Cheyenne McCray - [Lexi Steele 02]

by The Second Betrayal

  Jianjun, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to kill me. His face was a nice shade of reddish purple, like a Chinese plum blossom. His tendons stood out on his neck, drawing the muscles of his throat tight. His features seemed to bloat, his eyes difficult to see.

  I gave him another sweet smile.

  Jianjun started to make a movement toward me when his cell phone gave two shrill beeps again, no doubt another text message. He cursed at me in rapid Mandarin as he jerked his phone out of an inside pocket of his blazer. I had to admit it—he sure knew some creative insults.

  He pressed a couple of buttons and started reading a text message. I could see the text, but couldn’t read what it said from where I was sitting.

  His breathing stilled for just a fraction and his body tensed. Something was wrong. Really wrong.

  The tiny cell phone in my bra vibrated against my breast. Shit. That couldn’t be a coincidence. My muscles tensed and my heart pounded faster.

  Jianjun darted a glance at me then glanced at his phone before snapping it shut. He moved as if there were nothing to be concerned about and slipped the phone into his pocket as he looked at the girls instead of me.

  Adrenaline kicked up in my system. He was going to come after me. I’d do him one better and go on the offense.

  He twisted toward me and started to raise his left hand. I was sitting on his right.

  Before he even turned his upper body, I had clenched my fists together. With my power and strength, I rammed my elbow into his Adam’s apple.

  Jianjun gave a strangled gasp. I shifted my body and grabbed his hair in both of my hands. I jerked his head down and moved my knee upward.

  I slammed his face against my knee and heard a satisfying crack.

  He didn’t have time to shout.

  Holding on to a handful of his hair with one hand, I jerked his head all the way back then rammed the heel of my palm against his nose and jammed it up all the way into his brain.

  Jianjun never made a sound. He slumped in the seat, his eyes staring upward in an expression of disbelief, his face bloody from his nose to his chin.

  “Damn.” I looked at my bare thigh as Jianjun’s dead body slid sideways on the seat and his head thumped the window. “I got blood on my knee and my hand.” I couldn’t very well start digging around in his suit jacket or my bra with blood on my hands. I looked at the girls and continued to speak in Mandarin. “Do you see any linen napkins? I could use some club soda, too.”

  I closed Jianjun’s eyes and adjusted his body in his seat so that from the back it might look like he was just sleeping—if it hadn’t been for the blood all over his face.

  Daiju found a small bottle of club soda and poured it onto a fine linen napkin that Ning handed her.

  “Thank you,” I said in her language and wiped up the blood that was on me. “I’m going to help all three of you get away from these bastards who’ve taken you.” I talked and glanced at them while I cleaned up more blood on the leather. The fine white linen napkin was bright red. “Go along with whatever I say or do.”

  They stared at me before Ning and Daiju nodded. Ai had a wary expression, like she didn’t know if she should trust me. But she said nothing as she watched.

  The limo started moving again, past the accident. Traffic was still slightly congested, but if Trump Tower was our destination, then we’d be there within two minutes.

  Now that I had blood off my hands I could get into my bra and Jianjun’s pockets. The girls gave me a look like they thought I was weird as I dug in my bra for the mini cell phone. I ignored them and pulled it out of its pocket and immediately checked for text.

  Cold washed over my body as I read the message from Takamoto. It was what I’d thought, but this confirmed it.

  Blown. S-K-D abort. HQ.

  “Shit.” In other words, Takamoto just told me, Kerrison, and Donovan that we’d been made. He’d probably heard it over one of the bugs we’d planted. The three of us were supposed to head to our makeshift HQ in the hotel, and not the stakeout apartment or our Brooklyn apartment.

  If there was any chance in the world that Hagstedt wasn’t on to us—maybe he had his cell phone off—I wasn’t about to abort my end yet. I was going to get in there, find out if he was our man, and take him down.

  I hit reply to Takamoto’s message and added Kerrison’s and Donovan’s coded cell phones as recipients.

