Karl’s reflection in the glass caught his attention, and he smoothed one side of the sleek hair that his stylist maintained a healthy dark brown, keeping him looking closer to his early forties than just over fifty.
That and his model-fine but mature features, as well as his fit body, kept him popular with the socialites. He maintained his physique by working out in the large gym in his mansion and had earned his black belt in karate by bringing in a private martial arts instructor.
His wealth no doubt added to the attraction women felt toward him. That was fine with him. Whatever it took to catch the attention of the sexiest and richest women in Switzerland.
He had decided on occasion that he needed to own a couple of the young women he had met and had orchestrated their disappearances. After he tired of them in his private home, he had arranged for the beautiful women to be sold in private auctions, another part of his lucrative business.
One of the girls he had introduced to the men who frequented one of the most popular amenities at his ski chalet. Many elite members were aware of the maze of fetish rooms below the lodge. Those who were allowed to know about that exclusive recreation paid well for the women Karl’s men had stolen from their homes across the globe, brought to Switzerland, and forced to be high-priced whores. Slaves, really.
The men especially enjoyed the socialites. Sometimes Karl would arrange to secure a particular woman whom a client had brought to Karl’s attention. Almost always a very young woman whom the client believed would be a fine addition to Karl’s stable of sex slaves—and the man implied he would pay well to enjoy that particular woman. Frequently.
It was easy enough to arrange for the kidnapping of almost any woman.
His extraordinary business abilities, his eye for the best moneymaking opportunities, and his keen sense of enterprise and ambition had made him a billionaire.
Too bad he had business to attend to today or he would now be enjoying fine skiing from last night’s snow. He could almost see his skis flashing in the cold sunlight, snow spraying in high arcs as he wove his way down the slope through the fresh powder.
A man cleared his throat from behind him. He turned to face his butler, an aging man wearing black who had liver spots on his hands and lines on the paperlike skin on his face. Was the butler now in his midseventies?
What did it matter? The old man was just a servant.
The butler’s back was stiff, his posture rigid, his chin high. “You rang, Mr. Bachmann?”
The butler referred to him by his real name, of course. Karl was only known as Anders Hagstedt in his most profitable enterprises, which included any number of ways to traffic humans. Bachmann was easily one of the most powerful men in the industry.
Karl had taken a big risk by having the prostitutes available at the ski club when his real name was attached to the business.
However, it was beyond profitable, and he made sure not one man would cross him. Every man allowed to indulge in his fantasies at the lodge resort was well aware that his own reputation could be damaged if word got out that he was screwing sex slaves.
Karl only allowed the elite as well as easily bought men know about his special amenities. Local heads of law enforcement, government officials, famous actors, singers, even billionaires.
Karl chose men with power and money—and usually men with wives—to be introduced to the delicious girls he rotated in and out of his personal businesses. Any man whose reputation could be easily smeared if word got out about his activities at the club was seduced in one way or another into the downstairs pleasure arena.
“Have my Lamborghini prepared and brought up to the front door,” Karl finally said to the butler. “Bring me my driving coat. I will not need the chauffeur.” I have very important business contacts to meet.
“Immediately, sir.” The butler bowed his way out of the room.
Eighteen years ago, when he was thirty-three, Karl had purchased his mansion in his Swiss homeland with earnings from the ski lodge and chocolate factory his parents had owned. The hefty insurance payment and inheritance courtesy of his dead parents had been an excellend bonus.
How convenient it was that they had died in the car accident in Zurich. His parents had been so . . . tight with their money that they hadn’t shared their wealth with him. He hadn’t been able to touch it until the mysterious accident, when their brakes failed on an icy road in the middle of a snowstorm. What a shame.
Karl smiled as he moved toward the opposite end of his glass-walled suite. The enormous windows were always kept open during the day, the glass allowing him incredible views.
His ski lodge and chocolate factory now served to launder money he made from his most brilliant enterprises. The beyond-lucrative business that he ran under the name Anders Hagstedt.
