Quicksilver

by Elise Noble

  Well, didn’t this feel like the first day at school all over again?

  “Hi,” the tallest blonde said. “I’m Hallie.”

  “Catalina.”

  “You just got here?”

  “A few hours ago, I think. What time is it?”

  “Maybe nine o’clock? None of us are allowed watches. I don’t know what they think we’ll do with them. But sometimes, you can sneak a look at one of the guards’ wrists or a client will wear a watch.”

  “Always a Rolex,” the redhead said. “As well as being total scum, they have no imagination.”

  “What happens now?”

  “We eat dinner, and then guests start arriving. That’s what they call them—guests. Not monsters or rapists or criminals or any of the hundred other things that would be more appropriate. And we’re expected to entertain them.”

  Eat dinner? I was about to vomit.

  “What if we refuse?”

  The redhead deferred to Hallie.

  “The first time, they beat you. Black and blue. I tried it, and I couldn’t walk for a week. I’m ninety percent sure they broke my arm, but all I could do was keep it real still and hope it healed.”

  Freaking hell.

  “And the second time?”

  “Who knows? Nobody’s ever balked more than once.”

  “Except for Jessie,” the smallest brunette said. She had a Colombian accent too—another of Roscoe’s victims?

  “No, Jessie was different. The second time, she tried to escape.”

  “And what happened?” I asked.

  “They dragged her back inside, and we never saw her again.”

  Oh, this got better and better.

  “So, what? We just hang around in luxury, waiting to be raped each night for the rest of our lives?”

  Now Hallie shifted uncomfortably. “Really, I’m not sure. I’ve been here the longest, about fourteen months now, and girls get moved around. Some disappear forever, but occasionally one comes back. There are more houses—at least two.”

  “Three of these places?” And Izzy could be in any one of them. “That’s…that’s depraved. Do they realise that?”

  “I’m sure Radcliffe does, but he doesn’t care.”

  “Who’s Radcliffe?”

  “Garrett Radcliffe. He runs this place, although I think he works for somebody else.”

  “And it’s basically a brothel?”

  “More of a gentleman’s club, or so they say. My theory is that the men all pay an outrageous membership fee so they can get their kicks without their wives finding out. Half of them don’t even bother to take off their wedding rings.”

  She sounded so matter-of-fact about everything. Was that what happened after a few months in the pink palace? You became numb to the reality and the sheer indecency of it? In some ways, it reminded me of the drugs trade. Cocaine had been everywhere while I grew up. Growing coca and processing the leaves and smuggling the finished product was just a way of life, as was the violence that came with it.

  “Sometimes they bring gifts,” one of the brunettes said, moving her hair out of the way to show off a pair of sparkly earrings. “Like these. I’m Tasha, by the way. And some of them aren’t that bad. I mean, they’re no worse than the guys I met at frat parties. I only wish we could go out shopping or something.”

  “Stockholm syndrome,” the other brunette mouthed from behind Tasha’s head.

  Great. Split loyalties. And that meant until I worked out who I could trust, I wouldn’t be able to ask about Izzy, because if word that I’d come here on purpose got back to the mysterious Radcliffe, I’d probably become another of those girls who vanished.

  The other girls nibbled on plates of food while I knocked back a glass of champagne and then another—I’d surely need it this evening. Classical music played quietly in the background, and I hated that most of all because it somehow made the whole affair seem legitimate when it was anything but.

  Around half an hour later, a pair of men walked in, talking quietly between themselves. As always, the ape at the door stared impassively, and the guard who’d told me to leave back at the warehouse stood on the other side of the room. At times, I felt him watching me.

  “How much do you think they get paid for this?” I whispered to Hallie.

  “Who? The guards?”

  “Yes.”

  “No idea, but it’s not exactly a hard job, is it? All they have to do is wear a suit and make sure a bunch of women don’t leave the grounds. And they get perks.”

  The way she said it, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the details.

  “Perks?”

