by Josie Brown
The lascivious smile fades at the sight of me. His look is that of shock and anger. As his deep-set eyes drill into me, a shiver of dread runs up my spine.
He thinks I am she: Nicolette.
Obviously, he’s not too happy that Pinky Ring failed to terminate her.
With an imperious wave of his hand, he signals me to come to him.
My response is a slight shake of my head as I whisper, “Come and get me.”
He pops a pill, then makes his way down the grand staircase, dragging the pouting girls with him.
Jack’s poker face conceals the concern I hear in his voice: “I’ll shadow. But Donna, be careful.”
“You don’t have to ask twice,” I promise him.
Jack wraps a proprietary arm around my waist. Together, we wait for the inevitable: Salem’s proposition.
“Ah…I don’t know you after all.” Salem’s proclamation does not ring of disappointment. “But perhaps I should.” Taking my hand, he kisses it on the knuckles before turning it over. Salem’s tongue rolls from my palm and up my wrist. When he turns his head to watch my reaction, he asks, “Would you like me to do more of that?”
What I remember about Salem is that he likes a conquest. “Thank you, but I have a date for the evening.” I wipe Salem’s spittle on my palm onto the back of one of the twins.
Salem laughs heartily at this. However, his acknowledgement to Jack is no more than a cursory bow as he growls, “We’ve never met.”
Jack smiles at Salem, but he knows better than to hold out his hand. “Allan Woodcourt.”
So, Frisky’s real name, on the invitation Jack swiped, is the same as a character in Bleak House. Go figure.
“Ah, yes, of Brandon and Lyle! Your investment firm is interested in financing Graffias Industries’ latest product, is it not, Mr. Woodcourt?” Salem’s eyes stay on me, even as he addresses Jack. “And yet, Mr. Brandon could not be here for our private launch party? This disappoints me greatly.”
Jack takes this and runs with it. “It could not be avoided, Mr. al-Sadah. He sends his regrets, and me in his stead.”
“As well as this lovely lady to accompany you.” Salem’s finger traces the curve of my jaw. “Mr. Brandon is quite thoughtful indeed.”
Although Jack’s eyes harden, his smile doesn’t waver. “This is my associate, Honoria Dedlock.”
You’ve got to love a man who knows his Dickens.
Despite Salem’s frosty demeanor, the Doublemint Twins’ reactions to Jack are much friendlier. One licks her lips at him, as if he’s dessert. The other drapes herself over one of his shoulders. Her fingers are undoing his tie.
Jack ignores her. His eyes never once leave Salem, as if daring him to stare back.
“While I take your, er, ‘associate’ on a tour of my yacht, Sophie and Isabelle are sure to provide you with an interesting diversion.”
“Thanks, but I’d like to take that tour too.” Jack’s steely tone implies he won’t take no for an answer. “What’s the old saying? Oh yeah: ‘when it comes to yachts, it’s not just the size that matters.’ I’ll bet this ocean-going beauty is tricked out with some interesting gear.”
Salem is not used to being dismissed—and in front of women, no less. Rage darkens his face. He takes a step forward—
And so do I. My move puts me between Jack and Salem. I slide close enough to Salem to imitate the move I saw one of the twins make earlier, that is, to tweak his nipple under his tuxedo jacket. “Allan, I don’t mind. I’m sure you won’t mind a little change of pace, too.” I lean over and give Jack a long, lingering kiss.
When I pull back, I’m smiling. I can’t afford to let the worry in Jack’s face be reflected in mine—not if we’re to complete our mission and bring Salem to justice.
Besides, I’ve got Acme backing me up. And the first chance I get, Salem gets pricked with the Roofie-filled syringe.
Jack knows this. It’s why he doesn’t punch Salem in the gut when our host steers me toward the grand staircase.
Isabelle and Sophie set upon Jack like wolves on a sacrificial lamb. He does his best to keep his eyes on me, but can’t for more than a few quick moments as the crowd envelops us.
