by Leroux, Lucy
No. He was here, now. He could fix this—fix them. He didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he’d think of something once he saw her.
When it came right down to it, Peyton had never said no to him. Not about anything important. Taking a deep breath, he headed for the bedroom door.
* * *
Peyton wasn’t sitting with Dylan. The young man was alone, hunched forward and holding a phone in each hand. One of them was familiar. Peyton had chosen that model as standard issue for the hotel IT staff for its extensive bags of tricks and flexibility—that and she’d drooled over the distinctive metallic blue casing. She’d cajoled him into approving the expensive devices because they matched the Caislean’s hotel uniform.
Liam frowned. The last time he’d seen that phone, it had been surgically attached to Peyton’s hand. If it wasn’t there, it lived in her pocket. She never went anywhere without it.
A creeping disquiet began to climb up his spine. Scowling, he froze where he was, deciding not to announce his presence. Something was wrong here.
Dylan was drunk. A half-a-dozen empty beer bottles were scattered on the coffee table in front of him. More were lying haphazardly on the floor.
If Peyton were here, she’d have already picked them up. She was a very neat person. After growing up with an alcoholic father, she didn’t approve of excessive drinking. Peyton never had more than two cocktails a night unless they were very spaced out. She never stopped anyone from having fun, but she watched out for her friends when they went out partying. Liam found her attitude about alcohol to be healthier than a lot of others with similar backgrounds.
On a hunch, Liam fished his phone out and texted Peyton’s number, asking her to call him back. His hand fisted as Dylan picked up the blue phone, checked the screen, then dismissed the message.
Liam’s self-control vanished in a blink. Growling aloud, he stalked up behind Dylan, grabbing the smaller man by the scruff of the neck, knocking over the armchair in the process.
“Wha—how did you get in here?” Dylan sputtered, reaching up to try to break his iron hold.
Tightening his grip, Liam shook the man. “Where is Peyton?”
“I don’t know! She’s probably still at work.”
Liam narrowed his eyes on Dylan’s face. The guy was sweating. Despite the amount of alcohol in him, he was stone-cold sober.
“No, she’s not there. They said she was at home sick. I’ve checked her room. Her bed is made. It hasn’t been slept in today. So, tell me again…where is she?”
“I don’t know! She must have gone out. Maybe she had another date. The house was empty when I got home after work.”
Liam shifted his arm, glancing at his Bvlgari watch. “It’s not even seven. I’m supposed to believe you drank all those beers in that amount of time?”
He threw Dylan on the couch, shifting the heavy piece of furniture back an inch or two. Liam put his hands on his hips and scowled down at him, counting the number of bottles again. “Did you even go to work today?”
“Of course I did.” He didn’t stutter this time, but Liam knew he was lying. It was in the evasiveness of his eyes, and the slight tremor in his hands.
Liam had brokered hundreds, maybe thousands, of deals. He’d trained himself to read his adversaries in the boardroom. It was a science to him—he studied them, broke down and dissected their every reaction to give him the advantage. Becoming adept at spotting liars was a natural consequence. He saw something else in Dylan’s expression, too—guilt.
The crawling feeling in the pit of his stomach redoubled until it felt as if he were going to burst.
Peyton wasn’t here, and she wasn’t out on some date. Dylan’s behavior combined with his damning possession of her phone screamed of something nefarious.
She was in trouble, and Dylan had something to do with it.
Liam bent until his face was inches from the younger man’s. “What did you do?”
Breaking Dylan down was harder than Liam would have guessed.
His opponent was weak, but he was also recalcitrant and stubborn. Combined with Dylan’s intense dislike of him—a grudge he’d been holding on to for years no doubt—made the bastard clam up tighter than his own asshole. But Liam wouldn’t be deterred, not now that he knew Peyton was in danger.
The nightmare threats of the world rose up as Dylan covered his face with his hands. Whatever he was hiding, it was fucking big.
