by S W Vaughn
Fuck the slick bastard. He wasn’t about to move the Rolls.
“Do me a favor and stay with the car,” he said to Nails. “It feels like a cop kind of night, and my glove box is full.”
“You’ll be okay alone?”
“Please. The day I can’t handle Slade is the day my sweet old abuelita takes up pole dancing. You worry too much, ’mano.”
Grinning, he jumped from the car, circled the back and plodded across the grass, digging his boots in with every step. Four stone stairs led to the glass front doors — locked, of course. Slade didn’t like surprises. The front lobby stood empty and dark. He pushed the buzzer on the intercom beside the door and held it down for a good twenty seconds, then looked up and waved at the security camera.
“Mendez, what do you want?” Slade’s voice oozed disdain through the speaker.
He shrugged, produced a switchblade and began cleaning under his nails. “Hola, Chief. How’s it hangin’?”
“Put that thing away. And state your business or leave. I haven’t got all night.”
“What? This?” He twirled the knife a few times.
“Damn it, Mendez, what are you doing here?”
“I brought you a present.” He closed the blade, pocketed it. “Check your back camera. I’ll wait.”
Seconds passed. The intercom emitted a high-pitched whine, and an incensed Slade sputtered, “You’re bringing bodies to my door now? You have five seconds before I get the police here.”
“Take it easy, Chief. He’s still breathing.”
“Who’s still breathing?”
“Gabriel Morgan.”
The silence lasted longer this time. “You found him?”
“Yeah. Some shit, ain’t it?” He grinned. “You’d better have cash on you, ’cause I won’t take a check. I know where you’ve been.”
The electronic lock clicked and whirred. Diego pulled the door open and sauntered into the lobby.
“You brought the boy. How … interesting.”
The soft voice seemed to originate from the shadows. He whirled, looking for its owner. At last he made out the slender figure standing in the hallway beside the front desk, backlit by a glow from further down. The face remained in shadow, but he recognized the distinct shape of the Japanese getup, the long rope of hair pulled back in a tight braid. Jenner.
Slade’s freak of a lieutenant did not inspire him to relax.
“Where’s Slade?” He approached the wiry Indian with disgust. The creepy mixed-up fucker never had settled on what he was, Indian or Japanese. Rumor had it Jenner wasn’t even human. He didn’t buy it, but he had to admit the old man unsettled him a bit. Only to himself, of course.
Jenner moved aside. Light struck his cold gray eyes and dappled his stone features with shadow. “He is waiting for you. I will escort you,” he said, and motioned down the hall.
“You first.”
“Very well.” Jenner turned and drifted toward the light. A three-foot braid the color of smoke hung down the center of his back. On any other man, it would have looked ridiculous.
Goddamned thing. One of these days, he intended to cut it off.
“Perhaps you should not have left your lieutenant outside,” Jenner said. His back was turned, but his voice carried perfectly. “Much as your fear amuses me, it will not impress Marcus.”
“Please. The only thing scary about you is the way you dress.”
Jenner offered a shrug and continued onward. He stopped at the end and headed right. A shorter hall lay around the corner, terminating in a single frosted glass door. Jenner gripped the knob and turned to him with a wry smirk.
“I do hope you have not broken the boy,” he said. “After all, that is my job.”
Fucking freak. “He’s fine. Barely scratched.”
Jenner opened the door and stood back. Imposing a casual stroll on legs that wanted to pick up the pace, Diego entered the room. The door closed with Jenner on the opposite side.
Good riddance.
A spacious office lay before him, with three-by-three rows of monitor screens mounted in a recess on the left wall, and elegant vertical blinds drawn against the night across an oversized window. A solid oak desk stood before the window.
Behind the desk sat Marcus Slade, all-American bastard.
From his blond hair and blue eyes to the slight dimple in his chiseled chin, Slade could have passed for a harmless executive playboy. The only clue to his deviant nature lay in his eyes. Two chips of unforgiving ice challenged anyone who met them to risk his wrath at their own peril.
