The atmosphere seemed to change all around them. The girls' heads came up for air, their chins saliva-speckled and glistening with red streaks. The Serb pushed them back down none too gently.
"I'm not spying. Just looking around."
The pause lay between them like a silent explosion, but the club's other sounds seemed to retreat into the background and fade. Their eyes locked for an interminable moment.
"You like this?" The Serb grinned suddenly, his teeth a blend of yellow and gold. "They can do you after they do me, two hundred each. They are professional — you will like."
Brant hesitated. He could see at least three thugs who stood awkwardly within earshot, ready to come to the boss's aid. "I like my sex private." He swallowed more beer and waited to see where this would go.
"Private? I can arrange. These two, you like? Others? I have others on duty."
His accent was an East European cliché, somewhere between Russian and Yugoslav. Maybe he was a product of both cultures, maybe another culture.
Whatever, he was a vulture.
The silence dragged. Suddenly Goran started grunting repeatedly like a pig parked at a trough, his hips thrusting even though his chest remained motionless. His eyelids fluttered, then he fixed Brant with red-rimmed intensity. The two girls came up again, licking themselves and each other like cats. His meaty hands gave them each a shove. They slid out and left his booth giggling, hand in hand, heading off to fix their ruined lip gloss, do some blow, or both.
"You see? Here you can have what you want. You want to reach a hand inside the ass of one? I have just the right girl. Blond. She has an... fabulous ass — stretched very nice."
Goran's voice wound down at Brant's lack of response. His eyes became slits. "You do not want my girls. You sit and stare at me. Why you are here, taking up my busy time?" He nodded and two of the dark-suited thugs materialized closer to the booth. He stared at Brant but spoke to his two men. "This ... gentleman had his chance. He is just leaving, right now please."
His tone was neither pleading nor gracious. There was only the steely order. The musclemen moved toward Brant.
Brant waited until he could smell their cheap cologne. The Woodsman throbbed under his jacket.
"I'm going to be blunt, Goran. And I'm just asking you once. My niece is missing and people are lining up to finger you and your bully boys."
The other man stared for a moment, then smiled — a crooked, insincere smile. "Who are you? You know me, my name? How you dare enter my place of business and make wild accusations? Why I should not have you thrown into the street?"
Brant tilted his head, measuring the distance from his hand to the Woodsman's grip. He still held a bottle, which might provide a needed distraction. "My name is Brant. My niece was kidnapped from the Westown mall about a day and a half ago. I've seen and heard enough to know you or your thugs might be involved. I'm not interested in police intervention into your business. I just want her back safe. No dancing around. Let her go and we won't have any other business, you and I."
Goran barked a sentence at Lantern-Jaw in his clipped, military-style language. The immediate response seemed to please him. He nodded as Lantern-Jaw leaned over and continued speaking into his ear. Then the thug stepped away again.
Goran laughed suddenly, as if faced with the most humorous joke he had heard in a year. "You got nerve, I say that." His accent thickened and the East European dripped from him, as did the caged violence. "Hear me, Brant-whatever, you have got the wrong boy here to play with. I have no interest in your niece or anyone's niece. My business is my business. I run clubs and bars. Now get out before I ask my associates to show you the way."
Brant stood his ground a full minute longer, staring into Goran's slitted cold eyes. "I'm out, but if my sources turn out right and you have my niece and if she's been harmed in any way, I'll be back for a visit. And your associates won't matter to me, not at all."
Goran laughed again. Then he spouted more words in his native tongue. The associates looked at Brant and started reaching for their covert hardware.
"I'm not done with you, Goran." Brant turned his back on them and headed for the nearest exit, marked For Emergency Only. They wouldn't shoot him in the club and bring down the cops — too many cell phones in the place, too easy for someone, anyone, to dial 911. Too messy, even for the Serb to clean up.