  “Us. After hours.” Joder. “They’re not allowed to leave any marks, and everyone has to use a condom, guests included. If anyone tries without, tell Radcliffe and he’ll fix it.” Hallie jerked her head towards the door. “That one’s not too bad—he just grunts a bit, shoots, and leaves. But watch out for Chad, the small guy with glasses. He likes to choke you, and I swear one day I almost passed out.”

  “What about him? By the window?” Warehouse guy.

  “He keeps to himself. Tasha says he’s gay, but I’m not sure. Yes, he dresses well, but it’s more that he thinks he’s too good for us. And he always nags us about tidying up.”

  “Do we ever get any sleep?” I tried to make a joke even though I felt like crying.

  “Depends whether anyone picks you. Maybe half of the nights we get left alone.”

  I prayed nobody would choose me tonight, but my hopes faded when a newcomer, a fifty-something asshole with a paunch and a red nose who I christened the alcoholic, sidled over to talk to me. A cloud of cologne floated around him, strong, as if he were trying to cover up the stench of his rotten soul.

  “You’re new?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Catalina.”

  Thank goodness I hadn’t used my own name. At least that was still sacred.

  He held out a hand, and I ignored it.

  “Alan. I see Radcliffe hasn’t instilled any manners in you yet.”

  “Forgive me if I prefer not to shake the hand of a rapist.”

  “In time, you’ll learn to enjoy being here, just like the other girls.” He waved a hand at the opulent decor. “I mean, isn’t this better than a shack in Mexico or wherever you came from?”

  I’d never wanted to kill anybody before, but with what I now knew about my family, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I felt a little bloodlust. Then and there, I vowed that when—not if, when—I got out of that fucking mansion, I’d hunt Alan the alcoholic down and castrate him. And what was more, I’d take pleasure in doing it.

  But this evening, I was a prisoner not only of walls, but of circumstances too.

  “Mexico. Right. I sure miss those burritos.”

  He didn’t pick up on the sarcasm. “Ask Radcliffe nicely, and I’m sure he can have the chef prepare one. Join me for a drink?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Very good—you’re learning.”

  Over canapés I didn’t eat and a glass of white wine I didn’t drink, Alan bragged about his prowess as a real-estate developer and his new investment in an ostrich farm. When I cut his dick off, I’d remove his pudgy little sausage lips too.

  Then came the moment I’d been dreading. He patted his bulging stomach and glanced towards the door.

  “I’m full. Would you accompany me upstairs?”

  It wasn’t a question but an order, and the ape at the door watched to ensure I followed. Panic got the better of me in the bedroom doorway, and I tried to back away, but an ape propelled me forward and sent me sprawling onto the bed. Not my bed, thankfully, but a king-sized four-poster in a luxurious room on the second floor that came complete with a rack of what looked like torture instruments and a view of the swimming pool we weren’t allowed to use.

  “So feisty,” Alan said, eyes gleaming. “I like that. The new girls always give a better ride.”


  That fucker.

  While he pounded into me, I screwed my eyes shut and refused to look at him, although he did let out a satisfying yelp when he tried to kiss me and I bit his lip. I picked a spot on the ceiling and stared at it, willing both my body and my mind to go numb while the horrible act took place.

  Then it was over, and Alan dropped the used condom onto the floor on his way out the door.

  “See you in a week or two, Catalina. It’ll be interesting to see how you’ve changed.”

  Back in my own room, I sat in the shower until the water ran cold, and even after I turned it off, I couldn’t stop crying. I’d volunteered for this. I thought I’d steeled myself mentally, but nothing could have prepared me for how dirty I felt. Dirty from the inside out. No amount of fancy toiletries could wash that away.

  Then my bedroom door opened.

  I flew out of the shower and grabbed the robe from the hook beside the sink. A silk robe, because every girl should feel special after she’s been mauled by an animal. A filthy pig.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Leandro.”

  Who the hell was Leandro?