  Negative. Trump Tower. Wolf.

  God, I hoped the Tower was right. My gut told me it was.

  Takamoto, Kerrison, and Donovan would now know where I was and that I believed Hagstedt was here. RED’s New York branch along with my own team would be all over the place within no time. Because I hadn’t directly called for them, the agents would stay out of my way until either I signaled, or I was dead.

  I shoved the mini cell back into my bra. “Like I said, I’m here to help you and the other girls,” I told them in Mandarin as I slipped my hand into the dead man’s suit jacket and found one bulge that had to be his cell phone. Farther down was his wallet. “I need you to go along with everything I say and do so that we can catch the men doing this to many girls.”

  Ning and Daiju nodded. Ai just stared at me.

  I drew out Jianjun’s cell phone and wallet. I opened his wallet, ignored his ID, and slipped out the key card Giger had given him. I tossed the wallet to Ning. “Hold on to that,” I told her.

  Then I looked directly at Ai. “Please, just cooperate. I can’t help you if you don’t help me.”

  A pause and then she gave a single nod. “I will help you,” she said in clear English.

  Thank God. “Another wet napkin, please.” I held out my hand, and Daiju helped Ning by pouring club soda on the second linen napkin.

  I grimaced as I hurriedly used it to wipe the blood off Jianjun’s face. “Can you find a place to hide these?” I handed the cloths to the girls when I was finished.

  Ning took them by the unbloodied corners, searched around her, then opened up a compartment on one side of the limo and dropped the napkins in there. Meanwhile I straightened Jianjun’s suit, folded his hands in his lap, and tilted his head back against the window between us and the chauffeur. His nose was obviously odd in appearance. Hopefully the driver hadn’t gotten a good look at Jianjun to begin with.

  The limo pulled up to Trump Tower. My hands shook as I hurried to get a look at the message Jianjun had received.

  Eliminate madame. Return merchandise.

  Notifying client.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I scrolled back a message. The message from Giger with the room information like he’d promised.

  Deliver merchandise. Tower. Room 1612.

  The limo had barely come to a stop when I shoved open the door to get out without waiting for the chauffeur to come around. Icy cold wind blasted away the almost unbearable heat of the limo.

  Fortunately for me, Jianjun happened to be “sleeping” on the other side of the vehicle.

  One of the hotel employees took my hand and helped me from the limo before I had a chance to do so myself. I clenched Jianjun’s cell phone in one hand, the key card in my other, as I moved to let the three girls out.

  The white-haired chauffeur, who sort of looked like Santa Claus, raised his eyebrows. Obviously because we hadn’t waited for him to come around and assist us. He started for the rear passenger door on his side and reached for the handle.

  “No.” Heart thumping in my throat, I called out to the Santa-chauffer. “The man does not feel well and is asleep.” I nodded as I spoke with a heavy Swedish accent, and the chauffeur automatically nodded along with me. “He wants to stay in the car until I call for you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Santa said and tipped his hat.

  “Let’s go,” I said to the girls as I turned and headed into the hotel. “And smile along the way so no one suspects anything’s wrong.”

  By now the girls’ tears had dried and they made attempts at smiles that weren’t very convincing, but
better that than them walking through the hotel bawling. Like that wouldn’t attract attention.

  Trump Tower was impressive enough to just about take my breath away when I entered. Just about. I was on a mission and I’d appreciate the Tower a whole lot better with Hagstedt in RED’s custody, or down and out.

  I spotted the concierge. “We need to take the elevator to the sixteenth floor,” I said to the man as soon as I reached him.

  The concierge directed me to the elevator and I tried to look elegant and unhurried while the girls followed me. It was virtually impossible to do that and get to the elevator as soon as I wanted.

  The four of us stepped into the first car that opened. Damn. Didn’t have time to keep a couple from coming on. They looked American, so I thought I was going to be okay speaking Mandarin to the girls as the elevator went smoothly to the sixteenth floor.

