by Jan Graham
“The balance is fine then, no dizzy head?” Nik chuckled. “I’m sure your new daddy will replace the boots if you ask nicely enough. Until then, no shoes for you.”
No shoes. He’d have to get her something. Once the raid was underway, breakages happened. Smashed glass, splinters of wood. How could she help if she had to hobble down hallways barefoot? Unless Marcus threw her over his shoulder, gun in one hand and carried her to safety. Now there was a stimulating thought. Flung over his shoulder just as he’d done the first time they’d fucked. Moisture pooled between her legs as the erotic image filled her head which she quickly dismissed. They’d fought, he said it was a mistake. Getting horny over a man who didn’t want her was redundant now. Not that it had stopped her in the past. Four years of longing, a few weeks of bliss, and now, she was back to square one.
“Ah, she’s awake.” Beth cringed at the sight of the man who appeared in the doorway of her cell.
She recognized him instantly, Nigel Charlton, head of the Australian leg of Oshimara’s organization, and since the demise of the crime gang, self-appointed head of the new Aussie-based trafficking ring.
“Why aren’t they all in individual cells? Move one of them now,” Nigel directed his words to Nik and pointed in the direction of the girls in the cell next to her who huddled together on the floor in the corner of their prison.
“No.” Beth nearly laughed out loud at Nik’s denial of Nigel’s request. His response conveyed more than just the singular word. The combination of Nik’s body language, facial expression, and tone said, ‘Fuck you, Nigel, they stay where I put them, and if you want them moved, you need to go through me to do it.’
Charlton stood speechless, giving Beth a chance to assess him more thoroughly. Tall and weedy, slightly hunched at the shoulders, lean, no muscle on his frame at all. The man would be useless in a fight. She speculated Nik would probably be able to knock him over with one forceful burp. Just like his body, his face was lean, elongated with a thin pointy nose and eyes set close to it. A rat, he reminded her of a rat. Nigel pinched the bridge of his nose, indicating the recent conversation may have given him a headache, either that, or he suffered from sinus.
Nik moved to the cell next to her, opened the door and ushered the reluctant and trembling girls out of it and into hers. His body remained protectively between the girls and Nigel. They ran toward Beth, nearly knocking her over to get to the corner of the cell where they resumed their huddled position. It was a wise move on Nik’s part. Now, Beth could protect them should anything go wrong before Marcus and the team arrived. Nigel scowled as Nik carried two cots into the space, placing them in an L shape in front of the two huddled women. Beth wondered if she should be huddling as well rather than standing ready to face off against rat-man if need be.
“What the hell are you doing?” Nigel finally found his voice and a deathly stare to accompany it.
“They need food, a shower, and a change of clothes ready for presentation, and this one,” he pointed at Beth, “needs makeup to cover the bruising. I know nothing about makeup, but I assume they do.”
Nik pointed to the corner where the women were now both crying at the mention of a shower or maybe, Nik’s presentation statement.
“I’m not buying them clothes and makeup and if you think I’m letting them out of the cell for a shower, you’re crazy,” Nigel snapped angrily.
Beth walked over to the cots near her fellow captives and sat down. If Nigel and Nik got into a physical altercation, she wanted to be away from the action and close enough to calm the women with her.
“Oshimara always ensures the women are perfectly presented and fed,” Nik replied.
Nigel looked like he was about to explode. His face reddened, and his features contorted as he glared at Nik.
“You don’t work for Oshimara anymore, remember? You work for me,” he screamed.
Jesus, how had Nik survived in this environment for so long? No wonder he needed out.
“Okay, then, let me put it this way. Well cared for and fed prisoners makes life easier for you and me. Nice smelling, pretty women fetch a higher price.” There was condescension in Nik’s tone, and Beth wondered if he was intentionally trying to bate Nigel or if Nigel even noticed. His response indicated the latter.
“Both good points,” Nigel conceded. “Food, clothing, and makeup, it is. I’ll leave you in charge of organizing it. Now this one.”
