“But—” Her objection faded as Royale gave her a stern look.
“Six hundred next week. Minimum.”
“But, I—”
“I’m not a customer friendly lending institution,” Royale snapped. “Six hundred. Allez!”
Sera backed out of his office, stumbling down the corridor towards the bar. She could never make that much money by next week. Benoît was waiting for her when she emerged, jacket slung over his arm.
“Ready?”
The night was warm, the wind calm, and the boulevard was busy, but Sera hardly noticed. Her stomach roiled with nausea.
“Typical,” Benoît remarked. “I hope we can get a taxi.”
They managed to flag down a taxi a few blocks away, just as a young couple were getting out. Benoît kept up the small talk as they headed up to Montmartre and Sera replied as best she could, even though her mind ran through endless calculations. She barely managed to pay Royale this week, and six hundred euros would be completely impossible. When the taxi drew up to the top of Sera’s street, she blinked tiredly and fumbled in her bag for a bit of money.
“Catch me when I see you tomorrow,” Benoît said. “Do you want me to walk you to your door?”
“No, I’ll be fine. It’s only half a block. Goodnight, Benoît.” She watched the taxi pull away and then headed towards her building. She took out her keys and fumbled them as she tried to slide her key into the lock. Her second try was more successful and she pushed open the heavy door.
The light in the entryway was dim and she saw that one of the lights had burnt out. Hopefully the concierge would notice, if she were even home. She started towards the staircase, reluctant to climb the five flights to her apartment. She put her hand on the banister, but paused as she heard a rustle behind her. A man stepped out from the shadows.
“Who are you?” she asked, puzzled. The man only smiled.
A hand clamped over her mouth and nose and she found herself wrapped in a tight embrace, against a large, solid form. She tried to scream.
“Hello, my dear.” Jeremy’s voice was low in her ear. “You kept us waiting. That wasn’t very nice of you.”
She writhed in his grasp, her lungs starting to burn at the lack of oxygen. His hand tightened. She tried to focus on the man in front of her, pleading with him silently to help her, but he just watched her with a detached interest. Her body convulsed, desperate for air. The world faded into blackness. Sera hoped she would die quickly, but somehow, with Jeremy, she knew it wouldn’t be so.
She wasn’t dead.
She was, however, completely disoriented. Footsteps echoed on stone and she found herself moving, flung over a strong shoulder. The air burst from her lungs all at once and she gasped for breath.
“Guess she’s awake then,” said an unfamiliar voice. Her body rocked as the man carrying her began to climb a set of stairs. The movement, and the smell of the stairway, damp and sour, sickened her and she groaned.
“If you fucking puke I will drop you,” the man holding her growled.
“Now now, Claude,” Jeremy’s voice came from the side. “You know what will happen if you drop her.” His voice hit her like a fist in the solar plexus. She squirmed against the man holding her, feeling the panic rising.
Claude staggered and the world tilted precariously, but the fear was stronger than her need for safety. She’d rather tumble down the stairs than stay where she was, where Jeremy could hurt her.
A strong hand seized the back of her neck, the sharp press of his fingers immobilizing her. Stars danced in her vision and the hand let go. She felt the nausea rising and swallowed back the bile.
Claude grumbled. “Wish there was a fucking elevator in this shithole.”
“Yes, but all the posh places were full up.” The man with the unfamiliar voice strayed into her limited range of vision.
“Shut up, Michel, or you can carry her,” Claude retorted.
“Enough.”
Both men fell silent at Jeremy’s command. She caught a glimpse of a doorway, then another. The blood rushing to her head made her feel woozy again, but Claude began to climb the next flight of stairs, impervious to her distress. Finally he stopped on a landing and she heard the turning of a key in a lock. He carried her through a doorway and into a dark apartment that smelt musty. It was close and warm.
Without warning, he flung her down on a bed, not caring that she landed in a tangle of limbs. The bed frame creaked and the door slammed shut. Sera blinked in the darkness. A sliver of light found its way through the boarded up window and she could just make out the plain lines of the room. There was no furniture aside from the bed and wallpaper dangled in tattered ribbons above the wainscoting. Claude had been too generous—this was a hovel.