Liam yanked Dylan’s hand away from his face. “You tell me what the hell is going on, and you do it now, or I swear I will ruin you.”
Cowering, Dylan leaned as far away from him as he could, pressing against the couch cushions.
“I can’t tell you. They’ll kill me.”
Red filled Liam’s vision, and he stiffened until his muscles screamed with tension. Liam flexed his fists. “Who are you talking about?”
But Dylan just shook his head. Don’t kill him. Whatever you do, don’t kill him. If Liam gave in to the rage coursing through him, he might never see Peyton alive again.
He was going to make him talk if it was the last thing he did. Liam snaked out a hand. Dylan reared back, trying to curl up in a ball, so Liam ended up just grabbing a leg, but that was fine. He used his superior strength to yank the man off the couch, dragging him along the floor.
“What are you doing, you psycho?” Dylan flailed as Liam dragged across the carpet of the spacious living room.
I hope he gets rug burn, Liam thought as he headed for the stairs. “I came in through the back, so I noticed your lovely McMansion has a nice little balcony. Unless you tell me what you know, I’m going to hurl you off it. It’s only the second story, so you probably won’t die. However, if I aim right, I’m fairly sure I can fracture your skull.” Every other word was punctuated with a thump as Dylan’s head banged against each step.
“You can’t do this. I have neighbors.” Dylan twisted, trying to pull away. At the top of the stairs, he reached out to grab the banister, but Liam hauled on his leg hard enough to dislocate it at the joint. Dylan let go, then Liam hustled him through the bedroom door and across to the balcony doors.
“I’ll scream,” Dylan gasped as Liam pushed them open. “My neighbors will call the police.”
“I doubt they are all that fond of you, given how loud you play your television. In fact, I doubt they’ll hear this over that crap you’re playing downstairs.”
Liam reached down, yanking Dylan to his feet. “But if the police do come…well, I guess my lawyers will be earning their exorbitant retainers.”
With that, he threw open the double doors leading to the balcony. In only a few steps, he was holding Dylan against the balcony railing.
“Wait—”
Liam grabbed the man’s legs. Hefting Dylan’s entire body over the edge was easy after the years of weightlifting and martial arts with Liam’s brother, but telling his adversary that would be counterproductive.
“Damn, you’re heavier than you look,” he said, shaking him before shifting to hold him by a single leg.
“You crazy fuck. You’re going to kill me.”
Liam scoffed. “Like I said, you won’t die. Not at this height. I will be going for permanent brain damage, though. If I can smash your head against the concrete hard enough, you’ll be drinking your dinner out of a straw for the next few years.”
“I can’t tell you anything,” Dylan cried, flailing his arms and free leg.
“Then get ready to kiss the pavement,” Liam hissed. He loosened his grip, so the shithead slid down a few inches.
“Wait, please.”
He let Dylan slip down another inch until Liam was holding on by a single ankle.
“I traded her!”
Shocked, Liam almost dropped the shit. “You did what?”
Dylan began to sob. Liam decided to haul him in, tossing the smaller man against the corner of the balcony. He didn’t have a choice. Liam had to stop touching the scumbag or he might actually kill him.
&nb
sp; Liam knelt in front of him. “What are you talking about?”
“I owed these people money. Two hundred grand. They were going to take the house, but I don’t own it anymore. The bank does. The dealership even repossessed my car.”
The entire story came pouring out—Dylan’s unemployment and his decision to make ends meet by selling drugs, then losing his latest shipment a mere hour after picking it up.
The fucking moron thinks the mugging was a coincidence.
Snarling, Liam yanked Dylan’s collar, bringing their faces inches apart. “I want names, phone numbers, locations, and every other detail you know, and I want them now.”
Chapter 11
Liam paced up and down, ignoring the shouts and occasional screams that came from the trunk of his car.
“This is insane. This can’t be happening,” Trick said for the tenth time.