  I poked my head around the doorjamb and found the warehouse guy standing beside the dressing table.

  “Don’t you knock?”

  “I did knock. You’ve been crying?”

  “Well spotted. Have a gold star.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Eres estúpido?”

  He must be stupid if he didn’t know the answer to that question.

  “Sorry. Wrong thing to say. I guess… I guess I just wanted to check you weren’t injured. And also see if you wanted some food. I noticed you didn’t eat anything earlier, and you need to keep your strength up.”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Yeah. That’s understandable.”

  We stared at each other for a few seconds, and a hint of worry crept into his eyes.

  “Why didn’t you leave?” he asked finally.

  “I tried, but one of your colleagues caught me. Why did you tell me to leave?”

  Now he shifted uncomfortably. “Because…” He paused, thinking. “Because you didn’t belong there.”

  “None of the girls belonged there. Or here. Or anywhere else where they’re held against their will to provide entertainment for men who are sick in the head.”

  “Yeah. Look, I shouldn’t have done that at the warehouse. Said that.”

  I got it. This was a fishing expedition. If the boss found out he’d tried to set me free, Leandro would be in big trouble. Tempting though it was to drop him in it, he was the only man who’d treated me like a human being, and who would believe me anyway? The gut Grandma had told me to rely on decided that Leandro was the one person who might make my stay in this house of horrors a little more bearable.

  “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  His shoulders dropped. “Thanks.”

  “Can I get some sleep now?”

  He backed out the door, and the electronic lock bleeped.

  I kept the bathrobe on and crawled into bed with wet hair. Who cared about the pillow? The row of switches above the nightstand worked all the lights, and I turned off everything but the floor lamp in the corner and burrowed under the covers. I could still feel that man between my legs, and I hated myself. Hated what I’d become.

  A while later, somebody unlocked the door, but I pretended to be asleep in the hope that it was just some sort of late-night check. China clinked on glass before my visitor left again, and when I sat up, I saw a plate of finger food on the dressing table. No cutlery, of course, because if I had a fork, I could stab someone in the eye.

  Much as I hated to admit it, Leandro was right—I needed to keep my strength up. Still feeling sick, I padded across the room and forced down a couple of bite-sized soufflés and a mini quiche. He’d brought a bottle of water too, and I eyed it up suspiciously. None of the other girls had looked as if they were drugged. I sipped a mouthful cautiously. Tasted okay. In the end, I swallowed the rest because if it was spiked, at least it might help me to sleep.

  CHAPTER 17 - BLACK

  BLACK WAITED FOR ten seconds to see if Emmy would reload, then took his fingers out of his ears.

  “Diamond, there’s not much left of that target.”

  “Good.”

  Seven days had passed, a full fucking week, and he shared his wife’s frustrations. After the initial flurry of activity, information had proven difficult to come by. Roscoe had taken a flight to France, landing at Charles de Gaulle Airport before he caught a train towards Lyon. He’d popped up briefly when he’d withdrawn five hundred euros from an ATM near Dijon, then promptly disappeared again. The man seemed to be backpacking around Europe, but Blackwood’s people had so far been one step behind. Not that he was a particularly viable lead, more of a loose end.

  Catalina, to all intents and purposes, didn’t exist. They’d reviewed months’ worth of camera footage from El Bajo Tierra, and she hadn’t been to the club before. Lorenzo/Alonso had, though. One of Marco’s men spotted him the month previous, although he’d arrived and left alone that time.

  And as for Lorenzo/Alonso’s current whereabouts… Sebastien said there was only one reason a man went to Barranquilla, and that was to leave. He could be anywhere, and so far, they hadn’t had any luck in locating him. But they had a name. Well, sort of. One of the cops on the Garcias’ payroll—yeah, Black had rolled his eyes at that—picked out a dozen other murders they’d attributed to him and said there were probably more. All drugs-related. All audacious in their planning and meticulous in their execution. The police had nicknamed the culprit Mercurio. Mercury. Quicksilver. Deadly as fuck and impossible to catch. Reading between the lines, it seemed the cops figured that since Mercurio was only killing criminals, they didn’t want to get too involved, although they did send a bunch of flowers to the hospital for Eduardo.