I don’t think Jack sees it when Salem detours us to the right of the staircase, into an alcove. It holds an elevator. He pulls a tiny brass key from his tuxedo pocket and turns it in the lock beside the elevator. It opens silently.
Before I know it, he shoves me inside, and against the back wall.
His mouth grinds into mine. I try to push him off, but he slaps me across the face so hard that my head ricochets off the wall, knocking the tiny Bluetooth out of my ear.
It pings as it hits the floor, but he’s too busy fondling me to hear it.
Sadly, I’m too far away to grab it. Still, I struggle as hard as I can to free myself, but Salem seems to have the strength of three men. With one broad forearm, he pins my arms above my head, ripping the chain strap of my clutch off my wrist, and tossing it onto the floor.
His other hand yanks my hair—
And my wig comes off in his palm.
He stares down at it, then back at me.
“Why…you’re…” He laughs uproariously.
Oh, hell. He recognizes me.
He must also remember what I did to him the last time we saw each other.
Well, I remember what he did to me too.
I remember his rough touch. His promise of pain. And his total disregard for life.
That last nasty little trait cost him his own–or so I thought.
When he moves in to smother my mouth with his, I hear everything in my clutch purse crunch beneath his foot: the syringes, not to mention my cellphone.
Damn it! How will Jack be able to find me? I’m now naked, figuratively. (But, I dread, soon literally.)
It’s up to me to save myself.
My guess is that we’re not going up toward the private cabins, but down into the hull of the ship. Quite frankly, it’s a wonder I feel any gravitational pull on my body at all, what with all the poking, prodding, and grabbing Salem is doing, all the while crooning sadistic taunts as to what he’ll do with me when we get to (as he so lovingly puts it) “one of my many torture chambers.”
Finally, the elevator door opens into a wide hallway. Salem’s elbow goes around my neck, making it easier to drag me along.
Like the main ballroom, strobe lights plunge the hall into a freeze-frame chiaroscuro of darkness and light. When my eyes finally adjust, I realize that each room we pass is some sort of torture chamber. Every now and again, Salem will stop in a doorway in order to admire the sex play of his guests.
One of the rooms seems to run on forever, both in its length and depth. Inside, it looks like a free-for-all of sex and pain. The walls are lined with shackled captors, both male and female. Their varied stages of undress are the result of the whip slashes on their blood-striped backs.
Not all of their shouts are muzzled by the various accoutrements placed between their lips. The ones who can scream have gags made of metal fingers or plastic rings that leave their mouths open for anything their torturers want to shove into them. If their torturers’ engorged cocks are any indication, they’ll soon be silenced too.
Some of the onlookers are too engrossed in their own sexual machinations to watch the flogging action. They’re stacked three or four deep on the floor. If so many of them weren’t thrusting, wriggling, and moaning, their orgy could be mistaken for a mass grave.
In another room, a naked woman is bent, spread-eagled, over a vinyl barrel horse. Her wrists and ankles are chained to the hardwood floor. Her torturer—a man thick in the neck, broad in the shoulder, and taut in the abs—wears only leather chaps and an executioner’s mask. Her head jerks back each time he strikes her back with a cat-o-nine-tails. Her screams pierce the air.
The guests watch from the couches scattered throughout the room. For the most part, the female observers flinch with each squeal from the bound woman. Their eyelid
s are raised only to half-mast. Whether this indicates a clouded stupor, abject fear, or numbed resignation, I can’t say.
On the other hand, the men—many who have already shed their tuxedos—cheer him on. Some are so riled up that they emulate his moves, smacking the women at their sides and in their laps with their hands or some of the torture toys scattered around the room.
Every now and then, one of the men will gobble yet another pill. If his submissive struggles to get away, he’ll force her mouth open in order to pour the dregs of the closest champagne flute into it.
So much is poured into one of the women that she convulses. Her captor’s attempt to revive her is to pump her chest, but touching her breasts brings him to climax as she takes a last sad gasp.