Brant slammed the door and found himself in an alley, within a cleft of shadow cast by a battered Dumpster. This was part of the old town and though the building facades were getting regular facelifts, this rear was about as dingy as it had ever been. The alley was ten feet deep and he could see other Dumpsters and various piles of stinking club debris littering it. A drizzle had begun to fall so the old bricks were shiny under his feet.
So much for 'White Christmas.'
A compact square box with a pulsing red light was mounted next to the doorway. The light stopped pulsing and stayed red when the door clicked shut.
When Brant reached the alley mouth, he heard the same door open and close more quietly. Hand cradling the heavy Woodsman, he melted into the shadow behind a second, crookedly placed Dumpster just before the thick shape of one of Goran's thugs came even with Brant's hiding place. The thug's outstretched hand held a pistol.
Brant exploded from the shadows, grasped the goon's shoulder with his left hand and swung him around, driving the Woodsman's long barrel wickedly into his gut, aiming low and upward. The whoosh of air escaping the goon's mouth and the grunt of pain pleased Brant no end.
Brant wanted to talk, wanted to question the tail — or more likely assassin — Goran had set on him. But the goon's eyes slitted and he went to swing his pistol Brant's way.
Brant had no choice.
He put two .22 slugs into the man's forehead. The rounds snapped his head back and splattered the bricks with thin tendrils of blood. The two flat cracks made barely a ripple of sound and then faded.
That was what he liked most about the old Woodsman.
He grasped the body and lowered him quickly to the bricks.
Searching the man's pockets, he found a wallet and business card holder he pocketed, and nothing else of obvious value. Then he hefted the corpse up and over, into the open Dumpster. He tossed the attacker's pistol in after him, not bothering to wipe it because he had been wearing his gloves. He didn't bother trying to find his own tiny brass, knowing it was clean as well.
Then and only then did he feel the stabbing regret. Not that he had killed, but that he had declared war so clearly and so finally. And the cops now had reason to snag him, too, possibly before he could take down the Serb.
Have I just killed Kit?
He wiped his brow, wondering if he could cast his mind out and find her. The image of her severed head floated back before his eyes and the vomit surged into his throat. He bent over and waited for the spasm to pass.
She was still alive. But for how long?
After returning to his car, he flipped through the wallet. A few twenties in cash, credit and debit cards, license, various receipts, and an unmarked entry card for the club's back door. The guy's business cards indicated a place on Lake Drive he listed as an office and residence. The address was familiar. Thoughtfully he pocketed the entry card.
The throbbing overtook him again, an ache similar to a migraine but worse, attacking his temples and the back of his head with lightning speed. He groaned and put his hands up, massaging the veins in his neck and back of his skull. This time, he had barely enough time to swing the car door open and he vomited up his guts in bloody chunks.
A minute later he peered at the mess he'd made. No blood, but it seemed a miracle. Now he felt the familiar twitch start up below his neck. He swore. Just what he needed, a deteriorating medical condition right in the middle of this mess.
He popped four Tylenols from a bottle he kept in the glove box, then concentrated on topping up the Woodsman's magazine with new clean rounds.
The headache abated slightly, thou
gh it was too soon for the pills to work. His head spun again. Was a flashback coming? Was Kit trying to contact him? Was she even now struggling for her life? He didn't know exactly how, but again he sensed she was alive. But if he didn't get to her in time, he also knew exactly what he would do to Goran's employees.
And then to Goran himself.
Across the street, a car's lights flicked on and flashed across a van parked nearby. Brant stared at the van's side, where he clearly saw someone held momentarily motionless against the lighter paint. The figure dropped straight down and out of sight while the headlights flashed past and moved on down the driveway as the car rumbled onto the street.
The figure, even though it was gone, remained burned into his retinas. He would have sworn it was Sergeant Colgrave. The headlights had intensified the redness of her chestnut hair.
His head pounding a newly insistent rhythm, Brant turned the key and briskly headed for the lakefront. His mind whirred past the meaning of what he'd seen.
