by Avery Flynn
The door swung inward on silent hinges.
A vast, dark expanse stretched before them for at least twenty-five feet. The only relief in the shadowy landscape was a small, dirt-caked window at the far corner letting in a strangled ray of light. One entry. One exit. Everything else remained an unknown entity. His toes itched.
“Hurry up,” the girl urged. “They’ll be down any minute to go to lunch.”
A quiet vibration thrummed in the walls—Anders’s private elevator.
Adrenaline pumping, Tony sneaked into the secret room. Sylvie slipped in after him. The door snapped shut, leaving them in the inky black.
Damn, what he wouldn’t do for his night-vision goggles about now.
“Tell me you have a plan for this that doesn’t involve sitting down to a meal first.”
“Smartass.”
“Yeah, I’m like that when I’m locked in a pitch-dark secret room in the lair of the enemy.”
His eyes adjusting to the dark, he made out a desk, couch, and filing cabinets. “It seems to be some sort of office.”
“Why would he need two offices?”
“Must be where he runs his other business.” Tony fished his phone out of his pocket, activated the flashlight app, and took a step forward. The overhead florescent lights flickered, triggered by some sort of motion sensor, he presumed.
The room had a Spartan setup. A desk and chair on one side of the long, narrow room and a leather couch on the other. A six-drawer filing cabinet stood in the near corner.
Sticking close the wall, he checked the corners and blind spots before venturing farther into the secret office, scouting out the whole space. Adrenaline ebbing, he returned to Sylvie.
“If I say run, get your ass out through that window and call Ryder. If you can’t escape, fight like hell until I can get to you. Remember that old FBI beauty pageant movie? Solar plexus, instep, nose, groin.”
She gave him a well-duh look. “I’m a fashion blogger. I have that movie memorized.” She went to the desk, flipped on the computer, and started rifling through drawers. The computer screen blinked on. She glanced at it and gasped.
“What is it?” he asked, coming over to look.
“It’s an Excel spreadsheet. He’s got people’s names listed in one column with…shit, their kinks in another.” She scrolled down. “Oh, my God.” She dropped into the chair. “There’s another list of names, mostly women, and the column next to it shows ages and… prices?”
Prices? As in—
Suddenly, the awful truth hit him square in the gut.
“Fucking hell. He’s a human trafficker.” He’d known the guy was an arrogant asshole, but this—God, he hoped the bastard fried.
Her eyes widened and she stood up abruptly, backing away from the screen as if to get as much distance between herself and the ugly reality.
“He won’t be for long. Not after we get this stuff to the cops. Gather everything you can. We’ll turn it all in as soon as we’re out of here.”
He hurried to the filing cabinets, making quick work of the drawer locks. The first drawer was stuffed with photos of people having sex or getting blown. Judging by the angles and the grainy images, the pics had been snapped using a cheap surveillance camera. Another drawer held a USB drive, which he slipped into his pocket, and old fashioned, handwritten accounting ledgers. Flipping through the pages, he found names, dates, and monetary amounts. In the notes, Anders had scrawled the client’s drug of choice, most often cocaine. Tony thumbed through five books before he hit pay dirt. Keith’s undercover name was listed among the buyers.
Yes!
“Got him,” he growled, and allowed himself a covert fist pump. He had done some questionable things to get here, but if it brought Keith’s murderer to justice, those less-than-honorable actions would be totally worth it.
“Tony, take a look at this.”
Holding tightly onto the ledger, he hustled to the desk. Under a sheaf of papers was a laptop, the cover of which had a distinct scratch.
“Is it yours?” He knew the answer before he asked the question, but a sixth sense reverberated in the back of his skull. Something was off.
“Uh-huh.” Her shoulders shook and she inhaled a wheezy breath.
Instantly alert, he reached for her purse where she’d dropped it in the chair. “Do you need your inhaler?”
She shook her head. “I’m not having an asthma attack.” Her jaw clenched and she squeezed her fists so tightly her knuckles whitened. “I’m just so damn mad right now I could tear Anders apart with my bare hands.”
His chest tightened and guilt rose to clog his throat. The preview of her reaction to his impending confession made his palms sweaty. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
A click sounded.
More light flooded the office.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?” Anders strolled in.
Marvin followed close behind, carrying the pink-haired sales girl. She appeared barely conscious. He stepped in front of his boss and dropped her limp body to the cold concrete floor. She moaned but didn’t try to get up.
Anders spared her an unconcerned glance and then tilted his head at them, a malicious smile slithering onto his lips. “So. I see you two found my happy place.”