Now at fifty-one, as Hagstedt, his human trafficking rings had made him a billionaire several times over. He preferred forced prostitution of females over trafficking children, women, and men for manual labor. However, both industries had their places, and both earned him not only millions but also respect throughout the world of men and women in the business.
Along with that respect, he had cultivated a deep-seated sense of fear within anyone who might try to fuck with him.
Karl preferred to be as hands-on as possible with his enterprise and traveled the world. His key sex trafficking operations were in Beijing, Moscow, Stockholm, New York City, and Daytona, Florida. He’d chosen Daytona for the sheer enjoyment of it. He enjoyed the climate, the atmosphere that was so unlike any other place he conducted business in.
His business primarily prostituted girls, but occasionally young men. Although most of his clients preferred females, some of his buyers’ sexual proclivities included young males.
He glanced toward the paddocks and smiled when he saw his own boy slave busy combing down Hagstedt’s most prized Lipizzaner stallion. He kept the boy busy with chores when he wasn’t in the mood for the male to suck him off or literally be his piece of ass.
Karl’s penis hardened, and he rubbed it through the fine wool of his tailored slacks. Perhaps he would call the boy to one of his private rooms before his drive. Maybe the two females he owned as well.
His slaves didn’t have names. They were material items among his belongings that included his collections of ancient Roman artifacts and his stable full of champion Lipizzaner stallions and mares. His stallions gave the most magnificent Airs Above the Ground performance, an incredible work of art.
He didn’t have to worry about his human possessions trying to escape. Karl had ordered his men to murder the boy’s father when the boy attempted to escape, shortly after Hagstedt had first chosen him from a fine crop of newly acquired males. The boy’s mother and five sisters would be next . . . one at a time . . . if he tried to escape again.
Karl had forced his female slaves to witness the execution. He had brought the Rus sian boy’s father to the mansion and used him as an example. His slant-eyed Chinese academically brilliant schoolgirl and his blond American high school cheerleader, and of course the boy, had been suitably terrified by the example.
As he slipped his hands into his slacks, Karl continued to stare through the window at the boy who was brushing down Karl’s mare. Right there, behind the boy, was where the snow had turned brilliant red with his father’s blood only weeks ago. He had made the boy clean the mess and he’d had him haul his father’s body to the incinerator.
Of course it was the same incinerator where Karl had disposed of his last three slaves when he grew tired of them after a year. And the slaves before that.
“Your coat, sir.” The butler stood in the doorway holding Karl’s favorite driving coat. It was extremely fine, and very illegal gorilla fur, and had cost more than one of the classic vehicles from his extensive collection. The coat he owned from the endangered clouded leopard had been an even greater expense.
Karl slipped his arms into the coat with the aid of the butler. “Is the Lamborghini ready?”
“It awaits you at the front door.” The butler’s voice was formal and unreadable as always. He had been with the family since Karl had been a boy, and he still couldn’t remember the butler’s name. Perhaps soon it would be time to get rid of the old man. As they say, out with the old and in with the new. Karl almost smiled at the thought of a naked slave as his new butler.
“May I be of further assistance?” the butler asked.
“Not now.” Karl gave the man a dismissive nod toward the door.
The butler bowed himself out again.
Karl thought one more time about fucking the girls and the boy before taking his drive. Unfortunately that would have to wait. The anticipation would be better, anyway. Late tonight when he returned, he might use the riding crop on all three. It had been a while since he had enjoyed that particular pleasure.
He smiled as he walked from his personal suite, down the grand staircase, and to the foyer. Prisms of light from the chandelier glittered off the walls and wood flooring. Every teardrop on the chandelier was made from exquisite Swarovski crystal. At least a thousand individual pieces.
After the doorman opened the door, Karl walked out into the cool late-November day. The doorman closed the door behind him while Karl drew butter-soft driving gloves from his coat pockets. He headed down the white marble steps leading from the mansion to his circular driveway.
