“Yes,” she says, reaching deep for a note of meekness.
The woman smiles. “You might try whatever tricks you feel are worth your effort. But I must assure you that I am aware of them all. You are not the first to be here. You will not be the last. You see, once you are in the trap, fighting will only expend your energy. There is no escape. The trap has been created to make certain of that. It has been perfected.”
“You’re sick,” Mia says. “How does anyone become so evil?”
She stares at Mia long enough that Mia is certain she is reconsidering her fate. Maybe she will go ahead and kill her, end what is inevitable.
“I’ve always respected a worthy adversary. I can see I’ve found one in you. But you must know there have been others like you. And that I never lose. It is time for you to get dressed. Your clothes have been laid out for you.” She points to the outfit at the foot of the bed. “Shall I have Helga come and help you?”
“No,” Mia says quickly.
The woman laughs. “I thought not. And so I will share with you some information about your guest this evening. His taste apparently runs in the direction of younger . . . women. You will notice the outfit I have provided is more girlish than we will normally give you, but we try to make sure our guests get exactly what they wish for. The doctor has told me you’re still a virgin so that will be a bonus, I’m sure.”
Mia feels all the color drain from her face, as she realizes the doctor must have examined her while she was unconscious. Her face burns, as if hot pokers have been pressed to her cheeks. “I won’t do it. You can’t make me.”
The woman sighs. “More theatrics? You will do this, my dear. There are cameras in the room, and if I do not see that you are giving our guest what he has paid to receive, I will send Sergio to your sister’s house and instruct him to finish with her what he started with you. Before he kills her, that is.”
Tears of pure fury well in Mia’s eyes and stream down her cheeks. “I hate you.”
Her laugh is lighter now. “Hatred is not a bad thing. It might just keep you alive.”
Sergio
“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men…”
―Robert Burns
THE CHOP SHOP thrives in a hidden garage behind a well-known car dealership in downtown DC. New vehicles are sold on the front end, happy customers driving off with no idea that the real moneymaker at the place is the stolen car business on the back end. Some of the stolen vehicles are even sold as new.
Sergio pulls around to the rear of the impressive building, waiting for the center garage door to open. He’d sent Leonard Henderson, the guy in charge of the operation, a text a half hour ago with a short message:
Need to move the Range. Can you provide a new ride?
The answer was yes, of course.
The part Leonard hadn’t added was “for the right price.” This one’s going to cost him, put a definite dent in his future plans. But he’ll make up for it. So he’s made a couple of mistakes recently. Madison and that new girl at the hotel. He’s learned from those mistakes though, and he won’t be making them again.
Sergio pulls onto the center of the concrete floor. On one side of him, guys in coveralls are searching a Mercedes-Benz S65 AMG Cabriolet, no doubt looking for personal items to remove. List $250,000. On the other side, two more guys are unbolting the front end of a BMW from the frame. He’d watched them take a car apart once, marveled at how they cut out the windshield, removed the doors and seats. They also cut the roof supports and sawed through the floor beneath the steering wheel. It’s quite a production, and they are usually finished with the whole job within a few hours. If he didn’t have his own line of work already established, it’s something he could see himself doing.
Leonard walks through a side door, waves a hand in greeting. Sergio cuts the engine and gets out.
“You got heat?” Leonard asks.
“Maybe,” Sergio admits.
Leonard reaches out to shake his hand, and they meet eyes for a moment. Sergio doesn’t bother lying to him. Leonard isn’t the kind of man you lie to. At six-three with boulder-wide shoulders and a grip that means business, he reminds Sergio of his employer. They have in common the same knack for reading people, eyes of steel culling truth from fiction, bullshit from reality.
“I’ve got some vehicles going overseas in a couple of days. The Range Rover can go with those. We’ll get the location devices disabled first. What kind of ride you lookin’ for?”
“Escalade would be nice.”
“Got a nearly new, black one. The VIN plate’s been switched with a junked car of the same make.”
“How much?”
“With the trade on the Range Rover, thirty K.”
“Twenty-five is deal.”
“Twenty-eight, and cash, of course.”
“Of course,” Sergio says, realizing he’s in no position to negotiate further.
“Wait here. We’ll have the Escalade out in a few.”
Sergio pats the envelope in his jacket pocket. He’d brought thirty-five, so he’ll have a bit left over. He loved the Range Rover, but he’d learned long ago that when something no longer serves you or has the potential to take you down, you simply part ways.
Emotional connection is for those who want to get caught. And he isn’t getting caught. Ever. There is a life ahead of him that he fully intends to lead. Sooner rather than later.
Emory
“What are we doing here, that is the question.”
—Samuel Beckett
CRAZY, BUT IT almost feels like we are on a date.
