Unchained

by Roze, Robyn

  The en suite bath’s closet, again, checked out empty. Standing in the center of the spacious bedroom, he slowly circled in place, looking with refreshed eyes for any clue. His instincts told him he was missing something important right in front of him. But what?

  He stopped moving and stared into the bedroom’s walk-in closet. He had left the door open after looking inside on his first sweep of the place, but now felt an urgency to recheck the one-hundred-square-foot space.

  The senator’s few shirts and pants hanging above two pairs of shoes left the closet hardly filled. What was he missing? At that moment, the hair on the back of his neck soldiered to attention. An object tucked out of the way in a corner drew his attention: a large trunk stood on end, padlocked. He hadn’t given it much attention earlier. Now he did.

  As he approached the harmless looking box, four rows of six one-inch holes drilled at the top warned him it was doubtful there was anything innocent about the trunk. Then, peering through the deliberate holes, the monstrous truth revealed itself: the wide, fearful eyes of a girl stuffed inside.

  After picking the lock, Marcus opened the trunk and tried to coax the girl out.

  She wouldn’t budge.

  “English?” he asked, as he kneeled near her.

  Only her mistrust of him, probably any man, answered back in the tremble of her bruised, naked body and frightened eyes.

  “I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help you,” he said, hands up, making no attempt to touch her.

  In an instant that seemed to unfold in slow motion, he read the intensifying fear and sudden shift of her brown eyes above his stooped position. Sensing a body behind him, the muzzle of a gun about to press against the back of his head, he reacted on instinct with the lethal force of his training. Feet pivoting, he twisted around and redirected the gun with one hand, rounds echoing into the ceiling. Then he leaped to his feet, knife yanked from his ankle sheath with his free hand, and plunged with rapid-fire strokes into his opponent’s gut below where any concealed vest could protect him. Taking control of the gun, he aimed and fired a kill shot to the assailant’s head.

  “Black! What’s goin’ on in there!” Reece yelled into his earpiece, no doubt in response to the distinct pop of gunfire inside the residence.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you warn me Ong wasn’t alone?” he spat into the mic.

  Walking to the closet opening, he stood stock-still, ear tweaked for anything that would indicate the dead man had backup following behind him.

  “Doesn’t matter now ‘cuz company’s comin’. We’ll stop ‘em before they get to you.”

  Marcus shook his head in disgust, then looked back at the terrified girl. Fuck. Their time was up. They had to leave. How? Throwing her over his shoulder was the last thing he wanted to do.

  “Target secured,” he said into the mic.

  “Copy that.”

  Yanking one of Dixon’s dress shirts off its hanger, he tossed it to the girl.

  “More like him are coming,” he warned, pointing back at the blood-soaked body. “We have to go. Now.”

  No longer appearing to fear him, she scrambled into the oversized shirt and padded after him into the hallway, bare feet against cool marble flooring. She tugged at his arm. “More,” she said in a plea, pointing in the opposite direction.

  “We have to go,” he said, trying to pull her along.

  “No. Please,” she begged, breaking away and darting down the hall in the opposite direction, “More,” she shrieked, sprinting down a second set of stairs.

  “Oh, shit,” Marcus complained, as he set off after her.

  He caught up to her as she rounded a corner and fled into the library. He had already cleared it and every other room. What could she possibly show him?

  He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a built-in bookcase set ajar in the room, fluorescence haloing the surrounding gap. There had been no secret door open when he scouted it earlier.

  The girl disappeared behind the newfound doorway.

  Marcus moved with reluctance toward it, looking back over his shoulder for good measure before continuing forward. This vital detail had been missing in the blueprints he studied, which were the same design plans approved by the building and construction authorities. Standing at the top of stairs leading down to a secreted basement, he glanced back into the library one last time. The girl’s hysterical cries propelled him down the steep concrete steps to where she stood, pointing into a room, her words frantic.