Diego met the expression with a dismissive smirk. Jenner worried him — a little — but Slade was a walking, talking bluff.
Slade glowered at him. “He’s damaged.”
“Nah. He’s gift-wrapped.” He dropped into a nearby chair. “It’s all surface shit. He’ll come around in a bit.”
“He’d better.” Slade hit a button on the intercom phone beside him.
“Yes, Mr. Slade,” came the immediate response.
“Sol. Send Apollo to the back. Have him bring young Mr. Morgan downstairs. He’s not to hurt him. Understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Slade.”
Slade folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Give me one good reason not to make you wait until the boy wakes up before you collect.”
“I ain't gonna play this game with you, asshole.” He yanked a cell phone from his pocket, dialed, waited. “Kaiser, bring the kid back to the car. We’re leaving.”
“All right,” Slade snapped. “Good enough.”
“Never mind,” Diego said over Kaiser’s muttered agreement. “Stay there. Apollo’s coming to get him.” He replaced the phone and glared at Slade. “Don’t fuck with me. Gimme the goddamned money.”
Slade opened a bottom drawer, came up with a black duffel bag and threw it across the desk. It hit him square in the chest. “One hundred thousand, cash. It’s all there. Don’t bother counting it.”
“I won’t. But I am going to make sure you’re not giving me your dirty laundry.” He pulled the zipper open and thrust a hand into banded stacks of hundred dollar bills. “Sweet. Feels like a hundred grand to me.” He closed the bag, stood, and shouldered it. “Oh! Almost forgot. You owe me another fifty bucks, Chief.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Delivery fee. Plus gas and tolls.”
“You’re kidding me.”
He held out a hand. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“Mendez, you are a worm.” Slade stood and extracted a thick wad of folded bills held together with a hinged gold clip from a pocket, teased a fifty from it and slapped it hard into his waiting palm. “Now get out.”
“Sure. Pleasure doin’ business with you.”
“I can’t say the same. Leave.”
Laughing, Diego snapped off a two-fingered mock salute and let himself out.
Chapter 4
Gabriel fought the light that edged the blackness, struggling to stay unaware of his battered body for as long as possible.
Cold ravaged his flesh and gnawed at his bones. Fits of shivers forced awareness into him. At first he thought they’d left him outside, but it had been a warm night. Maybe they’d stuffed him in a freezer, one of those walk-ins scumbags like this always seemed to have access to for storing dead bodies. The surface beneath him was solid and unforgiving, and slightly damp.
He tried to open his eyes. Only one of them responded. The other, where Nails whacked him with the gun, had swollen nearly shut, and a gummy substance sealed the lids together. Blood, and God knew what else. His head throbbed a sickening rhythm that his stomach copied, and his throat tightened with every pulse.
He lay still and breathed slowly. The nausea settled but refused to disappear. Wherever he was, it was fairly dark. Everything looked gray. After a moment, he realized the floor really was gray. Damp concrete, too smooth for a sidewalk or a parking lot, extended far enough to convince him he was inside somewhere.
&nb
sp; Maybe a garage? He’d heard no sound since he woke, not even distant traffic or the whisper of wind. He shifted, suppressed the renewed urge to vomit and tried to push himself up.
His arms wouldn’t move. He curled a hand, and his numb fingers brushed something rough. Rope. They’d tied his hands behind his back.
Fear pulled his senses into sharp relief. He rolled onto his side, and an explosive groan escaped clenched teeth. At least his legs weren’t tied. He managed to sit up, and then slumped forward with a gasp. A wave of dizziness threatened to knock him out again. He closed his eyes and willed it to pass.
At last, he lifted his head. A wall of cement blocks rose in front of him and stretched to an unfinished ceiling. Moisture glistened on the worn mortar between the blocks, suggesting a basement. The dim light came from a single fluorescent tube, the only one lit of several that striped the space beyond the rafters at regular intervals.