The sound of voices from the other room drew her attention. They hadn’t left the apartment. She could barely make out the words, but Claude’s raised voice traveled clearly.
“This isn’t going to work,” the man called Claude said.
“I don’t remember asking you for your opinion,” Jeremy replied. “I didn’t have to let you live. It would have been simpler to kill you.” She tried to puzzle this out, but it didn’t make any sense. Who were these men with Jeremy? She heard footsteps and the door opened, the man’s figure a silhouette from the light in the other room. When the lamp came on above her, she squinted against the brightness. A hand stroked her hair. She flinched.
“Good evening, darling,” Jeremy crooned, turning her head so that she had to look at him. “It’s been so long since we’ve had any time together. Did you miss me?” He laughed. She shuddered and pulled away.
“Michel!” he barked. The man came immediately, scurrying into the room like a scared rodent. If she’d seem him on the street, she would have thought him harmless, and he still looked it, next to Jeremy.
“What is it?”
“Give me your phone.” Jeremy held out his hand and Michel passed it over. He pressed a few buttons and pointed it at her. When she wouldn’t look at him, he grabbed her chin roughly. “Look into the camera, darling.” She heard a click and then another.
“Let me go, Jeremy.” Her voice came out ragged and weak. He didn’t acknowledge her.
“Make sure to show him these,” Jeremy instructed, passing the phone back to Michel. “He might not believe you otherwise.”
“Why do I have to go?” Michel shuffled his feet, inching away from Jeremy.
“He won’t hurt you,” Claude said, coming to lean on the door frame.
“If you’re so sure, you should go.” Michel thrust the phone at him but Claude shook his head.
“You know what to tell him.” Jeremy’s tone brooked no refusal. “Go on.”
Michel retreated into the other room, past a gloating Claude. She heard the door open and close. Jeremy shook his head in amusement.
“Your brother is such a coward,” he remarked. She looked over at Claude. He had stiffened, casting a glare at Jeremy but Jeremy hadn’t noticed. He turned his attention to her and she fought to keep from shrinking under his gaze as Michel had done.
“Now what are we going to do with you while we wait?” Jeremy asked, idly stroking her leg.
“I know what I want to do.” Claude leered at her.
“Later, Claude. Close the door behind you.”
“I don’t want to wait until later. You owe me.”
Jeremy rose from the bed, using his height to tower over Claude. “You owe me,” he emphasized. “Never forget it.”
Claude stalked out. Jeremy settled beside her on the bed once more, running his hand down her side. She forced herself to look up at him. Yellowing bruises lay across one cheek and his once straight nose was skewed slightly to the left. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. Could she disable him if she caught him by surprise?
“Who is he going to see?”
Jeremy chuckled. “You don’t know?” He leaned forward, his breath on her face. Her stomach roiled and she rolled away from hi
m and off the bed as he grabbed for her. She retched, crouched by the bed, bent almost double. The feeling ebbed, but it was too late to flee. Jeremy grasped her arm and hauled her back up on the bed. “Michel’s going to fetch your stalwart defender,” he told her. “But until they get here, we have time to get reacquainted.”
She struggled, flailing out at him. Her fist struck his chest, but she might as well have been hitting a wall for all the damage it did. He caught her wrist and held her down. His fingers dug into her and she knew he’d leave bruises, but that didn’t matter. Her movements became frantic, but the more she struggled, the tighter his grip became.
“I thought you liked it rough,” he teased. He bent his head and she felt his tongue run along her neck. She flung herself sideways, pulling against his grasp. “You don’t want to make me angry. I won’t go easy on him.”
“You actually think he’ll come?”
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded.
“He won’t come,” she said, her voice cracking. Marc’s words echoed in her head. Maybe next time I won’t interfere. Think on that.
“You underestimate your appeal, my darling. He’ll come.”