  Standing beside her, he understood why Reece and his men had believed the home to be clear except for Ong. The gutted bastard with a bullet in his brain upstairs had been down here running this circle of hell, undetected. Two girls, bloodied and bruised, laid strapped on steel tables, instruments of torture nearby. He wasn’t sure they were even alive. But the girl who led him down here was shaking them, trying to wake them.

  He scanned the room. Surveillance monitors showing multiple feeds inside and out hung mounted and live streaming on one wall. But the freak had likely been distracted from the feed—until a short time ago—while running the horror show that would be forever burned in Marcus’ memory. Jesus Christ. He forced down the bile burning his throat from the depravation displayed under the glare of surgical lights. Then he spotted the cameras positioned overhead to record the sadism; no doubt, to be sold in an underground market for this kind of sick shit. Whimpers and pained moans drew his attention to the two bound girls. How had they survived?

  How many more had there been…?

  Marcus shook away the disturbing thoughts and pressed the mic. “We’ve got multiple extractions.” The words felt like sandpaper in his throat. “And we’re gonna need a medic.”

  Chapter 24

  Once Dixon complied with Sean’s demands, they had walked to an alfresco bar located waterfront near the event plaza on the upper boardwalk. The trendy bar sat atop its companion restaurant of the same name, Caffé B, a fusion of Japanese and Italian cuisine and atmosphere, with its main entrance below on the galleria level at The Shoppes in Marina Bay Sands.

  As previously arranged, Mick had secured a strategic position in the bar for Sean, a high, two-top table giving him an unobstructed view of both the nighttime foot traffic along the promenade and patrons milling around inside the bar. A stairwell leading down to the restaurant dining space also lay in his sights; the exit Mick had used, unnoticed by Dixon, when he blended with a group being escorted downstairs by the hostess.

  At present, Mick would be clearing the planned route, impairing cameras, and securing necessary exits so Sean could maneuver Dixon out of Marina Bay Sands under the noses of the people paid to protect him.

  Watching Dix drink his Glenfiddich, Sean felt the familiar hum of surging adrenaline and the definitive snap of clarity that always spiked when a mission’s end was within his reach—his target now breathing the same air across from him, a monster disguised in the husk of an honorable man. One who had occupied an elusive realm of privilege and unaccountability for far too long.

  That would end tonight.

  Decades of unchecked degeneracy had spoiled Graham Dixon, made him lax when he should have been vigilant, emboldened him when he should have been restrained. Most reckless of all, he had failed to heed the grumblings of those in his own orbit who disapproved of his rumored vile perversions.

  But Sean had heard them.

  “Retiring from politics was a big mistake,” Sean said, direct and unsympathetic, bringing a tumbler of club soda to his lips.

  Dixon eyed him with a mixture of contempt and interest, swirling the remainder of single malt Scotch in his glass. He gulped it down and signaled the server for another. “How do you figure?”

  “Easy. You no longer have what they want: power and influence.”

  He scoffed, looking unconvinced. “Who’s they?”

  Sean held his response while the senator’s empty glass was replaced with a fresh one. Then he leaned on the t
able. “The people after you now. They wouldn’t have targeted a sitting senator.”

  He considered Sean’s analysis.

  “What about you?” He sipped his refreshed drink, eyeing Sean with suspicion over the rim.

  I’ve been waiting too.

  “I never wanted or needed your power or influence. I have my own.”

  Dixon chuckled at the ballsy comment, then turned stone-faced. “You answer to some heavy hitters to pull off the things you’ve done.” He let his shrewd assessment settle between them for a moment. “Maybe you didn’t want my power and influence, but you needed someone’s. That means you’re still somebody’s bitch.”

  Each man held the other’s hate-filled glare.

  “That’s always been your problem, Dix. You only see what you believe.” Sean paused. “We had a deal to stay out of each other’s way. Yet, you sent a punk to track me. Sent your animals after my wife. All because you couldn’t shoulder the fallout from the Morales shakeup. And now you expect me to clean up your mess.”

  “Your hands are already dirty from that mess. I just can’t lift your prints—yet.”