Nigel stepped toward Beth. She tensed. The man turned her stomach, and she wondered if she should move to the corner and cower with the other girls. Deciding against it, she sat taller on the cot and glared at Nigel. It was too late to be a shrinking violet at this party. Beth kicked and screamed her way into this position, pulling out her abductor's hair, splitting the others lip with a wild kick to the face. Pretending not to be a wildcat with heaps of attitude now might raise suspicion. Her role was set, and she’d play it to the hilt. Within reason, of course, she didn’t want to end up unconscious again.
“You killed one of my men,” Nigel spat the accusation at her.
What the fuck? Both men were alive and well as they beat her face, knocked her out, and dragged her here. Was Nigel Charlton delusional as well as a criminal.
“Well, he probably deserved it,” she replied haughtily, glancing at Nik to see if she could get a read about what was going on.
Nigel’s psychotic laugh shocked her. It also sent a chill of fear up her spine. Nik was giving nothing away, except his hand was edging back at the base of his leather jacket, level with his belt. He’d be carrying. She knew Nik kept his magnum tucked into the back of his jeans. His gaze never left Nigel, his body coiled like a cobra ready to strike. What on earth went down while she’d been out?
“I like this one.” He slapped Nik on the arm, maintaining eye contact with Beth, and continued to laugh. Nik just glared. “I do hope our client decides to leave you behind. We could have a lot of fun before I show you how Cliff’s life ended.”
Cliff, foot to the face fat lip man. He was dead? Well, it wasn’t anything she’d done. And if Charlton was going to show her how Cliff died, it meant he was responsible, not her. Marcus said these men were more dangerous than he anticipated but fuck, killing one of their own. She knew it happened, but what the hell did the guy do to piss his boss off. Apart from being a stupid fucker. Was Cliff killed for damaging her face? If so, it would explain why Nigel accused her of being responsible.
“I look forward to it,” she replied with as much snarky attitude as she could summon.
Nik glanced her way and smirked. If only Nigel knew he was about to go down for all his crimes. He was a dead man walking and didn’t even know it.
* * * *
That girl was way too cocky. The challenge of bringing her down would be just the thing to make a man hard. Stupid bitch, thinking she can fight and sass her way out of this. He’d love to use her, break her, and watch the look of terror fill her face seconds before he put a bullet in that pretty skull of hers.
Nigel vaguely remembered Belvoir making some comment about not minding a woman with a little fight in her. Hopefully, he’d think choice one had a bit too much fight in her, and he’d take one of the other two women cowering in the corner. He could suggest one of the others, explain how difficult bitch one was to capture. The bruises would prove it. Remo was still complaining his head hurt where she’d ripped out a chunk of his hair. Doing that would show him to be a liar, having told Belvoir the injury wasn’t from his men. No, he’d leave things as they are and hope one of the other girls appealed to his client.
If Nik had come through with his Japanese contacts, then they’d all be looking at a huge payday. Selling all three would have added a hearty balance to the bank account. Nigel liked money. Money meant power, and he’d craved power since he was a young man. Some days, he let it go to his head. Like shooting Cliff. Still, it did work out for the best. Once he and Nik got this trafficking gig up and running again, team members like Cliff were a liability�
�careless, damaging goods, potentially bringing trouble with the police down on his head. No, the man was better off gone. He should probably deal with Remo in a similar fashion. That man had no smarts of any kind. He followed Cliff's lead, and now his mate wasn’t here to guide him, well… Remo was better off gone. Work as a duo, die as a duo seemed a good enough motto in Nigel’s book.
“Where’s Remo?” Nik appeared in the doorway to the office. “I need him to go and pick up some supplies I’ve ordered.”
Yes, that was all Remo was good for. Do this, go here, pick up that. He’d be the company lackey and nothing more. Nik toyed with a key in his hand as he waited for Nigel’s response.