He took slow breaths and forced himself to stay calm. This place could be anywhere. Diego and his thugs might have put him in storage until they contacted this Slade person, or they might have brought him to the man already. He had no idea how long he’d been out, and no desire to find out who Slade was or why he wanted him.
To his left loomed a steel door. Probably locked, but he had to try it. Even if the door was open and he managed to escape this place, he would somehow have to free his hands. He panned his gaze along the room, looking for something that might saw through the rope. The sight of several pairs of manacles and chains hanging from the back wall stopped him cold.
Not a basement. A dungeon.
Heightened panic galvanized him into action. He pushed back with his feet and slid across the floor until his bound hands met the wall behind him. Using the surface for leverage, he struggled to rise an inch at a time. Finally, he gained his feet and leaned back. His breath left in ragged pants, and his legs shook beneath him.
Think, damn it. The rough cement might erode the rope if he rubbed against it long enough. That could take hours, though. He tried rotating his wrists. The course fiber abraded his skin, but the ropes gave a fraction of an inch. Working his hands free would tear him up pretty badly.
Unfortunately, he had no other options.
Drawing a fortifying breath, he clenched his jaw and wrenched his hands in opposite directions, back and forth, as quickly as he could manage. A burning sensation spread through his wrists. The rope ground away layers of skin and the burn became stinging pain as blood trickled from the abrasions. After a few minutes, his shoulders ached with the effort. He kept at it, gained enough to pull his hands through to the base of his thumbs.
A bitter laugh escaped him when he realized his blood soaking the ropes made them more pliable.
Almost there. Another inch and he’d be free. Everything burned. Wet warmth drizzled into his palms, and the pain drove him to his knees. He stayed there and kept working at the bonds. If the door was locked, and his hands were loose, at least he could try to surprise anyone who came through it. He’d have a sliver of a chance. Better than nothing.
A hollow click sounded in the stillness, followed by the groan of hinges as the door opened. His breath left him.
He stood and turned to face the door fully, concealing the evidence of his struggle from whoever planned to enter. A stranger walked in, closed the door and approached him. The man wore a tailored black suit with a white shirt open at the throat, no tie. Thick blond hair framed a granite face with frigid blue eyes.
Trying to move slowly so the other man wouldn’t notice, Gabriel started on the ropes again. “I’m going to guess you’re Marcus Slade,” he said. The door had to be open still. If he could get past this guy, he might be able to escape.
The man flashed a brittle and humorless smile. “Smart boy. And you’re Gabriel Morgan. Now that we’ve been introduced, you can have a seat, and we’ll talk.”
Okay, so the guy was insane. “I’m not—”
Slade gripped his jacket and smashed him against the wall. His mangled wrists banged the cement and drew a cry from him. Slade dragged him down the rough surface, forced him to sit on the floor and hunkered in front of him without relaxing his grip.
“From now on, when I tell you to do something, you will do it.” One hand left his jacket, gripped his chin and forced his head toward the door. “There’s a camera up there. I’ve been watching you, and I see what you’re doing to your wrists. Stop it.”
“You’re crazy.” He jerked his head from Slade’s hand. “I don’t even know you! Why did you bring me here? You can’t do this. You can’t just keep me here and … what do you want with me?” He lunged aside, hoping to break the grip on his jacket.
Slade held fast and backhanded him.
Agony exploded behind his eyes. Hot blood filled his mouth, coated his tongue with a bitter metal-salt taste. He shuddered and stilled.
“We’re off to a bad start. Let’s try again.” Slade stood and stared down at him. “You are Gabriel Morgan. I am Marcus Slade. I’m a businessman, and I have a proposition for you. That’s why I brought you here.”
“A proposition,” he repeated numbly. “Funny, but this doesn’t feel like an offer.”