She is Nicolette’s friend, Suzette.
This is not how I want to die.
Suzette’s rapist doesn’t notice, and likely doesn’t care, that she isn’t breathing.
Salem does, and he isn’t happy about it. He punches a wall intercom with his fist.
It squawks, “Yes, honorable patron?”
“Chamber Eight. A guest is no longer with us. Remove her playmate as well.”
A mere moment later, two of Salem’s security guards have entered the room. One swings the dead girl over his shoulder while the other tries to nudge the man toward the door.
Seeing Salem standing in the threshold, the man angrily heads our way.
I suddenly realize that the man is Pinky Ring.
“How dare you, Salem!” he screams. The words are English, but his accent is German. “I won’t have it—not after what I did for you tonight—”
Salem lets go of me in order to grab Pinky Ring by his throat and slam him against the wall. “Shut up, you little fool! Not in front of her.”
Pinky Ring’s eyes slide in my direction. Although gagging, he must like what he sees because his pout turns into a clown’s grin. “Please don’t remove me from all the fun and games. I’ll…I’ll behave, I promise! And I’ll give you my vote against…against The Other.”
His declaration intrigues Salem enough that he releases the choke hold on Pinky Ring. Still, to play coy, he shrugs. “You mean to tell me that I didn’t already have it?”
“The Other can be quite persuasive too, as you know all too well.” Pinky Ring straightens his bowtie, but his eyes shift to me. “Yes, you’ll have my vote—if you throw this one in as part of the deal.”
“You little imbecile!” Salem chuckles raucously. “Perhaps, when I’m done with her. So then, do I have your vote?”
Pinky Ring’s beady little eyes slide my way. He moves in for a closer look—too close in fact.
He cups my breast, as if that might jog his memory.
It won’t since we’ve never met. As a way of reminding him of this, I slap his face.
He yelps in pain. He draws back his hand to retaliate, but Salem grabs it before it makes contact. “Forget it. She’s mine to punish. Go pull another woman from the pens.”
As he crushes Pinky Ring’s hand in his fist, the smaller man whimpers, “They’ve been passed around too much! And they certainly don’t have her desire to live.”
“We have a few new ones in there. Whomever you choose, you’ll be her first.” Salem’s arm goes around my waist in order to jerk me along to another door further down the hall. It is closed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he taps in the necessary code on its numbered lock:
19*29#
It slides open to reveal a room holding wall-to-wall cages. They are so small that the captives—both men and women—are on their hands and knees. Their mouths are gagged, and most are naked.
Water bottles are strapped to the rail of each cage, as if these people are lab rats. I imagine the liquid is drugged, which is why they are so docile.
The women who are still dressed whimper the most. When one of them realizes the door has opened, she bangs on her cage with her bound wrists.
Salem goose-steps me to the wall. There, he reaches up with his free hand in order to pull down a short metal rod: it’s a cattle prod.
He takes it over to the woman’s cage and smacks her hard across the shoulder. She shudders from the jolt of electricity that runs through her body. Her eyes roll up into her head before she passes out.
The others cower in the farthest corners of their pens.
“Too bad. She was the prettiest,” Pinky Ring murmurs.
I recognize her. She is Jean-Pierre’s friend, Gigi.
“The auction starts at midnight. I anticipate she’ll go for ten million Euros.” Salem cocks his head as he scrutinizes her. “Then again, I may keep her”—his gaze shifts my way—“if this one doesn’t last the night.” He jerks me close enough that his whisper is hot on my neck. “What do you think, my pretty? Are you up for some fun and games?”
He wants me to be frightened of ending up like Gigi. He wants me to barter for my life; to beg him to let me go.
I want to make him pay for all the suffering he causes.
I want to kill this son of a bitch.
I summon a smile. With a throaty laugh, I murmur, “Lead the way.”
His grin grows into a leer. “After the head games you’ve played on me, naughty one, I’d say be careful what you wish for.”
