the drink was laced, she allowed the appropriate amount of time to pass, then began to assume the symptoms of a stiff shot of rufinol. She allowed her body to slacken, dropping her head to her chest. Through half-closed eyes she saw his odious smirk as he gloated over her. He reached out and groped her, sending shards of unwelcome sensations zinging up her overloaded nerve endings. She moaned slightly when he pinched her nipples, then with a grunt reached down between her legs. Pretending to slump further, she managed to dislodge his probing fingers and rolled her head against the seat back, arching away from him.
“So pretty, pet. Too bad I don’t sample the merchandise—at least before I sell it. But for you, I would make an exception.”
The car shifted and came to an abrupt halt. The door opened and strong arms dragged her from the backseat and hoisted her over someone’s shoulder. She could feel the man’s bulging muscles straining against the rough cloth of his uniform. Jasper barked out a series of crisp orders.
“Get her inside and throw her in the shower. Try to wake her up. Tell the women I want her to look like a vestal virgin. All in white. Curl her hair and let it hang loose. Tell them we only have a couple of hours to show time. Force coffee down her if you have to. I want her able to work that stage. And, dammit, you better fucking well not drop her. I don’t want a mark on her. This little slut is going to net me my highest per pussy profit yet.”
The man carrying her gave an affirmative grunt. Hanging upside down, Tiffany opened her eyes and saw his strong legs eating up the pavement below. When they turned a corner, to her horror, his hands moved over her butt and she felt a sharp pinch on her ass.
Tiffany managed to quash her shriek but couldn’t hide her jerking reaction. She heard a low chuckle then a familiar voice murmured, “You should do us all a favor, sugar, and never wear that AFC uniform again. This ass should never be hidden, darlin’. That comes close to a venal sin, worthy of being paddled.”
She gasped, her voice a hoarse shocked whisper.
“Commander?”
Jake chuckled again. “Who else do you think would be pinching your ass? I don’t want to make too much of a point of it given the circumstances, but Captain, this is one fine derrière you have. And that pillowy softness on the front of you is a close second.”
Tiffany squelched her outrage, relief swirling over her.
She started to speak, but he gave her a warning pinch on her thigh as a harsh voice rang out.
“Who the hell are you?”
Jake’s voice was calm, contained. “Who the hell do I look like I am? I happen to be carrying the sweetest package you’ll ever lay eyes on—and we’ve got less than two hours to get her cleaned up and ready.”
From her perch, Tiffany saw the boots of at least four men. Marveling at Jake’s aplomb, she let her head hang loose, her mouth open, pretending to be unconscious.
A woman called out, her voice as hostile as the uniformed guards.
“Bring her in here. We’ll take her from here. Throw her on the bed. What does he want her to wear?”
Jake repeated Lt. Col. Jasper’s orders, then lifted Tiffany down and laid her on the bed. Tiffany moaned at the disruption, then settled in a limp heap.
In a message as much for her as the three women who surrounded her, Jake said, “I’ll be outside the door if you need anything. The Boss wants
her unmarked, so she sure as hell better look pristine when she gets up on that stage.”
The woman who was obviously in charge spit out a stream of profanities as she shoved him out the door, but not before Jake threw Tiffany a knowing nod.
Chapter 6
Tiffany looked in the mirror doing her best to maintain the vacant look she’d plastered on her face. If the situation wasn’t so hideous, she’d appreciate the work the muttering women had done to make her look presentable.
The white dress was a miracle. It clung to every curve and valley of her body, but still somehow looked virginal, innocent. Her hair was a shimmer of fire red curls hanging down the middle of her back. Her makeup was tasteful, not overdone, and so skillfully applied that her dark green eyes gleamed, and her lush lips looked full, puffy, as though she’d been biting them. Slipping her feet into the five-inch “fuck me” stilettos the scowling woman handed her, Tiffany was impressed how they emphasized her slim athletic legs.
She’d heard the sound of young girls’ voices, but hadn’t seen anyone other than the chubby women tugging and pulling at her body and hair, never once speaking to her directly. As they shoved her toward what looked like a hallway, Tiffany saw five young girls huddling together in the doorway. All of them were young Caucasian women, the oldest not more than twenty. They were dressed in skimpy dresses that emphasized their youth… but didn’t hide their voluptuous breasts or curvy hips. Their glassy eyes and stumbling gaits confirmed that they were still under the influence of the drugs they’d been given.
