Hit Hard

by Amy J. Fetzer

  “Are you alone?”

  Sam inclined his head and Voslav looked past him. Sebastian was at the end of the street, armed and looking his dangerous best.

  Voslav was amused and came forward. “Raise your arms.”

  Sam did and he patted his torso. Voslav gave him a “you’re stupid” look. But Sam couldn’t come armed. Voslav had to believe he had every advantage.

  “So you want a woman?” The man snickered. “Or a child?”

  Sam remained silent, noticing Voslav’s accent was distinctive, a faint mix of Thai and Serbian. How long has this bastard been a slave runner here?

  “You have money?”

  Sam held up a fat wad of cash. Voslav practically salivated, reaching.

  Sam held it back. “The redhead.”

  “You keep that handy, eh?” He motioned. “Come, take your pick, then.”

  Sam followed several steps behind, and in his ear, he heard Max.

  “It’s an old school.” In the van, Max was jumping MI6 satellite feed surveillance. “Four exits, the alley, one at the street front, a gym, and service platforms at the rear.”

  Sam cleared his throat, indicating he’d heard.

  “Coonass, once they’re inside, move to the gym,” Max said.

  Voslav unlocked a side door, and gestured. Sam stood back, waiting, and the man shrugged and went inside, looking back to check the street. They went through a couple more doors, down a long hall littered with trash, and broken school desks, then stopped at one with a small window. Sam glanced around what looked like a lunchroom, then moved up alongside and looked in.

  What he saw sent a wave of revulsion through him. Darkness, the foul smell and heat radiating through the old classroom door. Children and young women were tied up, some gagged, and they weren’t all Thai. Their defeat lay in the lack of movement, the stillness. He didn’t see Viva.

  Sam stepped back. “I came for the redhead.”

  “Ahh, her. She is gone, probably already fucked stupid.”

  Sam ground his teeth. Killing this man would be too good for him. “Find her.”

  “Fuck no, there are others here. You want, you choose.”

  Sam’s right hand shot out, gripping Voslav’s Adam’s apple and squeezing. “Where is she?” Sam relieved him of his gun, pushing it into his own waistband.

  The Serbian choked and Sam let up pressure. “Gone already, get off of me!” He clawed at his hand, but Sam squeezed harder, locking out his air supply, and blood to his little brain.

  “Where!”

  “Fuck you,” he croaked, frantically pulling at Sam’s hand.

  Sam shook his left arm, a blade falling into his palm and he ripped it down Voslav’s face. Blood bloomed as the man howled and tried to grab the wound. Sam wouldn’t allow it. “That’s one.”

  Voslav stared, his breathing fast, but otherwise unaffected. “Kill me and you’ll never learn anything.”

  “Not a problem.” Sam jammed the knife into his thigh, then ripped it forward, cutting tendons.

  Voslav screamed and fell to the floor. “You motherfucker, I’ll kill you! God dammit!”

  Sam wiped the blade on his sleeve. “The redhead.” At the noise, people pounded on the door from the inside.

  “You’ll never get to her. He’s got a dozen men.” Voslav spit at his feet, gripping his knee, blood oozing between his fingers.

  Sam secured Voslav with slip ties, searched him for keys, then left him facedown before he opened the door.

  People looked up, cowered, and their desolation just about killed him. “Coonass, get in here.”

  “No can do, he’s got men, I count four. One looks familiar. They’re doing the divide and conquer.”

  Shoot the bastards, was his first thought, but that would put these people in the crossfire. “Drac, track them.” He touched his ear. “There are at least a dozen people here, guys, we need to get them out first.”

  “You won’t.” Voslav chuckled, bleeding all over the floor.

  Ignoring the slaver, Sam entered, cutting the bonds of a few, then handing the knife to a young boy and gesturing to the others. He looked at each face, hoping to see Viva’s. His gaze fell on a mattress, empty, yet still holding the impression of a body, and his chest tightened as people filed out, stiff and battered, but eager for freedom.