“Well, it is,” Liam rasped, banging on the top of the trunk. “Shut up in there!”
“I’m claustrophobic,” Dylan screamed.
“I don’t care.”
“Are you seriously adding kidnapping to this whole mess?” his brother asked.
“I’m not letting the asshole off the hook. He stays where we can get at him until we get Peyton back.”
“Jason and Ethan might take exception to that. If they were here, that is—they’re staking out an operation in upstate New York.”
“I don’t care if they arrest me as long as they do it after we get Peyton back.” And as long as she was missing, Ethan wouldn’t touch him—the FBI agent would probably help him beat a confession out of Dylan once he learned what the little shit done.
“I can have Maggie try to call Jason. They’ve got some sort of system in place for when he is away on a stakeout.”
“They won’t be able to help anyway,” Liam muttered, his mind a million miles away.
It was true the agents had broken the rules for his friends before, but this was different. The FBI couldn’t infiltrate a ring of human traffickers without reams of paperwork and months, maybe years, of surveillance.
Liam had known people in danger…women he cared for, the wives of his friends and his brother. Even his brother and sister had come under a sniper’s crosshairs, though they hadn’t been the actual target.
This was a different corner of hell entirely. There wasn’t a single fixated psycho behind this, or a family as had been the case with Tahlia, his brother’s wife. A group that would take a woman had to be sure they could keep her hidden, make her disappear. Most preyed on the defenseless, girls and women who had no one to help them and wouldn’t be missed.
Peyton didn’t fall in that category. Even if Dylan hadn’t told his drug supplier about her connections in Boston, he would have shared the fact she had a job at a prominent Silicon Valley company. They had to know someone would search for her.
And they took her anyway…
His chest compressed as he racked his brain, trying to recall everything he knew about human trafficking. Thanks to a series of whiskey-fueled conversations, it was a bit more than the average man.
The people who took Peyton were either complete amateurs or an established-enough outfit that didn’t care if the disappearance came under police scrutiny. Liam started to pray it was the latter because he knew what to do then—the one thing he swore he’d never do again.
He had to call Matthias.
Chapter 12
Someone was going to buy her today.
There were no voices here. The man who’d escorted her to this bare but well-lit room had dragged her by the arm with a grip so tight he left fingerprint marks. Peyton briefly considered trying to kick off one of her heels to use as a weapon, but she’d been dissuaded by the second and third man trailing behind them carrying machine guns. All were long gone now. She was alone…waiting yet again.
Peyton hadn’t expected to see her again, but roughly a week after the heinous woman with the clipboard visiting her the first time, she’d come back to inform Peyton auction day had arrived.
Peyton had been scrubbed clean, then given a pristine gown the color of driven snow. Again, she was warned to be subservient, not to speak—at all. Not that they would ask her to.
“Your only job is to stand there and look pretty,” Mega-Bitch told her.
Peyton was tempted to claw her own face open, anything to stop this atrocity, but she was too afraid. The machine guns had smelled of spent gunpowder, an odor she had learned to recognize after her best friend had married an FBI agent. She’d noted the distinctive tang on both Jason and Ethan, usually after they went to the range to practice with their service weapons.
The scent of these guns had been so much stronger…as if they had just been used. Peyton didn’t want to imagine on who. Instead, she did as she was told and went into the room to wait.
Will they bring the other girls in soon? Or would they be dragged onto the stage individually?
Peyton hadn’t seen many other prisoners in the complex where she was being held, but her instincts told her there were quite a few. The amount of infrastructure and security told her this was a big operation. Big, but secretive. She’d only caught a glimpse of one of her fellow prisoners during mealtime. A guard had unlocked her door to leave a tray. A young girl, no more than seventeen, was being escorted down the hallway.
For one brief moment, they locked eyes. The pale blonde beauty had been terrified. Peyton didn’t blame her. The girl hesitated, but the guard had given her a shove, moving her along. The next second, she’d been gone.
