DOLLY

by Stone, Measha

  “Ella Romero didn’t make it,” Pierce says, flattening his hands on the table.

  “What do you mean didn’t make it? She didn’t have any injuries when we left her.” She’d been in perfect fucking health, as far as I saw.

  “After she gave her statement, detailing years of her own torture and her part in helping her father abduct three girls in the past few months, she was released into her mother’s care. Ella went home and took her own life.” There’s no emotion in his tone. Just a flat statement. Maybe he’s had to harden himself to all this. Maybe I should have some point. Maybe one day I can. Or maybe, he’s not handling this as well as he pretends.

  “What about her mother?” I ask, because how can a mother do this to her child? I didn’t get an answer from Abigail mother, maybe Mrs. Romero will have one for me.

  “She said she knew nothing of her daughter’s abuse or anything her husband was doing. And to be honest, the woman is so deep in a bottle—it’s quite possible she didn’t.”

  Another parent failing her daughter.

  “Sarah’s in good hands, though?” Because if she’s not, we have an extra room at the lake house. Abigail and I will take care of her.

  Pierce probably picks up on my train of thought and quickly assures me. “She’s good. She’s in a good, loving home. I swear it, Brian.”

  I relax enough to grab another fry. I’ll be checking on her to make certain.

  “Cathy’s daughter?” I shouldn’t give a fuck, but for all I know, Cathy has been abusing her too.

  “She’s as good as you can expect someone to be after they find out their mother was a serial rapist.” He shakes his head. “Cathy had everyone fooled. Seemed like a top-notch detective while using her badge to protect the entire operation.”

  “You had to have some suspicions. How’d you track me down to that motel anyway?”

  Pierce half laughs and runs his hand over his head. “Pure fucking luck.” He levels his gaze on me. “My daughter works the front desk. She’d forgotten her lunch at home. I was just dropping it off for her when I saw you.”

  “Some luck.” I smirk.

  A long moment passes quietly between us. “So why the meeting?” Time to get to the real business at hand.

  Pierce reaches below the table and brings out a yellow envelope. He drops it on the table and pushes it across to me.

  “Pictures of the man responsible for the last three girls we found. He has property in Morocco and has been allowed to keep his travel documents.”

  “Morocco doesn’t extradite,” I say, opening the envelope. There are more than pictures in here.

  “No, they do not.” Pierce nods toward the passports that fall out of the envelope onto the table. I pick them up. One for Abigail, traveling as Marie Stephens, and myself, traveling as Mark Stephens.

  I look up at him. He takes a bite of his sandwich.

  A phone is buried at the bottom of the envelope. He doesn’t need to explain, and it’s better if he doesn’t. Carefully, I tuck everything back inside and press the little metal clips back in place to keep it sealed.

  “There’s a lot of film to go through,” I say eventually.

  He nods. “Yeah.”

  I let another minute pass in silence. Abigail’s waiting, and I don’t want her to worry any more than she already is. I imagine she’s pacing the balcony with her fingers all twisted up in her shirt.

  “Okay then.” I pick up the envelope and scoot out of the booth. Snapping my fingers, I turn back. “One more thing. Captain Richards?”

  Pierce’s lips twist up in a victorious grin. “He’s lost his command and is being investigated for three sexual harassment suits. He’ll probably be writing traffic tickets by the time it’s all over.”

  I guess Cathy hadn’t lied about the Captain. Good.

  “Leave him be.” Pierce points a finger at me, like I’m a dog that can be told when to attack and when not to.

  “Not on my radar.” I shrug. “Unless you find differently. If the investigations stop—”

  “They won’t. Not until every girl on those tapes has been accounted for.” It’s a vow, and from his tenor, I take it to heart.

  “Thanks for lunch.” I grab another fry and leave him to his sandwich.

  By the time I get back into the car, the death grip on my heart finally releases and breathing comes naturally again. Any number of things could have happened in that diner.