On the way, his non-Colgrave cell went off.
KIT
Elmer and Daffy pulled open the door and were upon her before she could try to evade their grasp. One of them tittered with amusement as she gasped in shock. Kit and Anne Marie had been in the middle of a silent conversation in signs. Marissa had shown interest for a few short minutes, but they'd excluded her and finally she'd turned away after whining about the pain in her foot. She was sitting on her bunk, rubbing her toes and wincing every time her fingers brushed the stump of her toe. Her bandage had been changed sometime during the night—
(day?)
(Nobody knew anymore, except that they'd been sleeping...)
—and she seemed to be returning to her pre-mutilation mindset. She was the favorite, she was into it, she was a player. She was certain she'd survive the ordeal by playing along, and she wouldn't hear anything to the contrary. Maybe by now she had convinced herself she really did enjoy it...
Kit and Anne Marie had taken to signing in front of her mostly because they didn't trust her. They were slowly discussing a plan, searching for the signs they needed, when the door had burst open.
Grabbed by each limb, Kit wasn't able to struggle as much as she might have, though she managed to thrust her weight away from the two men with enough strength and determination to make them fight her squirming. But one undid her manacle and together they dragged her off her bunk and through the door, disregarding her grunts and screams. Kit heard Anne Marie screaming incoherently in the background, to no avail.
Elmer slapped a gag into her open mouth and she bit down on stale cloth, unable to make anything but a strangled gurgle as they heaved her down the hallway and into a different doorway.
In minutes, she lay on her back on a vinyl-covered medical table, wrists and ankles securely strapped into cushioned leather restraints. She thrashed this way and that, hurling her weight nearly off the table over and over, as Elmer and Daffy waited patiently, grotesque rubber smiles painted on their elongated faces.
Minutes later, her muscles screaming and her limbs nothing more than dead weight, she settled down on the table, spent.
Words whirled through her mind in a streaming babble.
This is it — this is it — this is it — this is it — this
Then:
Don't wanna die — don't wanna die — God don't let me die — God
Uncle Rich — please Uncle Rich —
Her inner voice faltered as Elmer and Daffy approached. Daffy had industrial scissors in his hands. Kit struggled to roll away from him, but Elmer held her down while Daffy cut off first her shorts and t-shirt, then snipped the sides of her panties and bra, pulling at the clothes and dropping them on the floor.
Kit's eyes were about to explode out of her head. Her lids ached from being kept wide open. Her facial muscles ached from trying to defeat the gag to scream, but all she managed to do was swallow part of the cloth gag. If she wasn't careful, she'd choke to death.
Then again, maybe that would be preferable to having the hands of these bastards on her skin. Kit struggled again and again against her bonds and against the hands that tickled her skin, but all she managed to do was exhaust her strength.
Chortling under their masks, the two men began turning cranks below her field of vision.
What the hell?
Kit felt the table beneath her begin to tilt backwards, her feet slowly rising. But that wasn't the worst thing. What seemed worse was that she felt her legs being spread slowly, as portions of the table traveled on tiny tracks and the surface reconfigured itself.
To her horror, Kit realized that the blood was rushing to her head, and that her legs were even now separating and exposing her unprotected vagina to the men and whoever else might be gathering at the foot of the horrifying torture rack that the medical table had become. She could feel her secret folds opening like a blooming flower and yet there was nothing she could do to prevent it, nothing to prevent these disgusting monsters from staring at her genitals, at her partially shaved pubis. At her most intimate secrets.
Tears gushed from her eyes and ran like itchy rivers into her hair, which now hung loose just off the floor. She could no longer see the men — the angled table made it almost impossible — but she knew they were there, and she sensed that others had quietly approached. She heard a soft whirring sound — a camcorder? And then the concurrent click-whirr of a still camera also reached her ears. She tried to hold as still as possible, feeling their abhorrent breath on her skin, giving her goose bumps, and the feel of air movement around her nether regions as they moved around and aimed their cameras. She craned her neck painfully and managed to enlarge her field of vision enough to see a portion of what was happening. Elmer and Daffy aimed cameras at her most intimate body parts, mumbling to themselves and chuckling as they came in for close-ups.