  “Run,” Sam told them. “Go home.” He pointed to the exit, and one woman stopped, grabbed his arm, yet said nothing, her thanks in her battered face. “You’re welcome, but go.” He stopped a young boy. “A redhead, American,” he said in his best Thai. “Did you see her?” The boy pointed to the empty mattress and nodded.

  Jesus, no.

  Fury poured through him and Sam was outside the room, hauling Voslav up enough to look him in the eyes. “A name!”

  “I don’t ask names!”

  Sam ground his foot on his bloody knee. “Where is she?”

  “The Baiyoke!” He swore in Serbian.

  Rohki had been there too. Did he buy her? Sam shoved him aside as people filed out, one woman stopping to spit on Voslav, then run, dragging a child.

  “She’ll be dead or so used up she’ll wish she was.” Voslav managed to prop himself against the wall.

  The taunts hit their mark, brewing terrible images of Viva being raped, yet Sam watched the gym doors as the last prisoner, a beautiful teenager in her school uniform, ran into the streets.

  “Civilians clear.” Sebastian hurried across the gym.

  “They’re clear of the building, and scattering,” Max said. “Thai police on their way.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Why do you hurt me?” Voslav said behind Sam, his breathing labored. “I just provide a service. Some want a mistress, or nannies and cooks. Others want the softness of virgin children.”

  “Jesus,” Sebastian said, disgusted. “Shut him up.”

  His outrage long passed the breaking point, Sam stepped closer, staring down at the man. He cared about a lot of things, a dying slave runner wasn’t one of them. Voslav snickered, blood bubbling from his broken face. Sam knelt, and with the heel of his palm, he hit, sending his shattered nose into his brain. The bastard never moved again. He straightened, wiping blood on his leg.

  “One dirtbag down, we’re coming out.”

  “Negative,” Max said. Sam stilled, met Sebastian’s gaze. “His goons are inside somewhere.”

  “We’ll bypass them.” Sam accepted a handful of ammo from Sebastian.

  “Negative, one saw the victims running and they’re halfway to your position now.”

  Instantly, Sam flattened to the wall and inclined his head to Sebastian. They checked the two corridors. They were wide, lockers on the right, three doors spaced out on the left. Sam didn’t bother searching each, the glass was knocked out, and a quick sweep showed nothing but debris. No exits.

  “Last location?”

  “Hell if I know. No city plans for this building.”

  Well, hell, he was used to flying blind.

  “I’m going in behind them,” Max said.

  “Smoke them toward us.”

  Sebastian watched the first corridor, and Sam turned back toward Voslav. Alongside the prison room were three more classroom doors, then another corridor from the loading bays. Sam edged the hall, peering. “Two, my twelve, moving fast.”

  “One my way,” Sebastian said. “No visual, but I can hear footsteps.”

  In the ear mike, Sam heard a grunt, then a deep breath. “One ghosted,” Max said. “Green shirt with a Uzi coming your way. Sorry.”

  In the hollowness of the corridor, he heard rapid footsteps, the jingle of change, and he waited, listened. Sound was their best defense.

  The gun barrel appeared first, slowly, and Sam grabbed it, yanked down, then drove his elbow into the man’s face. Cartilage dissolved under the impact, and he shoved the man back into his partner. They fell like dominos, and Sam ducked back as the man sprayed the walls and ceiling with bullets. Before the dust settled, Sam pee
red around the edge of the wall. The pair were struggling to stand, one holding his bleeding face.

  Sam stepped out, aiming. “Drop the weapons, guys.”

  The second man pulled the trigger, and Sam double-tapped the two and turned away in time to see Sebastian standing over a body, the green shirt bloody.

  “We need to get out of here ASAP.”

  Sebastian frowned. “What’d he tell you?”

  “She’s at the Baiyoke Towers.” Sam stripped Voslav’s body of everything he could find.

  “And you believe him?”

  “No, but I don’t have much choice.”

