by J. D. Allen
“Trafficking sex slaves? I can only imagine.”
“Commodities, Miss Floyd.” He turned his back on her to look out at the warehouse below. The cars lined up, the girls dressed like pros—all toys to him. Smug. Showing he was unafraid to turn his back to her. No way she’d manage to inflict any pain on him since she could barely move.
“You of all people should understand that. Everything is a commodity in the modern world. You work with that reality constantly.”
“People are not commodities.”
“Really.” He spun back to her. “You trade on labor forces all the time, don’t you? Investing in companies who outsource to third-world countries, Miss Floyd. What kind of people do you suppose do that cheap work? And how are they treated?” He arched an eyebrow, as if she would give him an answer. “You simply choose to ignore what you do not have to see firsthand.”
“That’s not rape and torture.” She tried to yell it, but it came out squeaking, like her lungs lacked the anger her heart did.
“You know this to be true? In those dirty little factories producing widgets for companies you funded, you know the little girls and boys toiling for long hours in horrible conditions are never molested or beaten to ensure productivity? Maybe in front of the rest of the workforce to make an example.” He took another slow drag. It snaked around his head as he let it out. “You’re a hypocrite. You and your corporate kind.”
Jim now saw anger in his dead eyes. He didn’t want the man mad.
“So you want me dead for not funding the Lionbridge projects?” She shook her head. “It was a small deal for you. Do you kill off every businessperson who goes against you?”
“You have no appreciation for the depth of my business and the—how shall I say?—temperament of some of my associates.” He smashed out the remaining bit of his smoke. Quite quickly, his face again became an emotionless mask. He was void. Empty.
“In that particular deal, we were looking for a vehicle to clean up a great deal of cash reserves. Your denial of the project left my business associate with a load of cash that he was unable to move, and with the research you did, he was linked to a past associate with whom he would rather not have been connected publicly. That managed to put him on a list. An FBI list.”
His lips tightened enough to look like an asshole. “So, he lost his money and his ability to move about freely. He is most unhappy.”
Even with her hands tied in front of her, Erica’s fingers drifted to her forehead. “I don’t under—”
“We needed the bank and the developments to help this South American associate get his cash unsullied.”
“Jesus Christ.” Her face tightened. Her spine straightened. She now apparently understood something Jim still did not. Big business financials were beyond his usual economics. Lately, anything beyond poker and beer money was beyond his economics. “We would have asked you for an up-front cash investment. He had it cooling somewhere. You were going to make the down payment in dirty cash and use the bank and the land sales to get clean money back.”
“We were—” He stopped short. Jim saw that he was watching someone coming down the hall. He was as still as he could make himself as another man walked by. The newcomer stopped with his back to Jim.
“I brought your friend. He’s admiring the cars.” The man shrugged before he glared down at Erica. “She good to go? I’m ready to start the next batch.” He turned, giving Jim a profile. An aging, balding pudge of a man in a tacky leisure suit. His neck, his wrist, and two fingers sported chunky jewelry. What was left of his hair was combed back and sprayed stiff to stay in place. Tasteless Vegas stereotype if he ever saw one.
“Gregory, you are a man with a singular track of attention. I admire that about you. But this one is to remain pristine.”
Fat man made a tsking noise. “Doubt she’s a virgin.”
“Mr. Dubai doesn’t want a virgin. He wants one to break himself.” Zant looked at Erica. Jim saw a hint of glee in his eye. The crazy fuck was enjoying this game. Jim was about to rain on his parade. “I’m afraid his methods may not be as civilized as mine.”
“Nice name.” Gregory Lake snorted. “Those guys piss cash. I hope you charged a premium. Getting her across the border untrained will be a nightmare for the driver.”
“Triple. For that and the fact he wants to inspect her personally before the shipment. That’s why I had you bring him out here.”
“Risky.”
“Profitable.”
Lake sneered down at her. “She looks like shit. I wouldn’t pay seven hundred and fifty for that.”