  “When we get there, I need you to act as demur as possible.” I spoke quickly and noticed the couple watching me, as if a Scandinavian-looking silver-blond-haired woman speaking rapid, fluid Chinese was an oddity. “I’m hoping I can take him off guard, and I can only do that if you’re with me.”

  The elevator stopped at the sixteenth floor. The four of us got off and the couple stayed on. I checked to see where room 1612 would be. Conveniently, it wasn’t far from the bank of elevators.

  My heart pounded, adrenaline revving up my whole system as I reached the door. My hand was steady as I slid the key card into its slot.

  Three things happened at one.

  Jianjun’s cell phone vibrated in my other hand.

  My cell phone vibrated against my breast.

  The door was jerked open.

  All thoughts of vibrating cell phones fled my mind at the sight of the man standing in the doorway.

  He was pointing a handgun directly at my chest.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Chandra

  “Like this, honey.” Chandra Kerrison thrust out her breasts, her hands gripping the dancing pole behind her as she rubbed her ass against the pole and shimmied until she was squatting with her knees spread wide. She glanced at the handler not far from Klara before she looked back at the girl. “Put on a good show to keep the guys happy.”

  Chandra would have never guessed that her experience at stripteasing at a bar to pay for college was going to help her one day as a federal law enforcement agent.

  Special Agent Chandra Kerrison. Specialties: weapons expertise, hand-to-hand combat, intelligence operations, master cryptanalyst . . . and striptease instructor.

  What a nightmare for these girls. And she had to teach them to make a bunch of men want to screw them.

  Not much longer, Kerrison.

  Chandra sucked in a deep breath as she tipped her head back against the pole and shimmied her breasts. By the end, by bringing down Hagstedt, she would be helping to save thousands and thousands of women. That’s what she had to keep in her mind, always.

  Hundreds of thousands of women could be saved. Just by bringing down one man’s multibillion-dollar organization.

  Chandra eased up the pole with slow, sensual deliberation. Then she performed a few simple moves that would come off as enticing if done right.

  She stopped and turned to the girl next to her on the stage. “Your turn, Klara.”

  Klara was so strung out on some kind of opioids, and had been prostituted to so many men, that she didn’t seem to care what she had to do. She followed Chandra’s directions and did a fair job. In some cases, the out-of-it, dazed expressions on the girls made them look like they desired whatever it was a man wanted to do.

  “Good job, Klara.” For the third day in a row, Chandra forced yet another smile as the girl stumbled back toward her handler.

  Having to smile pissed her off. What she really wanted to do was start shooting every man in the place with her Sig Sauer P226. She didn’t mess around.

  Chandra cleared her throat as she cleared her mind of the satisfying images. “Vera, why don’t you take your turn now?”

  The girl’s handler picked her up and swung her onto the stage, swatted her on the ass, and laughed when she fell on her hands and knees.

  “That’s the way,” the dickhead shouted. “Just spread your knees more and let everyone get a better look at the goods.”

  Chandra’s body shook as she made herself avoid the man’s gaze so that he wouldn’t see murder in her eyes. His murder.

  She focused on Vera as she took the girl by the hand and helped her up. “Okay, sweetheart, why don’t you try the first move I showed Klara?”

  Despite the fact she hated most men—being raped by older stepbrothers could do that to a girl—Chandra had helped put herself through college working a few hours a week at a titty bar in Nashville. She’d always preferred women, but sexual abuse by males sealed their coffin.

  Showing off her body and knowing that no man could touch her had made Chandra feel like she was getting a little revenge for what her two stepbrothers had done to her when she was in junior high school.

  Vera was having problems staying on her feet. From the confusion in the Russian girl’s eyes, the slowness of her breathing, along with the severity of the sedation caused by the narcotic, Chandra wondered just how much opioid Vera had in her system.

  Chandra took a deep breath and instead of counting to ten, counted in her head the number of dicks she was going to blow off.

  Then she tried to help Vera again.