  “You don’t have the time to waste trying.”

  The senator seemed to strain against an unseen barrier that prevented him from lunging across the small table. “You broke our agreement when you took the Morales job.” Dixon’s fist landed hard on the tabletop. “You started this. Not me.”

  Sean ignored the attention Dix’s outburst caused. “You need to let that shit go and focus.” Sean eased forward. “You need to worry about the deal that’s on the table tonight. You need to ask yourself why I’d even agree to help you, when it would be so much easier to let your current problem just run its nasty course,” his fingers tapped on the table like a countdown clock, “right to its deadly end.”

  A sheen of perspiration dotted Dixon’s high forehead. “Make this go away and the slate’s clean,” Dixon muttered, teeth clenched.

  Sean let the senator stew, deciding to make him sweat a little longer.

  “Why the death wish?” Sean asked after a few moments.

  The senator looked confused by the question.

  “I know you offered to hand me over to Morales’ cousin,” Sean said.

  Dixon’s jaw fell slack at the keen insight.

  Sean continued. “Then you completely lost your fucking mind and went after my wife.”

  “I needed to get your attention.”

  “You’ve got it. Sure you want it?”

  “I’m here,” he answered, gruffly. “Why are you?”

  Sean guarded his answer for a moment. It was time to set the stage.

  Smoke and mirrors.

  Truth and lies.

  “I’m playing the odds, betting you’ll pay me more to save your life than they’ll pay me to end it.”

  Stunned recognition deepened the worry on Dixon’s face. “You son-of-a-bitch. You set me up so you could play both sides.”

  Sean sat silent, letting his foe reel from the gut punch of his worst fears, realized; true or not, it was at least not the side Dixon presumed.

  “So this is a shakedown. If I pay you, you’ll pin the order for Morales’ hit on someone else. Is that it?”

  “You make it sound so easy. How’d trying to pin it on me work out for you?”

  “Motherfucker,” he spat under his breath.

  “Motive and means; the stink of guilt,” Sean said, goading him. “Clearing you will take work.”

  Fisted hands on the table, knuckles white with strain, a vein at Dixon’s temple pulsed an angry beat.

  “But I can do it. You know that. The only question is: can you afford me?”

  “You piece of shit,” Dixon muttered. He remained silent for a moment, apprehensive. “How do I know you won’t double-cross me?”

  Sean edged closer for Dixon’s ears only. “Think of it like that sick game I’m sure you still play with girls. The one where you give them two equally terrifying choices and then force them to pick one…” Their eyes connected. “How’s it feel?”

  Dixon sank back in his seat, his breathing shallow, skin pale.

  In no hurry, Sean finished his drink, then tossed a lifeline. “We don’t have to like each other to work out a deal. Sworn enemies transact business all the time. You know my win-loss record. I won’t fail.”

  The senator’s tight set jaw and wary expression remained intact. “You expect me to outbid them.”

  “There won’t be a bidding war. This isn’t a negotiation. Just like there won’t be a partial payment now, balance later bullshit. If you had a better option, you wouldn’t even be talking to me. That means you’re paying me up front.” Sean reached into the pocket inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper, then pushed it in front of Dixon. “You will transfer these amounts,” he pointed on the page, “to these accounts. And you will do it right now, while I listen. Then I’ll make a call to confirm that the transfers are complete.”

  Dixon gaped at the numbers on the page, shaking his head in obvious disbelief. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he mumbled.

  “I’m your only ticket off this island—as a free man.”

  The ominous sounding threat cleared the sticker shock from Dixon’s eyes. “What the hell is that supposed mean?” Dixon braced for the answer.

  “It means you’re paying for two jobs. Your problems are much bigger than the Morales cartel. You would know that if you’d been paying attention. Lucky for you, I have been. I’ve heard the chatter. I know what’s coming your way.”