Not just crazy. Utterly crazy.
Sitting at a table for two, in the low-lit, romantically evocative restaurant of the Hotel California, we no doubt look like two people on a date. Neither of us has on a wedding band, so that negates the marriage assumption.
And, of course, I haven’t missed the not-so-subtle glances of at least three women in the restaurant who have validated my own conclusion that Knox does indeed clean up well.
With a build like his, clothes aren’t necessary to make the man, but the black blazer complements the width of his shoulders, and the white shirt, open at the neck, looks great against his tan neck.
“Emory?”
“Ah, yes?” I say quickly, realizing he has been saying something to me.
“Would you like a drink?”
“A glass of red wine would be nice.”
He waves at a nearby waitress, who walks over with a smile on her pretty face, her eyes locked on Knox’s face. “What can I get you?” she asks.
“Could we get a drink menu?” he says, returning her smile.
“Of course,” she says, laughing self-consciously as she hands him one of the two she is holding, and then, as if remembering I’m at the table, hands me the other. “May I offer any suggestions?”
“A smooth red?” I say.
“We have a lovely Virginia wine that is full and smooth. It’s a customer favorite.”
“I’ll try that,” I say.
“Bourbon. Neat,” Knox says.
We study the dinner menu in slightly awkward silence while she goes off to get our drinks. The words blur before my eyes, and I finally look up and say, “What exactly are we looking for here?”
“The next dot,” he says, meeting my gaze with a level stare.
“How will we know it when we see it?”
“We might not. No sign of the Range Rover when we came in. So he might not come back here.”
Just hearing the words makes my heart drop. We have no other lead. This one just has to pan out.
“While we’re waiting for our drinks, I’m going to take a look around,” Knox says. “You’re good here?”
“Can’t I come with you?”
“I think it’s better if you stay here. I won’t be long.”
I want to argue, but I know he’s right. This whole thing might be a wild goose chase, but on the off chance that it’s not, we need to look as normal as
possible. “Okay,” I say. “Be careful.”
He considers my words, as if they’ve surprised him. “I’ll be back.”
Knox
“Sooner or later the universe will serve you the revenge that you deserve.”
―Jessica Brody
HE CAN’T PUT his finger on it, but something about this place gives him a weird feeling.
He walks out of the restaurant and heads down a hallway marked by a brass plate that reads GUEST ROOMS. The hall is wide, each room door a heavy walnut. The floor is made of wide wood boards with raised nail heads marking each corner. His steps make a not unpleasant squeak, the kind that defines a historic building.
He reaches the end of the hall and finds a wide set of stairs that lead to the next floor. He walks up and follows the hallway of the second floor. The doors are the same as those on the first floor. He’s yet to hear sounds coming from any of the rooms, a television turned on or people talking. The place is eerily quiet.
At the end of the corridor, a woman appears. She’s tall, over six feet in low heels. The word imposing pops into his head. Her black hair is pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck, and her cheek bones are harshly prominent. She’s dressed in a black suit with a dark-red blouse. She smiles at him, but it’s a gesture that does not reach her eyes.
“Good evening,” she says. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“No,” he says, meeting her gaze with the awareness that she has singled him out for questioning. “I was just looking around.”
“You’re not a guest at the hotel.”
Statement, not question. “Just having dinner in the restaurant.”
“Ah. And what is your conclusion of the place?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Lots of history here, I would imagine.”
“Yes. When I bought the place, the bones were visible, but it took some vision to restore it to what it was.”
“How long have you owned it?”
“Fifteen years.”
“It’s quite a jewel.”
“Thank you. I hope you’ll come back for a stay at some point.”
“Definitely,” he says, wondering why the owner of such a place would find his presence here concerning. Had she spotted him on a security camera? Or just happened to be walking his way?
“Well,” he says, “I’d better get back to my dinner date.”
“Enjoy,” she says, waiting at the top of the stairs as he starts his descent.
He can feel her gaze on his back the entire way down. Security conscious management? Most likely. But he can’t shake the feeling that there was something odd about the encounter. She’d been sizing him up, evaluating his presence and what it meant.
At the table, Emory looks up at him with a question in her eyes. “Find anything?”
He sits down, picks up the bourbon he’d ordered before leaving the table and takes a leveling sip. “I met the owner,” he says.
“And?”
“I think she minded my looking around.”
“Why?”
“Just the feeling I got.”
“Did you ask her about Sergio?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Wasn’t sure I should play that card with her yet.”
Two men appear at the restaurant entrance, the hostess hurrying over to greet them. Knox notices, starts to look away, and then recognizes one of them. Senator Hagan. Shit.
“What is it?” Emory asks.
“Karma,” he says. “Ready to order?”
The Senator
“… the devil doesn’t come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns.