Chapter Sixteen
“I will not retire while I’ve still got legs and my makeup box.”
—Bette Davis
Sylvie rushed forward, but Tony circled her wrist, jerking her back before she could plow headfirst into deep shit. In the same move, he took a half step to the side, obstructing Anders’s and Marvin’s view of her. Out of sight and out of mind—he hoped like hell. He prayed the girl on the floor would be okay. But he had to stay focused on the men and, somehow, take them down. He needed to get Sylvie the fuck out of there.
No other outcome was acceptable.
“A pity. For you, that is.” Anders walked farther into the room, crushing the girl’s fingers under his shoe. She didn’t even flinch. “I love being a designer, but it’s my other profession that really makes me feel alive.”
“You goddamn bastard.” Sylvie hurled the words at him, anger thick in her strained voice.
Instead of pissing Anders off, he smiled at the insult.
Marvin loomed by the door, hands clasped behind his back and shoulders straight, his face a blank mask. Former military, Tony figured. Best to target him first. Fast and hard.
Sylvie pushed her way around Tony, stopping shoulder to shoulder with him. “Profession, you call it? You’re not just selling a little blow to some models. You sell people.”
“Bravo.” Anders clapped theatrically. “Let’s see. We have prostitution, a little human trafficking, with a side of drug dealing and blackmail. Which is why I keep such meticulous records.” He waved a hand at the computer. “You know, said that way, it sure does put the harassment complaint you came to bitch about way down at the bottom of the totem pole of bad things, doesn’t it?” He ambled to the filing cabinets. “Of course, it would be harder to manage all of my activities if it wasn’t for my photographic memory. My father thought I was wasting that gift when I enrolled in design school. Little did he know how handy it would become.”
Thank God Anders had an ego the size of the moon, eager to spill all the intimate details of his grand plan. That he was sharing so much didn’t bode well for Tony and Sylvie’s longevity, but at least the more the asshole talked, the more time Tony had to formulate an escape.
The designer crossed to the desk and tapped the cover of Sylvie’s laptop. “I wonder…” He stopped midthought and took another step closer to Sylvie.
The closer Anders came to her, the louder the blood roared in Tony’s ears.
“One of the benefits of a photographic memory is that I never forget a face. Especially not a photographer’s assistant with a totally squeezable ass. Or should I say an undercover cop with a totally squeezable ass…” As Anders turned to Tony, he slid a 9 millimeter Glock from
a shoulder holster hidden under his magenta blazer, and held it casually at his side.
“I’m not a cop,” Tony ground out between his teeth. “Not anymore.”
Ignoring him, Anders spoke in a singsong voice, as if reciting a child’s bedtime story. “I remember how blistering hot it was the day I shot your partner. Even the cats were sweating as they watched from the top of the dumpster in the alley behind Yo! Mein. I’d forced a hulking man to his knees in front of me, and the power rush was amazing. Instead of pulling out my dick—which is what normally happens in that situation—I grabbed my gun, put the barrel flat against his forehead, right next to a large mole above his right eye. He cried when I put my finger on the trigger. Not weeping. No, he was too butch for that. Just a single tear, like a brokenhearted girl in a sappy romance movie.” He paused, drawing out the ugly tale as fury raged inside Tony. “Then boom, his brains were splattered all over the asphalt.”
Tony saw red. Every tendon and muscle begged for action, for the chance to rip Anders’s bones from his body and beat him senseless with his own femur. His peripheral vision turned black. His arms and tightly drawn fists shook with long-denied wrath. Thighs tense, ready to attack, he went deadly cold. He emptied his lungs of air and his mind of distractions.
He could move fast enough to kill the asshole before Marvin even realized what was going down. But then what would he do about Marvin? And if he went for the bodyguard first, he’d be taking a huge chance that Anders would shoot them both before he could get to him.
All shitty options. But they were the only ones he and Sylvie had.
One target.
One move.
One outcome.
The single click of a gun safety being released echoed off the bare cement-block walls. Tony swung around.
“I don’t think so.” Marvin centered the gun’s aim on Tony.
Anders’s brows went up.
Marvin moved like lightning, and in three long-legged steps had his Remington .45 shoved against Tony’s ribs. “This is not the day to be a hero.”
“Oh, didn’t I mention it?” Anders malicious smile widened. “You and the bitch are going to die.”
Tony took a mental step back and made himself assess the situation with cold calculation, as he’d learned at the academy. The bodyguard was fast, but with all that bulk, he wasn’t nimble. Pulling out all the stops for a surprise attack would render him useless. Anders, on the other hand, had crazy on his side.