  The senator huffed at the arrogant statement. “Who the hell do you think you’re dealing with? I have my own intel. You and this fucking Morales fiasco are the problem, the only problem. You’re trying to manufacture some new crisis I need to pay you a premium to fix. That’s mighty convenient.” Expression smug, arms crossed over his chest, Dixon looked like a man back in control. “Is this your game now? Set up a mark and sell yourself as the only one who can make the mess—you created—disappear.” He shook his head with a snort of disdain. “You must have fallen on hard times to try this lowlife shit on someone like me. That new wife draining your accounts?” he said, his tone mocking. “Happens to the best of us.” He finished his drink, a sneer twisting his face.

  Times like this required action, undeniable proof. Words were too limited to deliver the force of a knockout punch. Sean pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. He had previewed the video file on it in the minutes before meeting Dixon tonight. He tapped the screen, then turned it to Dixon, audio off. The muted video recording showed a closet, an empty travel trunk, a dead body, and a dresser with the senator’s passport. The finale: the basement horror show.

  Dixon looked like he might vomit. “What the fuck have you done?” The fearful words had barely moved his lips.

  “The right question is: who in your circle wants to bring you down? It looks to me like you have some friends who aren’t as loyal or tolerant as you believe…” His words trailed off, allowing Dixon time for a mental scroll through the long list of plausible names. “For a man with so much to hide, you’ve been sloppy, Dix. If you’d been paying attention, you would’ve known about this. You could’ve stayed ahead of them.”

  Sean returned the phone to his pocket and leaned forward. “I have been paying attention. That’s why my people are awaiting word from me to erase the evidence of your stay there, or leave it and walk away—before the authorities your friends alerted sweep in and raid the place.”

  Dixon swiped away the sweat beaded above his brow and tugged at his collar. He looked like a man running low on oxygen.

  “You’re in a tough spot. Who do you trust?” Sean angled closer. “I’d rethink anyone you consider a friend. Men like us don’t have those. Not really. That’s why you’re sitting here about to choke on your own tongue, ready to deal with someone you consider an enemy. Because for the right price, men like us work out deals with our enemies all the
time. It’s how we survive. That’s my angle. What’s theirs?”

  Sean picked up the paper and dangled it in front of Dixon’s face, then released it, letting it drift back down onto the table. “My offer expires the second I leave here without deposit confirmations.” He waited a beat. “Your top-notch crew of has-beens can get you out, right? The same flunkies who’ve done nothing but drain your wallet like blood-sucking leeches, while the Morales gang, and others, get within striking distance of you—just like I did tonight.”

  He let Dixon brood for a moment.

  “When that happens, your hacks and everyone who’s ever rubbed shoulders with you will scatter like cockroaches in light—your life and legacy destroyed—when your Morales connections, and your sadistic pastimes are exposed to the world.” Sean held his words for a moment, relishing the manifest fear of a man who had caused so much of it himself. “The curtain’s about to open on all of it. If you don’t disappear for a while, you’ll be spotlighted on stage with your dick hanging out. Then your problems will run so deep even I won’t be able to get you out. For any amount. And, believe me, I’ve considered doing nothing. Just sit back and enjoy the show. You deserve it. But I’d prefer fat bank accounts padded with your money, instead.” A lie, but one the greed-driven senator would believe and appreciate. Even though, unknown to Graham Dixon, his money would never again taint Sean’s accounts.

  However, the contacts awaiting those deposits adhered to a different code.

  Visibly shaken, the senator’s panic felt tangible from Sean’s front-row seat.

  Face red with anger and dread, Dixon challenged him. “Maybe I’d be better off taking my chances.”

  Sean shrugged off the bluster. “I’m getting paid either way.”

  Hatred swelled between them, palpable and acrimonious, both men reliving the memory of the same moment in their repugnant history. The last time they were this close, Sean had had to make a split-second decision: kill Dixon or save a trafficked girl, disposable inventory to men like the one seated across from him. He never doubted his decision that moonless night in a deserted building Dixon had rigged to implode. He only regretted the lack of time to accomplish both objectives.