At least Nik was well trained in crime. He understood how this all worked, and once he got rid of the Oshimara-did-it-this-way bullshit, then he’d be a great asset. Nigel recognized the key the man held, he had one himself. Although the key in Nik’s hand usually hung on the wall near the door that led to the cells. Nigel looked at the screens to his left. All women in one cell. Cell door locked, no men guarding the products. Clearly, the outer metal door to the area was also locked and Nik held the key, meaning no one could get in or out. Yep, he needed to talk to Nik about the way they did things here.
“Why don’t you go?” Nigel knew the answer before he asked the question.
“I’m watching the women. A task I don’t trust to any of your men, considering you’ve allowed them to sample product in the past without any form of retribution,” Nik’s snarl accompanied an expression of disdain which he directed straight at Nigel.
The man looked like a Neanderthal but displayed the morals of a priest, at least when it came to messing with the women. Nigel hoped Nik would loosen up on that point. After all, what was the point in having sluts around if you couldn’t engage in a little fun?
“He’s probably sulking somewhere. Just send one of the others and get back to your babysitting.” Nigel dismissed him with a flick of his wrist.
No doubt the supplies included clothing and makeup. He’d never dealt with this end of the business before. He collected the women, put them in a shipment going to Tokyo, and waited for his money. He’d been surprised when Nik insisted on luxuries for their captives, but he’d seen the finished product that Oshimara sold, so who was Nigel to argue with him, even if he wanted to. Clothes and makeup and food ate into profits. Despite no longer being on a retainer from Mr. O, instead, getting all the profits of this sale himself, Nigel didn’t like to spend money unnecessarily.
He watched Nik reemerge into the cell area. He was like a mother bear, protecting cubs. That would have to stop. Nigel would deal with him, but not now. Too much could go wrong while they held women in the cells. He didn’t trust Nik completely. Their budding relationship was more one of suspicious acceptance. A case of keep your friends close but your enemies’ closer. Was Nik his enemy? Nigel couldn’t decide.
There were certainly reasons for his suspicion. Nik was conveniently dispatched back to Australia long before Nigel’s team collected the women. He cited catching up with friends as the reason for his early arrival, but from a business sense, there was no reason for Nik to arrive when he did. After all, the big guy didn’t strike him as the social kind. When asked, his previous boss confirmed the explanation, and Nigel had no reason to doubt that. In hindsight, Nigel should have put one of his men on Nik, just to check where he went and who he saw. It was too late now, he knew where the guy was—standing guard over and mothering their three whores.
Mr. O was sold out by a supposed trusted member of his team, meaning Nigel needed to rethink everyone he maintained contact with. Including Nik. Nik’s early arrival meant he’d missed out on the raids that took the rest of his Tokyo comrades down. Was that pure luck or a plan? Nigel assumed if Nik was part of the Oshimara organizations' downfall, then local authorities would have paid him a visit by now, courtesy of Nik. Lack of police attention and the assistance he’d given since his arrival indicated the big guy was aboveboard. Nigel was safe, his paperwork sound. Even if he got a visit from the police, there’d be no evidence he was involved in the trafficking business. Unless they visited today.
He’d been nervous about having the client come to his legitimate place of business. Seeing the set-up, Nigel knew it was risky, but Nik convinced him he’d made the right choice. That he’d decided upon the best option considering the client was inspecting all three women. Was he being played? At least if something went wrong, he’d know who to blame.
* * * *
“I don’t know what he wants, he wouldn’t say,” Marcus snapped at Hex. “All he said was bring a couple of guys dressed like feds and a car with dark windows for transport.”
It was a riddle, a bizarre message from Christian Shore, head of the major crime unit at Sydney’s police headquarters. Marcus hated riddles. He hated surprises even more, and as their hummer was ushered into the secure underground parking area of the station by one of Christian’s detectives—in the dead of night—he knew he was about to get one.
“I hate suits,” Hex bitched “How do you wear these all the time?”
Marcus chose not to answer. His suits were tailor-made, expensive, and as comfortable as wearing a cotton T-shirt. He could tell by the fit of Hex’s, the man purchased it off the rack. Still, he looked good in it, and for a guy who rarely needed to suit up, it did the job. Syn hadn’t complained about his clothing, but Marcus suspected the same situation applied. His men weren’t suit kinds of guys, and that was fine, except when they needed to wear one.