His arm goes around my waist again. He’s strong enough to lift me off my feet as he strides purposefully out the door, to another at the end of the hall.
I carefully watch as he opens the door with the same six digit code as the one he used to access the slave pens:
19*29#
As Salem shoves me inside, the door slams loudly, echoing through his private torture chamber.
Like the other rooms on this level of the ship, there are no portholes, and its walls are padded—to muffle any screams, I imagine. Only in here, the walls of the room come to a V at one side. From that I deduce that we are at the bow of the ship.
The fluorescent lights from overhead cast deep ugly shadows of the only things in the room: the two chains that hang from the center of the ceiling, and above a stainless steel table to one side are several items: a cattle prod, a Taser, pliers, and a cleaver—undoubtedly there to torture this twisted bastard’s unfortunate guests.
With more than a little luck, one of his torture tools may save me.
More goodies hang on a wall: whips of various shapes and sizes, spreader bars, more chains, choke and jolt collars, straightjackets, paddles, butt plugs, and dildos. On another wall, floor-to-ceiling shelves hold every high heel imaginable.
“I see you’ve taken great care to indulge your foot fetish,” I declare.
He walks over to the shelves. From one on high, he pulls a pair of red four-inch sandals, from Yves St. Laurent.
Yes, I remember those shoes: When Salem and I last met, he’d chosen a similar pair for me. I was still wearing them when I stepped over his corpse. I hope tonight I will experience a déjà vu moment.
He holds them out to me. “These suit you. Put on the right one, then the left.”
“Don’t you want to do the honors?” My God, he made such a big deal about it last time: getting down on one knee, lifting my foot to it, unstrapping the shoe I wore. Ah, good times.
He frowns. “No. I remember…something…but it did not go well.”
No gentle reminders from me. Far be it from me to get on his bad side now.
I take the shoes from him. He watches me as I step into them. When I bend to adjust the strap of one, his hand slides over my backside. He pauses to see what I do.
Nothing.
He slaps it so hard that I lose my balance.
At that, he laughs.
Thank goodness the other shoe’s strap doesn’t need adjusting. I hold my hands behind my back, faking the fact that I’m duly chastened.
He walks over to the wall holding the sex toys and chooses a three-pronged whip.
He doesn’t see me pick up the Taser gun. My hands are behind me again before he has a chance to t
urn around.
As he faces me, I say in my best little girl voice: “Are you going to let me choose my poison?”
“Why don’t we take turns, my dear?” He snaps the whip in the direction of the wall. “What is your name, anyway? Not that it matters. When I’m through with you, your name will be a distant memory to you—”
He doesn’t remember me.
But…how can that be?
“—by the time you join the other women chosen for our new little enterprise.”
“By that, do you mean the slave auction that you’ve got going on here?”
He chuckles. “No, no! The auction is petit amusement, not the business of the day, by any means! You came here because you don’t mind a little roleplaying. Our organization is giving you the ultimate opportunity to do just that—”
Suddenly, the ship rocks violently.
The lights go dark.
I crouch low. The great news: He can’t see me.
The bad news: I can’t see him either.
In the meantime, a dull and steady alarm moans through the hull’s intercom system. Whatever happened must be serious enough to abandon ship.
Salem makes the first move, swinging the whip.
It catches my arm. When I grunt from the pain, he snickers. Hearing another whoosh, I duck in time to miss his next strike.
My retaliation comes with a jolt from the Taser.
I realize I’ve struck gold—or something more precious to him—when it lights up the room for a moment, showing me where he now has a terrible owie: On his chest.
The shock throws him backward, into the steel table. As it rolls away, the items that were arrayed upon it clatter to the floor.
No doubt he’s down for the count—
Which means I should get the hell out—now.
I head for the door, when suddenly the yacht rears up on one side and tosses me in another direction. Shit, whatever hit it must have made some big gash in its hull. We must be taking on water.