“This guy did. More, actually. He’s a sick fuck.” Zant took two steps closer to her. Bony fingers locked on her chin. He tilted her head to make sure she was looking at him. He wanted the audience. She closed her eyes. His grip tightened until Erica had no choice but look at him to stop the onslaught of more pain. “You embarrassed me. Cost me a few million in apology money. I have a reputation of being reliable. That’s been strained. Unacceptable.”
He dropped her chin, turned to the fat guy. “Have the boys take her to the others.”
“Knock her out?”
“No.” The answer was fast and firm. “He’ll want to see the fire of her anger, the concern over her sister. Clean up the injuries. Dress her in something … fitting for the occasion. I’ll go entertain Mr. Dubai while you get her ready.”
Erica grunted as Lake yanked her to her feet. He led her out of the offices and to the stairs. Zant lingered and straightened his tucked-in shirt. He took a moment to let them get on down the stairs. He smiled at his reflection in the glass. He wouldn’t be smiling much longer.
They needed a distraction.
Jim backed out. O was in the bathroom. Time for the assessment.
“Four ‘men’—two have the potential for being trouble, two are minions loading the RV. Zant, Lake, and the guest.” O shifted the holster at his waist and unlatched the leather that held it in place. He clicked the safety off the other. “And three girls.”
Zant waltzed past. Jim heard his shoes tapping on the walkway. They waited a full minute before easing back into the empty office and looking over the floor.
Lake had dragged Erica down to the main area and into the RV. It was time to move.
Jim and Oscar made their way to the end of the catwalk over the open floor. Tucked back by a small stairway intended for emergency use only.
Double O stood up straight and pulled his shoulders back. Something cracked. “Outnumbered. Under gunned.” He handed Jim one of the handguns.
“Shame if something happened to one of those expensive cars.”
“Damned shame.”
39
Oscar dangled the reacquired rope over the rail at the farthest reaches of the building, next to a metal-encased elevator, away from the lights and the row of cars. All attention was on the RV, and that made the best opportunity for them to get down there.
“I’ll go first. Then I can catch you.”
O’s voice was so low Jim had to play it back to figure out what was actually said. Once they hit the floor they would go silent. He checked his equipment over one more time to make sure he knew what was tucked where.
He heard some laughter. Zant’s. A slow burn of anger crept up his spine.
Oscar shimmied down the rope and held it taut. Jim slipped his arm out of the sling and left the empty fabric hanging around his neck and back, grateful the drop wasn’t more than a story and a half. Going it one-armed, he slid down faster than he intended. He made it without falling, but the thud and the tiny grunt of pain from his injured shoulder echoed as he hit the concrete floor. O scowled at the loud landing, but he was down. They crept along the wall until they were able to see the far southeast corner of the warehouse floor. All attention was still on Zant and the wealthy Middle Eastern–looking man with him walking down the bill
ion-dollar row of cars. Mr. Dubai, Jim presumed. So named for his country of origin and not his actual surname. Being a pervert was an equal-opportunity gig.
The warehouse was a simple rectangle. They’d come down in the northeast corner behind some industrial equipment stacked near the apparently non-working elevator. The cars were directly across the building, backed against the south wall with a couple of tool chests and a workbench behind them. To the right of the cars, along the west wall, were two big roll-up doors. Luckily, the girls and the RV were situated along there, far enough away from the cars and Jim’s planned distraction. The bay door on the right, closest to another couple smaller offices in that corner, had been left open. One of the offices had a light on, but Jim couldn’t see inside. A few grocery bags and a radio sat on a wood picnic table close to the RV. There were several sleeping bags on the floor and four backpacks. Ready to travel.
The lights at the far east end of the floor had not been turned on, but it wasn’t pitch-black either. Not the best cover. He still had to make sure no one was paying attention as he made his way along the east wall, under the big offices where Zant had been earlier.