His customized pearl Lamborghini Gallardo LP560-4 purred as it idled and released a steady stream of fogged exhaust into the cold air. Bachman’s fingers were already nearly numb as he tugged on his gloves, walked around the car to the driver’s side, and used his remote to raise the driver’s-side door that had been left closed to keep the warm air inside the vehicle.
He climbed in, and the door eased shut with a fluid movement before he flexed and unflexed his fingers and grasped the driver’s wheel. The interior of the car was suitably warm.
Key men from China, Russia, Sweden, and the United States would be waiting at the exclusive restaurant in Geneva for Anders Hagstedt, not Karl Bachmann. It was time to see how his enterprises as Hagstedt were progressing.
Then in two days he’d make a personal trip to New York City to observe how his Manhattan business was doing. He was in the mood to sample the choicest treats from the next shipment due to arrive in the city from China.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dasha
Something about the new madame, Alexis, and her assistant, Ms. Chandra, was different. They had just started this afternoon, and Dasha wondered what happened to Madame Cherie.
Dasha shivered in the sheer top and skirt she wore, and her legs felt colder yet in the netting she was forced to wear for tonight. Every night they wore something different. Scraps of cloth were all they had.
The club was empty now except for the girls and their handlers. Soon the tables would be packed with men who smelled of sweat and beer, and the girls would all face another night of hell.
She looked at the other girls, who were mostly waxy-faced and so drugged they had a hard time standing. Eddie still liked to keep Dasha from being too doped up, because he wanted her to know he had control over her, and wanted her to feel the pain he caused her. He was sick.
Would it be better to be drugged and not know what was happening to her every single night since she’d been brought to this country?
Dasha studied the two new women. She couldn’t quite place the difference she felt in the presence of Madame Alexis and Ms. Chandra, but she couldn’t say it looked to be worse working with them than it had been with Madame Cherie. What had happened to her?
The other madame had been a bitter, demanding woman with a rough voice and even rougher vocabulary. These women seemed almost nice in comparison.
“Again.” Madame Alexis with her pale blond hair and fair skin had a strict, almost angry voice as she spoke, but the anger didn’t seem to be directed at the girls. Dasha didn’t know how she’d come to that conclusion, but there it was. “Watch Ms. Chandra closer,” Madame Alexis ordered. “Follow her lead and you’ll have every man in the building wanting you.”
The madame said those words like they were distasteful and she wanted to spit them out and wash her mouth with a cake of soap.
Strange.
Ms. Chandra, on the other hand, smiled a lot and seemed patient in teaching every girl she brought up on stage. “Klara, you’ve almost got it,” Ms. Chandra said as she started to undulate against the pole again. “Follow my example a little more and you’ll have it down perfectly.”
Dasha cocked her head. Ms. Chandra said the words with a smile, yet Dasha was sure she saw an angry glint in her pale green eyes. She wondered what caused the spark that Ms. Chandra tried so hard to keep from showing. It couldn’t be that she was keeping it from the girls—what would be the point?
Both Madame Alexis and Ms. Chandra were trying to hide anger. Why?
Dasha waited with most of the girls to the side of the empty club where she smelled cigar smoke. It was still strong despite the staff’s daily attempt at freshening the air and cleaning the leather seats. The lemon oil used to polish the wood barely helped to mask the smell.
Ms. Chandra invited two more girls up onto the stage, gesturing to Olga and Vera while she also kept Klara beside her. “Now we’ll work on the fine art of the striptease.”
The woman began demonstrating how the girls should slowly strip clothing from their bodies to entice and tease clients enough to want a lap dance.
“Once you get the client in the booth for a lap dance,” Ms. Chandra said, “it’s up to each of you to encourage the men—or women—into paying to join you in the upstairs rooms.”
Of course the girls had no choice in that regard, either. There were always cameras. Always someone who would punish them if they didn’t do as they were told.