Elmer reached out and stuck his finger in her, roughly holding her labia apart while his infernal partner snapped picture after picture. Kit struggled, but hanging upside down had taken most of the fight out of her, and her head seemed about to explode. She sighed and sagged, unable to combat this latest indignity. He laughed and passed his fingers under his nose. She thought she would vomit, but held on — doing so would drown her.
Then they were cranking again, and the table seemed to be gyrating to one side. Kit felt herself come off the vinyl and hang from the wrist and ankle restraints. It was as if she'd been crucified, laid on her back, and tilted. She hung half off the table, the straps digging harshly into her skin. Elmer and Daffy now resumed their cataloging of her body parts, settling down near her buttocks. She felt rough hands caress her here and shuddered, too weak to do anything else. One hand spread her cheeks and opened her up for further photography.
Kit was unwilling to believe this was happening to her. She passed out.
When she came to, the table had been cranked up so that the blood was now rushing out of her head. She opened her eyes and her surroundings slowly registered. It was a different room than the others. There were several men sitting at a long table, witnessing the degrading process of recording her every feature. Now that her eyes were open, Daffy came in with his camera and filmed slowly all around her face. Elmer reached for the gag and removed it, but before she could gather her wits and scream he forced her mouth open so Daffy could direct her camera.
She'd heard horses were checked over like this and, she assumed, prize cattle.
Seconds later, the gag was replaced and she'd lost her chance to protest. Not that it would have mattered. She tried closing her eyes to thwart their intentions, but hands pried them open. She wished she could spit on them, and settled for displaying both middle fingers even though her hands were bound. Elmer laughed and pointed, and they filmed her defiance. Last, it seemed, they zoomed in on her breasts, shooting from all angles. Daffy reached out and tickled first her left nipple, then the right one, watching and laughing as she struggled.
Don't let them pierce me!
The sudde
n thought was incongruous, because recently she'd been thinking of getting a belly button ring and a nipple stud. But the fear that these men would operate on her now, without any sort of hygienic equipment or anesthesia, made her nearly incoherent.
But no, they were finishing up and stepping away, toward the other men, all masked, who sat at the long table. For the first time, she noticed two laptop computers open on the table. The men took the electronic media from Elmer and Daffy, and presumably uploaded it somewhere on the web.
Jesus, I've been cataloged and put on display.
No rape for her yet. First they would see how much she might fetch at auction.
All this became clear in one striking second. She wondered if the bidding had begun.
Kit moaned. She wasn't sure anymore what represented the worst they could do. Then she remembered Jill.
Jill, who disappeared.
The men cranked the table back down and released her, pulling her off the vinyl and almost letting her slide to the cold concrete floor. Her muscles felt rubberized, her bones plastic. They half-dragged her to the door, then threw new panties, shorts, bra and t-shirt at her. Now they let her flop to the floor, but she got up slowly and used her regained strength to dress as quickly as she could in her weakened state.
Elmer grabbed her as soon as she was finished, and they dragged her out the door like a broken mannequin.
At the end of the hall was yet another door she had not been through. They turned left instead of right and led her there, then into a paneled office. She smelled sawdust and lumber, as if it had been finished not long before. A wide-screen plasma television dominated one wall, across from a massive cherry desk set. A flat-panel PC monitor stood on one corner, and a covered cake platter took up the opposite corner. On the television the tape of Marissa's porn encounter with the Warner Brothers played silently. Before Kit could say or do anything, Elmer and Daffy had her seated in a wingback chair facing the desk, her arms and ankles again strapped down so she would be helpless. They left without a word, but snickering.
Savage Nights Page 19