  But the outcome I wanted has blessed me.

  I will be with Abigail.

  She’ll get to save the girls.

  And we’ll do it together.

  Thirty-One

  ABIGAIL

  A blast of light fills the staircase when Brian flicks on the single overhead bulb. It’s an old building on the outskirt of the main city. High on the hill overlooking the markets, crowded and busy below. But we weren’t interested in any of those things when Brian found this place for us.

  True, the beauty of Morocco has captivated us both. Truer still, we are in no hurry to rush away. But we have business, and our task keeps us from wandering the city with the tourists. Maybe once we’re finished.

  Brian steps down two steps and holds out his hand. “Ready?”

  I straighten my posture and slip my hand in his. “Are you sure no one will hear?” I ask as we make our way down the stone steps.

  “No one will hear or care.”

  The cellar of the building has no electricity. Brian lets go of my hand to flip on his flashlight. I find the camping lamp he left down here earlier and turn it on, casting light throughout the rest of the space.

  In the corner, huddled in the back of a dog crate, is a man. He’s been stripped of his clothes—and hopefully his dignity.

  With the light shining on him, he scrambles to cover his eyes, probably blinded from the intrusion. Brian adjusts his beam to land directly on the man’s face. The metal crate scrapes along the stones as he moves again. There isn’t much space for him to change positions.

  “Please.” A raspy plea comes from the crate. “Please. I have a family.” Dirty, fat fingers wrap around the thin bars as he tries to put some humanity back into his life.

  “I know.” I hang my lamp on the peg Brian installed a week ago when we brought the senator here.

  “The girls you took had families too,” Brian reminds him.

  “Please.” The senator sniffles. At least he’s stopped feigning innocence. “My legs. They’re so cramped.”

  I look to Brian. This man has no true idea of what’s coming to him if his only worry is his legs.

  “Do you think the girls you kept in those cages felt any different? Girls you kept locked up for months!” I kick the crate, sending off a metallic echo into the room.

  “I’m sorry. I swear. I won’t ever do it again.”

  He can’t really think that’s going to work.

  “Oh, well, if you promise…” Brian laughs. For the past three weeks while we’ve been in Fez, we’ve been looking forward to this day. It took longer to find the senator than we thought, and even longer to get him alone. He kept his bodyguards close. But even a senator likes to take a shit alone—and when he did, Brian was waiting for him.

  “Who’s paying you? I can pay more, much more.” Again, with the bribery. He’s tried this several times already. We already have all the money he had on hand, plus access to all his accounts. He has nothing to offer we haven’t taken already.

  A noise from Brian’s back pocket distracts him. He pulls out his cell phone and swipes through the screen.

  “Hmmm…Paris?” He turns the phone so I can read the message from Pierce. They’ve tracked down another girl.

  “Should we?” I ask him. He knows Pierce and trusts him, but I only trust Brian. He’s the one who found me in the darkness and brought me back into the light. He’s my beacon, and I will follow him where he leads.

  “Another untouchable.” Brian finishes reading the message and tucks the phone back in his pocket.


  “Then we should,” I agree.

  “But first.” Brian wraps his hand around the handle of the crate.

  “Yes, but first.” I pull my hunting knife from my belt.

  “Senator, it’s time.” Brian opens the crate, and justice begins as the senator’s life ends.

  Everything we do, we do together. Life and death happen for us, with us, and by us. Evil will continue to spread throughout the world, we aren’t powerful enough to combat it on our own. But we hunt it, we catch it, and we squash it.

  Together.

  * * *

  I truly hope you enjoyed DOLLY and will introduce her to all the people. While Abigail and Brian’s story has ended, there is always more darkness to combat and love. If your still in the mood for the dark and depraved, check out KRISTOFF another of my dark stand alone novels. Just turn the page for a glimpse.