Peyton had spent the rest of the day brainstorming how to rescue that girl when she succeeded in breaking out.
She knew that was a foolish fantasy now. There hadn’t been any missed opportunities where she could have snuck away. The only time she was ever alone was in her cell or in this waiting room.
Her eyes watered under the bright overhead lights. She wobbled in the sky-high stiletto heels she’d been forced to wear with the long white dress that denoted her status—virgin.
Peyton’s neck was so stiff she thought it might snap, but she couldn’t will her muscles to relax, even for a moment. But she waited and waited, trying in vain to calm her racing heart.
And still, nothing happened.
When were they going to transfer her to the auction room? She kept picturing a stage with a small and select crowd of men hidden in the shadows. They wouldn’t want her to see their faces. Even the man who bought her might have her blindfolded so she couldn’t identify him. Unless… They wouldn’t pluck out my eyes, would they?
Stop that. Peyton was letting her imagination run away with her. She would probably be beaten in addition to being sexually assaulted, but she would survive that. She had to…
I just have to wait for my chance. Sooner or later, there would be an opportunity to escape. She had to be ready for it.
It was the faint whirl that alerted her to the camera. Squinting, she looked up, directly into the bright lights against the wall, quickly turning away when her vision swamped out.
I’m an idiot, she realized. She wasn’t going to be carted off and forced on a stage before an audience. She was already on the auction block.
* * *
It was over quickly. Peyton had just come to the sickening realization the auction had started when she was informed it was over.
The mood of her captors was jubilant.
“Well, well, I guess I was wrong,” Mega-Bitch said, her arms sweeping out in a gesture that encompassed Peyton. She entered the room, flanked by her ever-present set of guards.
“You set a record for the year. Most of the others went for average sums, but you went for close to quadruple. Our new buyer must be very keen. He snatched you up, despite having bought three other girls from one of our competitors a few years ago.” Pausing, she sniffed. “Of course, those were bottom-of-the-barrel offerings—girls without your kind of looks to recommend them. In fact, one was quite ugly. But your new owner has a reputation. He’s what p
eople in our business call an eclectic collector.”
Peyton didn’t know how to respond, so she said nothing.
The woman didn’t care whether she received a reply. She was too busy gloating. “We’ve been trying to get in bed with this particular buyer for years. Who could have foreseen that you would be what he was looking for?”
She finished with a shrug as if her clients’ tastes in sex slaves were none of her business.
Peyton’s stomach did back-flips. “What had happened to the other women he bought? Are they still alive?”
Mega-bitch shrugged. “I suppose. Unless they annoyed him too much. If that’s the case, they’re fish food.” She glanced at the guards, annoyance flitting across her features. “Well, get on with it.”
The smaller man reached into his pocket. He pulled out a syringe.
Peyton’s scrambled back, almost losing her balance on those high stilettos. “Wait, that’s not necessary! I’ll come quietly. Haven’t I cooperated?”
The woman didn’t answer. Her gaze was fixed on her phone, reading a message—no doubt her mind had moved to her next set of victims. She didn’t bat an eyelash when the guard grabbed Peyton, twisting her arm so hard she screamed as the syringe was jammed into her neck.
Peyton slid down to the floor, her voice dying to a hoarse whisper. The last thing she registered was the woman’s heels clicking on the concrete as she walked out the door.
* * *
Movement and noise penetrated the thick fog. Peyton struggled to clear her vision. Bleary-eyed, she sat up as her seat swayed, her hands numb from the cold.
She was on a helicopter. A grey blanket had been tossed on top of her, but it had slid off, leaving her in that thin white dress in the icy air. She squinted out the window, trying to make out any landmarks, but it was pitch black.
There were four seats in the cabin, but the one next to her was empty. She was alone in the backseat. Two men were in the front, the pilot and another man, presumably a guard. Both wore earphones with little microphones attached to them.