  Chandra could’ve done any number of other things to earn money while she was in college, but it had been strangely empowering to striptease at the Corral Cowboy Club in Nashville. As far as her income tax records were concerned, she’d been a waitress. She’d danced under a fake name.

  No man had power over her body anymore. She held all the power.

  That was a fact she’d gotten across to her two stepbrothers one Christmas. She’d just graduated from her advanced training courses at FLETC, the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center.

  Steve and Carl would never be able to father children.

  Chandra looked at Vera’s handler when the guy approached. “Vera’s going to collapse from the amount of drugs she’s used,” she said in a low tone to the girl’s handler. “She’s overdosed, or she’s close to it. You really need to get her to a doctor.”

  The girl’s handler smirked. “Just do your job. I’ll do mine.”

  “I’m serious.” Chandra put more authority into her words. “She could die.”

  “Fuck off.” The handler supported Vera and dragged her off the stage.

  Chandra tried harder to slow her breathing and rein in her fury. But even counting shot-off dicks wasn’t doing the job.

  The mini cell phone in her bra vibrated against the side of her breast.

  She went stone-cold sober.

  The fact that it had just gone off had one meaning and one meaning alone.

  She had to get the fuck out of there. Now.

  “I need to take a restroom break.” Chandra walked down the steps from the stage, trying to look calm and casual. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I do not think so.” Stalder’s voice came from the direction of the podium, directly behind her. “You have a meeting scheduled. And you are late.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Nick

  “Word’s out on the street according to Johnny.” Takamoto snapped his cell phone shut. “Good job, Donovan. The Elite Gentleman’s Club is looking for a couple of new bouncers.”

  Smithe snorted as he braced his hand on the back of the chair in the suite of their hotel room HQ. “Bouncers, better known as prostitute handlers on the inside of Giger’s little Manhattan organization. So Hagstedt’s man’s bought it.”

  As he finished putting on his leather jacket Nick frowned. “But the damned New York Times—if Giger read that article, this could be a setup.”

  Takamoto slipped his cell phone into its clip on his belt. His starched shirt and unwrink
led appearance created an extreme contrast with the rest of the surveillance team, all tired as hell. “That does potentially complicate things.”

  Nick thought about this morning’s Times and narrowed his eyes. How could he have made that mistake? Letting his silencer get damaged? It had been one fucking big mistake.

  “Giger putting word out this soon could mean you’re right, Donovan.” Smithe fidgeted with a button alert sensor Nick would be putting on his jacket. That sensor would bring down the wrath of RED wherever Nick was if he simply pressed the device. “I expected at least a day before we’d hear anything,” Smithe continued. “But then the dipshit Giger was in one hell of a big of hurry to hire a madame after we strangled the bitch.”

  Not actually strangled, of course—they’d just staged the act, and then shipped her out. Cherie was now tucked away in Nevada running a cathouse. Nick lightly touched the stiletto-heel-shaped cut and bruise on his cheekbone from the night they’d kidnapped her and he almost snorted. The madame wasn’t happy about being in a place that was nothing like New York City. Nick had told her to deal with it or face being gunned down by Giger’s men. Hell, Steele had told her she’d gun Cherie down if she got in their way.

  Steele could be pretty damned convincing. And she usually followed through with her threats.

  Cherie’s situation wasn’t like entering a witness into the Witness Security Program. With WITSEC, witnesses were given entirely new identities and lives, including being unable to take on any kind of job remotely related to their previous careers.

  In Cherie’s case, RED had just gotten her the hell out of Manhattan until they took down Hagstedt and Giger’s local ring. She could come back when the op was finished. They wouldn’t need her for testimony. RED didn’t deal with red tape.

  “We’ll just have to see what happens when I meet up with Giger or his men.” Nick checked to see if the slender blade he’d put into a hidden pocket right behind the thick leather lapel could be felt if he was patted down by Giger’s men. One of the smallest handguns available, a Rohrbaugh R-9, was tucked into one of his shitkickers. With the thick leather of his boots, and the small size of the R-9 9mm, it wasn’t likely to be detected.