  Kristoff

  “Seriously? Ten?” I shake my head but hand over the money for my coffee. It’s not like I have a choice in the matter. Without it, I’ll fall asleep before I get my shot and seeing as there’s not another cafe within walking distance, the barista smiling at me with coffee stained teeth will get his money.

  I snag the cup offered and inhale the sweet scent of caffeine. It’s probably the cinnamon I’m smelling, but I lie to myself that the caffeine will work better if I can smell it, too.

  The sun barely shines through the overcast sky, but it’s enough to make me put on my sunglasses. It’s going to be a long day, and I need to get my head on straight.

  It’s taken me three years to get this opportunity, and I can’t blow it. Spending most of my savings, I’ve rented a small apartment above a flower shop and have bided my time.

  Andrei Dowidoff’s home is nearby, a large estate an hour drive from London. It’s a damn fortress, but not without its weaknesses. I just need to find them - and someone willing to talk. Anyone at this point would be helpful. I just need a solid interview, just one.

  Officially, Andrei isn’t being investigated by any department I’m aware of. He’s not the main target, but he’s a big player.

  “Excuse me.” An older man with graying hair and deep creases around his eyes touches my arm as I walk past him. “I’m sorry, my car broke down. Radiator trouble, I think, and my cell isn’t working. Do you happen to have one I can borrow to call my son? He’ll come get me.”

  I scan our surroundings. The morning rush around the coffee shop has died down and only a few cars pass us on the street.

  “Sure.” I pull out my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and hand it over to him, unlocking the screen with a swipe of my finger before he takes it.

  He thanks me and starts to punch in a phone number while I sip my coffee. His fingernails attract my attention. Trimmed low and clean. Not a spec of dirt or oil on his fingertips at all.

  When I turn my gaze up to his face, I find him grinning at me. He shrugs, but before I can question him, thick fabric is smashed across my mouth and nose. A sweet pungent smell invades my senses as I struggle. Arms wrap around me from behind, and I throw my head back, aiming to hit the bastard’s nose. But I miss. My vision blurs. I try to hold my breath while I fight to break free, but it doesn’t take any time at all for the chemical to take over.

  I drop my overpriced coffee. My muscles weaken, become heavy, and my struggles are too pathetic to do any good. The darkness takes over and wins.

  Darkness almost always does.

  ———

  My eyelids are heavy when I try to blink them open. A dense fog still fills my vision, and there isn’t enough light to give me any sense of where I am. An itch on my nose becomes annoying, and I try to lift my hand to rub it away. I can’t move my hands; they’re bound behind me.

  Bound, drugged and alone with no idea of where I am or how I came to be here. I force myself to raise my head and get a good look at the room I’m in. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness enough to realize it’s more a cell than a room. The floors, the walls, the ceiling, all concrete. A single bulb hangs over my head, but it’s not lit. A thin line of light illuminates along the bottom of the only door in the room. It’s probably steel enforced.

  Shaking my head, a sad attempt to rid myself of the lingering cloud, I try to focus my thoughts. Testing my feet, I realize my ankles are bound to the chair. My shoulders burn from the bondage. A burn I usually welcome, but this isn’t a dungeon. And there isn’t a safe-word that will get me out of whatever mess I’ve put myself in.

  I inhale a deep breath, choosing to ignore the rotting stench of the room. I need to clear out as much of the chemical from my body, and cleansing breaths are as good as I can do being tied up.

  The door creaks when it’s opened followed by a bright white light shining directly into my face. I clench my eyes closed and turn my head, not needing anymore discomfort. Booted footsteps head toward me, two sets.

  “Good, you’re awake,” a deep voice says with a thick Russian accent. I open my eyes and look sideways up at him. He’s older than I would have thought from his voice. Thick dark hair with hints of silver at the roots. His mustache is pure gray, and the deep wrinkles on his brow giveaway that he’s past his middle age.

  I blink a few times, looking past him. Another man, not as old, stands in the doorway, blocking most of the light and casting himself in a dark shadow. I can’t make out his features, but his large, muscular build is easy to see.