He comes as everything you’ve ever wished for …”
―Tucker Max
THERE WAS A limit to what one should be willing to do for one’s country.
Hagan thought he was reaching his own limit tonight.
So maybe personal interest was first and foremost, but still, listening to this young windbag go on about his civic duty for the past hour was nearly enough to make him ditch the whole plan.
He wondered how this generation had gotten so full of itself. Maybe it was the fact that they’d taken so many selfies that they’d started to believe their own hype.
Arrington actually thought he had the answers to all of the country’s problems. Hell, the world’s problems, for that matter.
Arrington sat across the table, cutting his green salad with knife and fork, taking one delicate bite of arugula at a time, droning on and on in that annoyingly Harvard-educated voice of his, as if he actually had a prayer of changing his mind about the vote.
Hagan kept his own expression placidly interested, nodding when appropriate, trying not to let his gaze fall on the glass of red wine to the right of Arrington’s plate. He did let himself glance at his phone screen, noting the time at the top. Twelve minutes from now, the waitress would approach their table to let Arrington know there was a call for him on the hotel’s house phone.
Once the arrogant ass exited the dining room, Tom would add the contents of the vial in his jacket pocket to the glass of red wine.
And only then would the night get interesting.
Knox
“It’s choice – not chance – that determines your destiny. ”
―Jean Nidetch
FORTUNATELY, THEIR TABLE sits at an angle that allows Knox a clear view of Senator Hagan without Hagan seeing him. Not that Hagan would have noticed, even if the tables had been angled differently. He seems quite focused on his dinner companion, a young, notably confident guy in an obviously expensive suit.
It seems an odd match. Business meeting, he supposes, but there is something interesting in the way Hagan appears so attentive to the other man’s every word. His gaze barely leaves the man’s face. He could wonder if there was something other than business going on, but Hagan doesn’t seem the type.
The waitress has just placed Emory’s entrée—a vegetable plate with mashed potatoes and creamed corn—in front of her when the younger man leaves the table to follow the hostess out of the dining area. Knox lets his gaze follow him out, then glances back at Hagan. The senator takes a sip from the wineglass in front of him, then sets it back down. He glances at the doorway through which the younger man has just disappeared, then reaches across the table for his wineglass.
This seems odd to Knox, so he continues watching. The senator reaches in his pocket. Knox can’t see what he takes out. Whatever it is, he holds it beneath the table and then, lightning quick, raises his hand and flips something into the glass of wine.
What the hell? Did he just put something in the other man’s drink?
“What is it?” Emory asks, noticing that Knox is staring across the room.
“I’m not sure,” he says, shaking his head.
“Do you know him?” she asks, following his view to Hagan’s table.
“Indirectly.”
“What does that mean?”
He looks at Emory then, aware that he is about to change any positive opinion she might have begun to develop of him. “That’s Senator Tom Hagan. His wife is the reason I’m on leave.”
Her eyes widen as he watches her process what he’s said, and it’s clear this is the last thing she expects to hear. “Oh.”
“Yeah. I have no idea how we both ended up here at the same time. But I’m fairly sure he just spiked his dinner companion’s wine.”
“What? Are you kidding?”
“No. I’m not.”
“Why would he do that? Although I can understand why he would spike yours.”
“At least you still have your sense of humor.”
“Did you see him do it?”
“I did.”
“Are you going to tell the guy?”
All decency dictates that he should, but he is going on gut here, and something isn’t right. Not about what he just witnessed. And not about this place.
“Let’s drag this dinner out as long as
we need to see what happens from here.”
“But this doesn’t have anything to do with Mia and Grace.”
“Almost for sure not.”
“We’re wasting time, Knox.”
“Probably, but—”
“I know. The next dot.”
“Two desserts then?”
“Why not?”
The Proprietor
“If the officers are leading from in front, watch out for an attack from the rear.”
―Howard Tayler
SHE CHECKS THE security footage once she gets back to her office, looking for the time the man in the hallway came into the hotel.
Holding the iPad in one hand, she scrolls back and finds it at 7:05 p.m. A young woman is with him, pretty enough to be his date. They’re not holding hands or touching though, so she’s not sure whether it’s a date or something else.
Odd that he’d been walking the halls of the hotel when he’d just come for dinner. Not that people don’t check it out, but she likes to remain aware of who’s looking around. He doesn’t look like a typical tourist. He looks like military to her. Cut jawline. Formidable build. Keen eye.
She could be accused of paranoia, but one doesn’t stay ahead of the odds by ignoring anything that looks suspicious. She isn’t starting now.
She’ll double-check the dining room in a bit to make sure he and his companion leave the premises once they’ve finished their dinner.
The Senator
Swerve Page 19