  They maintained caution as they left the building, checking rooms and closets for survivors. When they were satisfied no one was left behind that shouldn’t be dead, they headed to the rear doors. Police barreled down the roads, sirens loud in the warm night air. Max gunned the van, and slid to a stop. Sebastian and Sam dove inside and he pulled away.

  Sam drew out Voslav’s wallet, prying through the contents. “Cash.” It was crumpled, and Sam plucked through, leaving a pile. “There’s nothing, dammit.” Sam gathered the blood money, then found a slip of paper between folded bhat. He tipped it to the light. “It’s a receipt for a water taxi, to the Oriental. Dated today.”

  “That’s four separate buildings.”

  “And our best option.” If they were wrong, they’d never find her. Sam couldn’t wrap his brain around it.

  In the rear, Choan stirred. “We need to dump him,” Max said.

  “Not yet. He knows more than he’s saying.”

  “Well, that’s a given.”

  Sam looked at Sebastian. “Can you cook?”

  The Cajun smiled. “How big do you want the blast?”

  Commander Anan Isarangura walked into the old school, remembering when it was set on fire by terrorists months ago. They’d hit eighteen schools in a year’s time, each condemned and scheduled for demolition, yet he knew they would not be done for years unless the businessmen wanted the land for another skyscraper. He followed his men, motioning for them to fan out.

  The rush of young children in the streets warned him that what he would find would not be pleasant. He was not disappointed. He stared at the bodies littering the corridor, then stepped over them to the one he’d hoped to find.

  A young officer came out of a room, his complexion pale. “You were correct. Slavers.” His gaze fell to the body.

  “Ivan Voslav.” He gestured. He’d been sought for two years now, evading capture and all evidence washed away before Anan could take him. He bent, checking for a pulse, knowing he was dead and wanting to be certain. “Remove the bodies and board the building.”

  “We should leave them to rot.” The young man kicked Voslav’s body.

  “Their stench is already in our city, we do not want to make more.”

  Anan plucked a gun shell from beneath a body, turning it over in his hands.

  “Do we go after the people who did this?”

  “You are certain who it is?”

  The younger man’s features tightened with embarrassment.

  “We are oddly grateful, but yes, we need to trace them,” Anan said.

  He pocketed the single shell. The bullets in the bodies said there had been more shots fired, but they had missed only this one.

  An officer rushed in, offering a cell phone. A leash to the men with power, he thought, taking it and stating his name. “The museum has been robbed, Dr. Wan Gai is waiting with a photo of the assailant.”

  Anan said he would be there by sunrise, but that didn’t satisfy his superiors. Wan Gai had influence. But that only one article was missing made him instantly suspicious.

  Viva felt a strange calm settle over her, terror submerged beneath righteous anger. What kind of sick person did this to people? She thought of the children in that room and the other young women she couldn’t see, like flowers hidden from the light to slowly die. The degrading horror of it drove fury up her spine.

  She wouldn’t make it easy for this guy and tried to think of ways to turn this to her favor. As much as she wanted to spit and shout at him, she kept her face impassive, her eyes wide and innocent. Let him believe she was terrified, she thought. Get him to lower his guard. Then what? She was tied and leashed like an animal.

  “You came all the way to Thailand for an American?”

  He smiled. “No. You’re a distraction till I complete my business.”

  Russian accent, she thought. “And what’s that?”

  He frowned slightly. “Your only concern is pleasing me.”

  “That would be difficult since I’m tied like a dog.”

  She never thought she’d have to decide between rape and life, but knew no one would help her, and she’d no intention of dying today.

  Then he strolled closer. Dark haired with a salt of gray, he didn’t look capable of whatever he had in mind, nor did he look the least bit Arabic. His gaze moved over her clothing, ending on her breasts. When he reached the side of the bed, she noticed little things, the ring on his little finger, the biggest Burmese ruby she’d ever seen, then the gold chains dangling with medallions. Expensive bling-bling. The fabric of his black clothing was hand embroidered with gold threads. Even his buttons were made of gemstones. Money to burn and he spent it on slaves?