  The old man was still unconscious and barely responsive. The swelling on his brain had gone down, at least, and so far, Emmy had held it together although the anger was building. Ana was a strange oasis of calm in the household, gliding silently from room to room as Eduardo’s men plotted their revenge on a ghost.

  Black was about to pick up his Colt and blast a few rounds through a target himself when his phone vibrated. Mack was calling.

  “Tell me you’ve got news.”

  “You’re not gonna believe this.”

  “Try me.”

  “I set up an alert on those prints, and it turns out I’m not the only person who’s been running them through the databases this week. Your number one suspect just got picked up.”

  “Picked up?” Black gripped the phone tighter. “Where?”

  “Florida. Fort Lauderdale.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “The prints match, and so does the mugshot.”

  “Send it through.”

  “On its way.”

  Pure, dumb luck. Good thing the jet was fuelled and ready.

  “Emmy, we have to go.”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “Florida.”

  “We’ve found something?”

  “Maybe. Enough that I think we should head stateside to check it out.”

  If Mack said they’d got the man, then they’d got him, but Black deliberately downplayed the possibility. Why? Because if Sebastien and Marco found out, they’d be on their own jet before he could blink, and the Atlantic Ocean would turn red with blood.

  Which meant when Sebastien saw them packing, Black had to lie. Fortunately, he was the master at that.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Just temporarily. Ana’s daughter fell out of a tree house at her grandparents’ home, and she’s in the hospital.”

  “She’s injured?”

  “A fractured arm, but she wants her mom.”

  “Emmy’s going with you?”

  “There’re a couple of leads I want to check out while we’re home
. Long shots, most likely. One of my colleagues thinks Vicente may have been spotted in North Carolina, and a Roscoe Ward flew into New York two days ago. Probably a different person, but it’s an unusual name.”

  Sebastien nodded his agreement. “We appreciate your help on this.”

  “Eduardo means a lot to all of us. Make sure you keep that security tight.”

  Two hours later, they were back on the plane. Ana sat up front, playing co-pilot with Brett again. Brett was a former USAF combat pilot who’d been with the team since Black bought his first jet, a quiet man who enjoyed travelling and didn’t mind unexpected trips to foreign countries. He wrote historical war novels in his spare time, so he’d spent the last week working on his tan and his book by Eduardo’s pool.

  “So,” Emmy said. “What’s this lead? And don’t give me some bullshit about Vicente or Roscoe. Tabby fell out of a tree house? She climbs like a bloody monkey.”

  “Mercurio’s in custody.”

  Emmy was rarely left speechless, and Black quite enjoyed the sight. And the silence, brief though it was.

  “What? Whose custody?”

  “Fort Lauderdale PD. He got picked up in a drugs raid.”

  “Drugs? So he’s part of a rival cartel?”

  “Nobody knows yet. He’s not talking.” Black had spoken briefly to a contact in the police department while Emmy was packing. “Nothing. He won’t even speak to an attorney to give his name.”

  “How do we know it’s him?”

  “Fingerprints, and a photo confirmed it.”

  A mugshot of a sullen, twenty-something man, eyes cast down at the floor and a little ragged around the edges, which was hardly surprising if he’d been on the run.

  “Was he picked up alone?”

  “No, they arrested four other men, two more died, and they estimate another half-dozen escaped.”

  “How did two die? Crossfire?”

  “One died in an explosion, and the other was found with his throat slit.”

  Emmy raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like your average drugs raid.”

  “No, it wasn’t. The drugs were in a warehouse along with a whole bunch of other fucked-up stuff. Someone tossed a grenade in, which started a fire, and a crate of fireworks went off like the Fourth of July. One wise guy got hit in the throat by a rocket.”