Sera shook her head. Marc had meant what he said. “He doesn’t give a damn about me. You’re wasting your time.”
Jeremy’s hand slid under her dress at the ankle. “I’ll have to send Michel some more photos for encouragement then.” She lay still, lulling him into a false sense of security. He chuckled to himself, but it turned into a curse as she managed to knee him in the ribs, twisting away from his touch. He slapped her and she tasted blood. Her vision blurred and she blinked, tears streaking down her face.
“Perfect.” She heard a click. His hands rucked up her skirt and all she could do was squirm. He slapped her again and when her head stopped ringing, she saw that he had a small bottle in his hand, and a cloth.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s such a shame.” He poured a bit of liquid onto the cloth. “We could have had so much fun, but you just won’t cooperate.” He screwed the top back on the bottle. “Maybe I should send these photos to Royale, too. He’d love to see this.” The cloth came down over her mouth and the room began to spin.
Chapter 17
Marc jerked awake. The dawn’s weak sunlight filtered in through a crack in the drapes, but that hadn’t woken him. The jarring sound of the door buzzer echoed in the hallway, bringing him fully awake. He flung back the covers, grabbing a robe from a hanger on his way to the door. He pressed the button for the intercom.
“Oui?”
“Monsieur Perron?” The rest of the man’s answer was distorted by static.
“Who is this?”
“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
Marc couldn’t place his voice, but he hit the button to buzz the man into the building, returning to the bedroom to pull on a pair of jeans and a dark shirt. When the knock came at the door, he glanced through the peephole.
It couldn’t be possible.
He swung the door open and dragged a startled Michel into the apartment. The man struggled as Marc closed the door, but he quickly had Michel by the throat. Michel’s open mouth gaped like a fish out of water and he ceased to struggle.
“What are you doing here?” Marc demanded. Michel tried to speak, but failed. Marc eased his grasp.
“Please, monsieur.” The man trembled as he reached into his pocket, drawing out his mobile phone, which he promptly dropped. Marc let him go and stepped back. Michel was no threat. He watched him gather up his phone and slide the battery back into place, his hands shaking.
“How did you know where I live? Why are you here?”
“Please, monsieur,” Michel said again, practically stuttering over the syllables. “I have a message.”
“From whom?” Marc had an idea already; he had expected some sort of response from Jeremy Gordon. Michel pressed several buttons on his phone and held it out to Marc.
“Monsieur Gordon wanted you to see these,” he said. Marc took the phone, but whatever witty response he’d wanted to make died unspoken as he stared at the photo displayed on the screen.
His entire body went cold and his heart hammered in his ears. Sera’s pale, frightened face stared at him. Her eyes were wide—she had been alive when the photo had been taken. But now?
“When was this taken?” If he lost her—that didn’t bear thinking about.
“A few hours maybe. There’s more than that one; I just got another message from him.” Marc looked down at the phone in his hand and scrolled through the pictures. The two latest were worse. Sera was sprawled on a bed, her dress hiked up. Her eyes were closed. A man’s hand rested on her thigh. He wanted to kill whoever had touched her.
Michel tried to sidle away, but Marc caught him by the arm. “What does he want?” He tightened his grip.
“I’m supposed to bring you there. He didn’t tell me more than that.”
Marc pocketed the phone and started towards the living room, forcefully directing Michel to a seat on the sofa. Michel shot Marc a confused look.
“But we need to leave. He won’t wait long. And I want my phone.”
What a pathetic man. “Sit there. You’ll wait until I’m ready.” Marc continued into the bedroom, taking his leather jacket from the wardrobe and putting on a pair of dark shoes. He moved through the apartment, collecting his wallet, phone and keys. He paused by the bookshelf and Michel nearly bumped into him. He shifted the stack of books that had hidden the box with his handgun and ammunition. He loaded the magazine before slipping it into the inner pocket of his jacket.
“You’re not allowed to bring that!” Michel exclaimed. Marc rounded on him.
“The only reason you’re still alive is to take me there. You really think you’re going to stop me? Tell me where he is.”