  “You say nothing more?”

  Language she’d never considered uttering went flying through her brain, yet she bit it back. No sense in enticing him, he looked pretty worked up already. She lowered her eyes demurely, and wondered if fighting would rile him up, or if submitting would deflate the erection she could see pushing against his garments.

  He reached over her, and started to unbutton the over blouse. “I will see all I have purchased.”

  She twisted away, kicking out at him, and his smile widened. She had her answer. Fight and he’d like it.

  He spread the fabric wide, and stared, his breathing increasing as he touched her stomach, his hand sliding upward toward the genie bra. Viva realized the pants she wore were open at the hips, held together by thin gold chains.

  He pressed a knee to the bed and cupped her breasts. She faked a moan, trying not to spit in his face.

  “You like that? There will be more, my kadine.”

  Not on your life, sajin. She pulled on the silk ropes, her palm folded. Freedom had to come; she’d rather die than be raped by the sheik wannabe. Then he moved to the foot of the bed, and grasped her ankles, his grip punishing as he slowly spread them, but before she could jerk free, he looped them with ropes.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  He looked doubtful.

  She sat up as far as she could, the rope around her throat holding her back. “I will submit.”

  “You speak lies, woman.”

  You think? God, he was a bad romance novel in the making.

  “You’ll never know till you try,” she said, then gave him a shy look that was so rare her friends would laugh if they saw it. Viva kept at the ropes, feeling them give a little. They weren’t that tight to begin with, but she still couldn’t slip her wrist free.

  “Try you? I plan to have you in every way I can.”

  Her gaze lowered pointedly to his crotch. “We’ll see.”

  He laughed softly, crawling toward her, his hands sliding up from her ankles, dipping under the fabric made to fall away with the flick of a knife. The heat of his knees between hers drove another wave of panic into her blood, and she discreetely pulled the cords harder, the bed creaking with the strain. Then he lay on top of her, humping, his thick crotch pushing on hers, and she thought, oh, God, bathing for a week would never clean away this violation.

  He kissed her stomach, her breasts, cupped one and squeezed hard. Pain bloomed in her chest, and she struggled, her gaze flicking to the ropes as she worked them farther over her palm. Then his hand wrapped her throat, tightening slowly as he rubbed against her, vulgar and heavy. Viva gasped for air, panting in his ear when she wanted to bite it
off. Stars scattered in her vision. Breathing grew harder.

  His hand found its way between her legs, stroking against the fabric and she twisted to avoid contact, hoping to dislodge his grip on her throat. But he chuckled, fumbled between her legs, and she realized he was opening his trousers. No, please no. The chains on her pants loosened and her vulnerability drove rage to monumental proportions.

  This is not happening to me, dammit.

  She yanked, yet couldn’t pull her wrist free, and strained to reach his jeweled dagger. It was inches out of her grasp. Then he put both hands on her bare skin, nudged her legs wider, but they were secured. She inhaled deeply as he suddenly rose up, twisted to his right, and unhooked one ankle rope.

  The angle put him within reach, and Viva grabbed the curved dagger.

  “Hey! Lawrence of Arabia.”

  He turned back sharply, right into the blade. His body jerked, his expression glazed with unexpected pain.

  Oh God. Oh God, she hadn’t meant to—her gaze rocked between his face and her hand on the jeweled hilt.

  “You will die, cyka,” he gasped, his hands locking around her throat. He squeezed hard, his body falling on hers.

  “You first.” Her world fading, Viva jammed the knife deeper.

  Ten

  In the deep cushioned chair, Constantine Jalier twisted his ring, his gaze on the wide-screen television. The sound was off. On the six-foot-long coffee table were three laptops, all in screensaver mode. Behind him, the door opened and closed, no other sounds, and he marveled at her skill to be so silent. Her hand slid over his shoulder, then lower. He grasped it, kissed the back of her hand, then let her go and patted the space beside him.