Every step seemed to echo like a drum beat in the big empty chamber. Thirty-three seconds to the southeast corner. O worked his way closer in the other direction as Jim crouched and scurried behind the row of cars, stopping beside the workbench.
Zant and his guest had chatted and meandered their way past the cars and over to the RV. Casual. Unaware.
Jim eyed the cars. The biggest of the lot, the Rolls-Royce, was parked in the middle of the row. It was about twenty yards from the men, the girls, and Zant.
He pulled the sling over his head. Unbuckled the long strap.
The traveling sounds worked to his advantage here. Once he approached the Rolls, he was close enough to hear the ex-marine thug guys talking about the need to get the girls across the border in Mexicali around six a.m. The Thin Man was double-checking provisions. Lola and Connie were there along with another unknown girl.
Erica was sitting facing away from him at the end of the picnic table. Zant and his guest were heading her way. The pair were holding drinks and laughing as if they were strolling through a nightclub or restaurant, not about to auction girls off as slaves. Jim had to bite his lip to keep his cool. There were at least six grown men in this room and none of them were the slightest bit offended at the atrocity that was so calmly being committed.
Deep cleansing breath.
Zant and Mr. Dubai were still chatting about the rarity of the fucking race car at the end of the row as they made their way toward the RV. Ex-Marine Thug Guy A grabbed Erica up off the bench. She slumped back down but was now facing him. Closing his eyes, Jim fought visions of gutting the man who was here to buy her. Fuck.
The two men were moving closer.
“She should be awake.”
“Should be.” He nudged her with his knee. “Playing possum.”
Between the cars Jim could see Zant bend to one knee. “I suggest you cooperate, Miss Floyd. You know what happens when my associates are unhappy. Someone pays.”
Jim could see her look up at him, not moving her head but glaring through her loose bangs.
“My friend would like to meet you.” He glanced at Ex-Marine Thug Guy A and gave him a nod.
The thug reacted by cutting her bindings. She flexed her fingers and wrists as blood rushed to her hands, squeezed her fists.
“Get her up.”
She stumbled as she tried to stand on her own. Ex-Marine Thug Guy A held her until she had her balance and then left her to her own means to remain upright.
Erica looked over the man who intended on making her a slave. She held her head high. “What do you want with me?”
He didn’t answer her. He took a long sip from his glass and looked back to Zant. “So she has not had any of your training?”
“As advertised. And she’s a fighter. Her sister was as well. Took us a little longer than normal with her. But you intend on indulging in the … pleasure of her training yourself, so you can make that process last as long as you’d like.” He also took a long drink. “I suggest you not stretch it out too long. They tend to die on you, or worse. We found four weeks is about as much as even the strong ones can take before they become useless.”
They were talking about rape and torture and he shrugged casually, as if they were talking about training dogs or circus animals.
“But then, my friend, that depends on what you wish the final product to be.”
Mr. Dubai left them and sauntered over to the table. Lola was sitting on top of the picnic table, her feet on the seat. She showed no fear. He brushed Lola’s cheek. “I like the nature of the product you have tonight.” Lola was cleaned up and dressed in what would be normal vacation attire. She grinned up at him and opened her legs a bit as if to invite. “Yes. This is acceptable.”
Jim saw Erica bite her lip. He knew her temper. Knew she was struggling with her instincts to rant and fight. Knew she was smart. Fighting at this point would play into Zant’s hand. He had said the client was looking for feisty and untrained. She needed to remain calm, docile. Unappealing to the monster. Jim doubted her ability to do so for long.
“I suggest you don’t extend the training too long, then. I can have my man explain the process in further detail.”
“Not necessary.” Mr. Dubai turned back and slithered his way back to Erica, his tunic dancing around his pant legs. She looked down. Not challenging him, not threatening. “Her look is distinctly American. I like that. However, Mr. Zant, I requested a blonde.”
“And”—Zant shrugged—“she’s not.”