Michel looked panicky. “I can’t. You’re not supposed to know.” He drew a blindfold from his pocket. “I’m just supposed to drive you there.”
Marc laughed and Michel backed away. He shoved the hapless thief into the solid door, bringing out the switchblade from his pocket. He flicked it open, pressing it to the man’s gut.
“We’ll do it my way.”
“But—but—” Michel swallowed.
“Come on, Michel.” Marc put the blade away nonchalantly. “You can give me directions.”
“He’ll kill me.”
“No, he won’t. Take me there and I’ll let you go. You can leave Paris.” He slung an arm over Michel’s shoulder. “You know that Jeremy will kill you when this is all over. He won’t want witnesses. Trust me.”
“But he said that you wanted to kill us.”
“If you do what I tell you to, I’ll let you live.” He hated wasting time bargaining with this coward. “And I’ll let your brother go. Things have changed.”
“Claude?”
“He’s with Jeremy Gordon, isn’t he? You two never split up.”
Michel’s last defenses crumbled. “All right,” he conceded. “But you have to swear to keep your word. Swear on your mother.”
“I swear,” Marc said, fury simmering below the surface. He opened the door. “Let’s go.”
Michel turned towards a shabby and rusted old car once they reached the street.
“We’ll take mine,” Marc said, directing him to the black Peugeot a few feet away. “Now, where are they?”
Marc slowed the Peugeot to a crawl outside a stretch of rundown apartments. Michel had taken him on a circuitous route to this far-flung suburb.
“Stop here,” Michel said. Marc pulled over behind an old white cube van. “It’s the one on the end. Apartment number 4.”
Marc turned the key in the ignition, killing the engine. “Is it locked?”
“The outer door isn’t. The lock’s broken. But they’ll be expecting me to call them when we arrive.”
“Will they? I don’t care to announce myself.”
“Claude told me that if I showed up without call
ing, I’d be shot. He won’t take any chances.” Michel held out his hand. “I’ll need my phone, monsieur.”
“If you give away the situation...”
“I know. I won’t say anything.”
Marc handed over the phone. “Put it on speaker. I want to hear every word.”
Michel called his brother. “Claude, we’re here.”
“You have him?”
Michel glanced at Marc. “Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll be bringing him up in a minute.”
“Did you subdue him?”
Michel paused before answering. “Don’t get in between them, Claude. Perron is furious.”
Claude laughed. “He’ll get what he deserves once we’re done with him.” He rang off. Michel slid the phone into his pocket.
“No, you don’t.” Marc held out his hand for the phone. “I don’t need you calling him back once I’ve left.”
Michel gave him the phone. “Now can I go?”
“If something goes wrong and I find out you’ve snitched, I won’t be kind. And I will find you.” He opened the door.
“What am I supposed to do?”
Marc locked the car. “Just walk away. Don’t come back.”
“What about Claude?”
“I’ll tell him—after Jeremy Gordon is dead. Now go.” Marc walked towards the building. The warped door at the entrance swung listlessly, a tattered notice tacked haphazardly to the wood. He gave it a glance as he walked in.
UNSAFE. DO NOT ENTER.
DUE FOR DEMOLITION.
The gloomy interior revealed little, but the sun glinting through the dusty windows lit the stairway. He started up the stone steps, avoiding the grooves worn from thousands of feet. The banister dangled in some spots and was missing in others. He took his time, hugging the wall, silent as he could manage.
Three doors ringed the landing, numbered left to right. Number 4 would be up a level still. He paused. He wanted to burst into the apartment, gun drawn, but he knew he was outnumbered. Sera could be injured or incapacitated—he had no idea. He couldn’t chance that Jeremy or Claude had a gun to her head or a knife at her throat, ready for trouble. He patted his pockets, checking his weapons. There was no help for it. He’d have to go in civilly and hope he could overpower both men. He took the next steps methodically, calming his breathing and quieting his mind. He could do this.
The Paris Game Page 23