“Look sharp, fellas,” Marcus stated as they exited the lift. “You’re Feds, remember.” The statement was met with grumbles from either side of him. Too bad, it was part of the job.
Marcus knew exactly where to head, he’d been in Christian’s office before, and this visit probably wouldn’t be the last. He didn’t like to work with the local police, there were too many scenarios for leaked information and bureaucratic bungles that could blow an undercover case wide open. Christian Shore was different. He knew Marcus, how he worked, and didn’t interfere unless it was necessary. For that reason, Marcus knew this meeting was more important than the case. At least there was minimal staff in the major crimes unit at this hour of the morning.
Christian walked out of his office to greet them, indicating they were walking down a hallway to the left. Marcus only ever met in the privacy of Christian’s office before, so this was a first. It became clear the moment they entered a small darkened room, they were in the observation space of an interrogation area. Marcus eyed the man on the other side of the one-way mirror, his hands fisting in anger.
“Do you recognize this guy?” Christian asked, indicating toward the sole inhabitant of the interview room.
“I do,” Marcus replied, keeping a tight rein on his fury at the sight of one of the men who’d harmed Beth. “He was one of the men who kidnapped Beth, all part of the operation of course. What did you pick him up for?”
When on a mission, low life criminals often crossed over between police jurisdiction and his. He didn’t like it and usually let the police case play out unless the punter was imperative to the mission. This guy wasn’t. Especially, not when the transaction to get Beth back and arrest Charlton and his men was tabled to take place late tonight. The guy sat alone which meant he hadn’t lawyered up and unless he was a complete idiot, he wouldn’t be admitting to anything.
“We didn’t pick him up. He came to us with a very interesting story,” Christian grinned. “A story I’m sure you’ll be interested in.”
Jesus Christ, Shore had that knowing self-satisfied look on his face the man always conveyed when he was about to drop a bombshell.
“Tell me.” Marcus wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it, but Christian appeared too pleased with himself not to let the guy speak.
“Let me say straight up, I’ve minimized paperwork on this, and he’s spoken to only two other people in the precinct, apart from me. Both good detectives of mine, both willing to keep h
ush until you give the okay. As for the paperwork, again, it’s in my office and won’t be seen by anyone until this is sorted to everyone’s satisfaction.”
Marcus appreciated the thoroughness of Christian’s opening statement, but what he wanted was the meat of the situation.
“I appreciate that. So, the situation is,” he tried not to look or sound annoyed.
“Yes, the situation is this. Remo, he hasn’t given us his last name yet, walked into the station late last night, requesting police protection because he’d witnessed a murder. I became immediately involved because of the protection request and the fact he refused to give details to my Ds without their boss being present. During the interview, he supplied all sorts of details, I connected the dots, and it led to you.” Christian paused to smile like a Cheshire cat. “Remo works for Nigel Charlton, kidnaps women for a living, and has just applied for the position of material witness to the kidnapping of Beth and the murder of his friend Cliff, in return for police protection and a new identity when this is all over. In short, Marcus, meet your new best friend.”
What a treasure. This sort of surprise he liked. Meeting with Shore earlier in the week and briefing him on the mission now proved more than beneficial. If he hadn’t known what was going on, there would have been no dot connecting, a blown mission, and a crossover of Federal and State jurisdictions any lawyer worth their salt could have had dismissed in a court of law. The conviction was all in the detail.
If Remo was applying to be a turncoat, who was Marcus to tell him no. The problem was Marcus didn’t have the authority to take a person into custody or officiate a deal for witness protection. Not that he thought there’d be a problem with it. Federal head, Albert Goodchild wanted these guys put away, ASAP. Remo would clinch the deal. Combine his testimony with the evidence Marcus and his team currently held—and were still gathering—and Charlton was looking more and more like a lifer in a maximum-security prison. There was no way the charges would fall over with this kind of evidence.