“That should reduce her cost.”
“It did.”
Erica continued to stare at the ground. Her toe was tapping. How mad was she that she was being discounted for having brunette hair? Amazing. But instead of getting angry she started to cry. Jim didn’t know if it was from wondering what Chris had gone through or because she wanted to appear weak. Either way, it worked.
Zant grabbed her chin and made her look up.
Jim dipped the woven fabric strap from the sling onto the gas can he’d slipped off the tool bench. When it was moist, he crept back to the Rolls-Royce. Center car. Far enough away to keep the RV from danger, close enough to cause some havoc. He opened the fuel tank lid and forced the fabric into the pipe. Erica would not be docile for long. It wasn’t in her nature. She’d try, but was going to get herself hurt in a hurry. He needed to act. He shoved at the fabric with a screwdriver, pushing it down into the fuel tank.
“Where is the feisty girl who puked on my twelve-thousand-dollar rug intentionally?”
She shook her head and looked back down, her hands clasped at her waist.
“A shame to put that pretty makeup job Lola did for you to waste. Mr. Dubai here needs to see what his money is buying, Erica.” Her name came off his lips as if he were a lover, sweet, sultry. Jim’s stomach turned. “Be a love and show him for me.”
She didn’t respond.
“Fine.” He turned to Ex-Marine Thug Guy B, who was standing near Lola. “Get the sister.”
The thug jogged behind them to the smaller offices. Jim couldn’t see his eventual destination, but in less than a minute Chris came waltzing out in front of the thug with a bit of stagger. She too was drugged, maybe more than Lola and the others. One side of her face was bruised, and a baggy lime-colored T-shirt hung loose on one shoulder, exposing another bruise.
As Jim watched he realized that Chris was freely going to Zant. No hate, no anger, even no fear. Erica’s face tightened. Her eyes narrowed. Hold on, baby. Jim assessed Chris. The dead look in her eyes made him think back on something Oscar had said when they first met. She may be better off dead.
But Chris was very much alive as she was ushered up to Zant by Ex-Marine Thug Guy B. An empty smile greeted th
e man who had brainwashed her and tortured her. She glanced over at Erica. No recognition. No emotion. It was as if she’d never seen her own sister.
“The baby sister. Blonde.” He pushed Chris’s hair off her face. Ran his thumb over her lip. She glanced over at Mr. Dubai. “The bruising is all but gone, so she is almost ready. She was not picked for her appearance. She was interrupting our process. You could finish off her training.”
“For the money I’m paying you, I want a feisty American girl. I want to beat her into submission myself. A gift to share with my boys.”
“Your sons? Are you fucking insane?” The words were out of Erica’s mouth before she had the sense to stop herself.
Jim cringed and worked the fabric fuse harder. He only hoped O was in place.
40
“Ah.” Zant turned and gestured back to Erica. “There she is. I told you. This one will fight you every step of the way, because she’s smart. Has an advanced degree, experience in banking and finance. She has lived independently for years.”
The man grinned. “Yes. Much to take out of her, then.”
“Acceptable? Seven hundred and fifty, as we agreed?”
Erica started to hit the man. Jim saw one the big guys grab her in time.
“Shut the doors, Broady.”
Jim lit the end of the fabric dangling from the fuel tank of the Rolls. Depending on the amount of gas in the tank, the fire he’d set would make a nice explosion in a matter of a couple of minutes. Timing was subject to the ratio of liquid fuel and vapors in the tank. An unknown. But … boom. He needed to take cover.
He signaled O. The clock was ticking. O was around the northwest corner, on the far side of the RV and the conversation. He should have gotten even closer, unseen, hiding behind the industrial equipment almost as far as the two offices on the lower floor. Jim backed to the corner behind the sturdy workbench. His plan was to come directly at them. Straight across the open floor. A shock-and-awe campaign. The plan may have a few big-assed holes in it, but it was all they had.