  “I have to say, Danuta, I am surprised you were so easily taken. You’ve been a thorn in my side for too long, and so easily you were plucked.” His accent makes it hard to understand him through my foggy mind, but I’m pretty sure he called me Danuta.

  It’s probably the drugs he gave me, but I start giggling.

  “You - idiot,” I laugh and tug at my binds.

  I’m rewarded quickly for the insult with a hard slap across my face. The pain radiates through my jaw and makes golden stars dance before me. Grunting, I shake my head. That didn’t help clear up the haze.

  “Chertovski suka!” He spits on the ground at my feet. My bare feet. I ignore the fact that he’s just called me a fucking bitch and concentrate on my clothing, or lack thereof. I’m naked. Completely exposed.

  He has my full attention now.

  “I’m not Danuta,” I state, working my jaw open and closed. I press my knees together as best I can, given my feet are bound spread apart. “You have the wrong girl.”

  He gets closer to me, and I can smell the cigar smoke on his clothes. His eyes narrow, and he examines my face, grabbing my chin and turns my head one way then the other.

  “More light!” he yells over his shoulder and the bulb over me illuminates. I blink several times, it’s too much at first, but slowly I adjust, and I can see him more clearly. A deep scar runs across his chin, down his neck. I’ve heard about that scar. How he got it. I swallow hard. This isn’t a little game for ransom.

  Fear floods my stomach, but I manage not to whimper when he increases his hold on me. Showing him my fear, letting him see how scared I really am will only fuel him. Monsters like him feed on it.

  “Resemblance is too close.” He sneers at me, and I swallow back a smartass retort. My wit isn’t going to help me now. Not with Andrei Dowidoff. This man has no sense of humor. At least not the usual kind. His idea of a good time is skinning a man alive to see how long he’ll stay conscious.

  The stories I’ve heard are enough to keep my mouth shut.

  “I’m not Danuta,” I say again.

  “I would think a CIA suka like you would have better tricks than lying about your name.” He lets go of my chin only to pat my cheek. “But we’ll see. I can easily give you an injection to make you talk. You’ll tell me everything I need to know, and you’ll be punished for your lies.”

  The way he says the word punished makes my skin crawl. It’s not like when I usually hear the word. There’s no excitement, just raw disgust.

  “I’m not Danuta. I swear it.” I jerk against my binds, but all that happens
is I make him laugh. “Check my ID. It’s in my pants.” I look around the cell. “Where are my pants?”

  “We did. All of your clothing and that little bag you had were inspected. You carried no ID.” He stands over me now, his hands on his hips.

  I had my wallet. Didn’t I? I had money to pay for the coffee. Shit. I had grabbed the cash from my pocket. I must have left my wallet in my apartment.

  “Even if you had it - IDs can be forged,” he says.

  He’s right of course. How many IDs had I seen in my sister’s briefcase over the years? She’s been too many different people for me to remember. I have to convince him I’m not her. That he’s got the wrong girl and somehow let me go.

  “I’m a journalist,” I blurt out. “I’m not Danuta. I’m not working with the CIA. I’m writing a story.” On him, but he doesn’t need to know that. I didn’t come to England looking to do an in-person interview.

  “You disappoint me,” he says, reaching behind him. Producing a knife, I assume he had strapped to his belt, he holds it up for me to see clearly. The blade is wide and jagged. I have no doubt of the sharpness. Again, I try to jerk free, but nothing happens. The ropes dig into my wrists, but I don’t put any more room between us.

  Pressing the cold steel blade against my throat, he brings his face closer to mine. “I should slice you, from one ear to the other.” His breath is heavy with cigar stench, and spittle lands on my chin when he gives his threat. “Maybe I cut you from chin to cunt, instead.” He drags the blade to my chin, nicking me with the tip. I clench my jaw but don’t make a sound. Any movement could make the knife cut deeper - and the asshole doesn’t need my help in hurting me.