“Oh, I have no intention of allowing you to refuse. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”
Gabriel’s mouth opened, shut. This psycho was going to kill him. How could he get out of this? Struggling wouldn’t work. In his current condition, he couldn’t physically overpower Slade. The man was as strong as one of Diego’s goons. He’d have to play along until he could think of something else.
“All right,” he finally said. “What do you want?”
“It’s simple, really.” Slade’s mouth curved into a cold smile. “I run fighters and girls, and they make me a lot of money. You are going to fight for me.”
“The hell I am,” he snapped before he could stop himself. “You’re talking about those basement beat-downs your pal Diego does? No. And why do you want me?”
Slade laughed. “First off, Diego Mendez is no friend of mine. I don’t know how you ended up with him, and I don’t want to know. Second, those ridiculous little pissing contests you’ve been hanging around are not fights. The organization doesn’t even recognize them.”
A lead weight settled in Gabriel’s stomach. This bastard belonged to the organization? At once he recalled Diego’s reaction when he looked at Lillith’s picture.
He was definitely the right one, the man said. And Slade had mentioned fighters … and girls.
Oh, God. No.
“You’ll fight for me, Mr. Morgan. I happen to have something you want.” Slade walked to the door, opened it and leaned out. “Get in here.”
A woman’s nerve-pitched voice came from beyond the entrance. “What is going on? Apollo, let go of me! Please. Tell me what’s happening…”
Gabriel’s chest was suddenly, unbearably tight. He pushed himself to his feet, no longer caring what Slade said or did, and took a stumbling step toward the door, and another.
He stopped. An enormous black man filling the entryway glared at him and stepped through, pulling a dark-haired woman in after him. Her head bent forward and cascading hair hid her face — a face he didn’t have to see. He'd known the instant she spoke.
She lifted her face. Her eyes met his. “Oh, my God,” she whispered as one hand flew to her mouth.
He barely managed to remain standing. He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat stayed.
Lillith.
Chapter 5
“Gabriel!” Lillith wrenched her arm away from the man she’d called Apollo and flew toward him with a sob. Tears streaming from her eyes, she reached out and traced his jaw line with her fingertips, as though she had to verify he was really there. “No. Oh, Jesus, no.” She whirled on Slade and screamed, “You bastard! What did you do to him?”
“Lilly.” Gabriel’s eyes burned, but he wouldn’t let that maniac see him lose control. “I’m okay. Really.” The lie came easy. He’d had ye
ars of practice.
“Okay? You call this okay?” Her breath hitched and wavered. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Looking for you.”
The last of her composure crumbled. She buried her face in her hands and sank to the floor in front of him, shaking with the force of her sobs.
Gabriel directed a vicious look at Slade. “If you’ve hurt my sister, you sick, twisted son of a bitch, I’ll kill you. I swear to God I will.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Mr. Morgan. As I said, the deal is simple. You agree to my terms, or she pays the price.”
She shot from the floor and launched herself at Slade. “Leave him alone!” she cried, pummeled his chest with her fists, striking blindly. Slade caught one of her wrists, and with his free hand produced a short knife.
Lillith froze.
“Don’t!” Gabriel lunged forward, stumbled. His knees hit the floor. “Don’t hurt her,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ll do whatever you want. Anything.”
“I know you will.” Slade released his hold and offered the knife to Lillith, handle first, inclining his head toward Gabriel. “Cut him loose.”
Lillith accepted the knife with a trembling hand. “Loose from what?” she asked.
“His hands are tied. Get that rope off him before he cripples himself.”
She blanched. Unable to meet the devastation in her eyes, he lowered his head. Just like old times. She’d taken care of him with worse injuries than these, after their father had finished with him. He still carried the shame, the guilt.
Lillith circled him and moaned at what must have been an ugly sight. He sensed her kneel behind him. “I can’t,” she whispered. “Gabriel, it’s so bad. I can’t … hurt you more.”
“You won’t. It’s okay. If you can just separate them, I’ll get the ropes off.”