Another sick feeling gripped Dasha as if raw sewage churned in her belly. Why can’t I be numb to everything that is happening to us like Yulia appears to be? Dasha asked herself yet again as she glanced at her friend, who had a dull look on her face that went beyond being plied with drugs. Or why can’t I go into another world that makes it look as if I like sex in the same way Jenika manages to do it?
Dasha frowned as she looked around the room. Where was Jenika? Dasha couldn’t remember seeing the older girl since last night when she had left with one of the handlers.
Before she had been taken away, Jenika had been in the girls’ common room that was on the top floor of the building where they lived when they weren’t being prostituted. Dasha had just assumed the handler assigned to Jenika had taken her for a short visit, like the handlers frequently did with any girl of his choice.
“Got an early one for you.” Eddie’s coarse palms gripped Dasha’s upper arms as he shook her hard from behind. Dasha clenched her teeth to keep from gasping aloud and shuddered from his touch and even more when the handler leaned close to her ear. “Looks like you are a lucky little girl, since the dickhead knows Mr. G.”
Dear God, no. Dasha bit back words she wanted to spew out to him. Words that would only earn her slaps and punches in places not easily seen by paying customers or other handlers.
If she could only go back to that day when she had seen the advertisement for the modeling agency competition. At that moment, part of her had thought it might not be a good idea to leave her homeland and her family.
The other part, the vain and stupid half of her, had brought her to this place, this hell.
Yes, she had wanted to help Matushka and Otets by sending them money so that they no longer lived in poverty.
But she had also imagined herself in the spotlight, people admiring her for her long, pale blond hair and her silver-blue eyes. Her picture on magazines, televisions, advertisements.
Pain shot through Dasha’s scalp as Eddie jerked her braid and caused her to stumble backward, against him. “You’ve definitely earned what your favorite client is going to give you. You’re a sorry-assed dancer and shitty at doing a striptease.
Yeah, you need some personal attention.”
Eddie gave a laugh. “Maybe you need some of the same treatment that whore Jenika is getting. I hear she fucked up bad enough to have the shit beat out of her and she’s been locked up. I think she tried to get to the cops. Now, you wouldn’t want that, would you—have the fucking shit beat out of you?”
Dasha’s heart dropped at the thought of Jenika being beaten for trying to escape.
At the same time, knowing she was headed for some sick surprise Eddie had for her made Dasha want to claw off the flimsy miniskirt and bra. Claw off her skin. And wash herself inside and out while swallowing enough of the water that she would drown. If not for her parents, death would be better than this.
Eddie drew her out of the crowd of girls and forced her ahead of him, out of the main club floor, behind the curtain, and into the dank, musty hallway. Then he pushed her up the stairs, causing her to trip and fall. She hit her elbow so hard, pain shot through it. He jerked her up by her hair, and more pain splintered through her scalp.
When they reached the landing of the second floor, Dasha heard a scream that was so loud her entire body chilled. She came to a complete stop. Goose bumps rolled over her skin, prickling her entire body. Another scream followed by loud sobs. Then what sounded like a hard slap and more crying, then a woman begging someone to stop. It was muffled through the room’s door, but Dasha thought she heard a woman shout, “I’ve told you everything. I don’t know anything else.”
Another scream.
Dasha held one hand to her belly. Jenika. The voice had sounded like Jenika. Had she been given to some man who liked to beat up women? Some men did and sometimes the handlers would laugh about it.
But then what would she mean by what she’d been shouting about telling everything she knew? Did they want to know why she had tried to go to the cops, like Eddie said she had been doing?
“Third floor, bitch.” Eddie shoved Dasha to the next flight of stairs. “Looks like you’ve got room four with the dickhead who’s got such a hard-on for you. Parkerson. More like Peckerson. Skinny-assed pervert.”
Cheyenne McCray - [Lexi Steele 02] Page 11