But Tony had more to lose. Sylvie.
The designer turned a disdainful gaze on her. “Can’t say I’ll miss either of you. Of course, attending your funeral may be a bit awkward, but I think I can bear the burden. I’ll be sure to wear something you’d hate.”
“Sylvie, now! Run!” In one fluid motion, Tony pivoted on his heel, grabbed Marvin’s gun, and shoved the muzzle away from his body.
But instead of escaping as planned, Sylvie grabbed her laptop with both hands and winged it at Anders. It smashed into his nose and blood squirted out like a fountain.
While Anders reeled, Tony sliced his elbow into Marvin’s windpipe, and a split-second later smashed his fist into the goon’s face. Marvin went down like a redwood tree, and stayed down. The gun clanked against the concrete floor.
The sound of Sylvie and Anders struggling penetrated the heartbeat drumming in Tony’s ears, and he dove for the gun. Ignoring the searing pain in his bad knee, he rolled into a half squat, gun in hand, Anders in his sights.
The designer stood, bloodied and battered, with his arm around Sylvie’s waist, his own gun’s muzzle planted on her temple.
Tony’s gut hardened. “Let her go.”
Anders pressed the muzzle hard enough against Sylvie’s head that she whimpered. “You’ll never pull the trigger in time. She’ll die first.”
Doubt crept up Tony’s spine, embedding itself in the secret, dark places of his mind where all his fears resided. His thigh muscles started to quake and the pain in his knee hit fifteen on a ten-point scale.
“Although, you’ve known her for what, a few weeks? It’s not like she actually means anything to you.”
Everything came at Tony in a split second. Lavender perfume. The way she twirled her hair around a finger as she listened to his stories. The look on her face when she’d tasted his gravy. How she talked to herself while typing away on her blog. The way she’d climaxed so hard on his deck, screaming his name. Had it been only a few weeks? It seemed like a lifetime.
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Tony raised the gun, putting the asshole square in its sights, his finger on the trigger. “Sylvie, S.I.N.G. Trust your gut.”
Understanding gleamed in her eye a half second before she drove her elbow deep into Anders’s stomach, then ducked.
He pulled the trigger.
A bang thundered through the office.
A high-pitched scream pierced the air.
The thunk of two bodies hitting the floor reverberated through the room.
Blood pooled around what was left of Anders’s face.
For a heartbeat that lasted a decade, Sylvie—still tangled in the bastard’s grip—didn’t move.
Shit.
Tony dropped to his knees beside her. “Sylvie!”
The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils. A panic he’d never experienced before gripped him by the balls and shook him. Then she opened her eyes. Thank God.
Her voice shook. “Nice advice.”
Blood spattered Sylvie’s cheek and dripped off her jaw. Her face had turned from olive to ghostly white, the normal sparkle of her green eyes dulled by shock.
Something inside him broke.
“My God, where are you hit?” His hands were everywhere, smearing the crimson liquid as he searched for her injury.
“It’s not my blood. It’s—” Her mouth trembled.
Relief flooded through him and lightened his arms. He wrapped them tightly around Sylvie to reassure himself as much as her.
And he didn’t let her go until the cops released them from the scene.
Chapter Seventeen
“Girls do not dress for boys. They dress for themselves, and of course, each other. If girls dressed for boys, they’d walk around naked at all times.”
—Betsey Johnson
Pink water pooled at Sylvie’s feet, besmirching the pristine white shower tile and sparkling silver drain before disappearing down, down, down into the darkness. Water sluiced across her bare skin, steam obscuring the glass door and the view of her bathroom beyond, but still she shivered. Even her bones had goose bumps. She pushed against the slick tile, desperate for something to grasp, to hold on to, to anchor herself on, as the water streaming down her face forced her eyes closed. But the sensory deprivation only heightened the memories.
Cold metal against her temple.
Blood splattering.
Anders crumbling.
His wet gasping death rasp—too much like the one she’d heard on that night so many years ago when her mother had locked her in a closet with Anya. They’d stayed there for what seemed like forever after the loud bang, clinging to each other and too scared to call out for help. Finally, they heard footsteps outside. She’d watched the brass knob turn, hope slicing the Gordian knot in her stomach. It had all been a mistake. The gunshot must have been a car backfiring. She’d squinted against the sliver of light that invaded when the door opened, unable to understand why her mother’s feet were so high up.
“Hey there, girls. We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” The cop had hunkered down to their level, but his smile hadn’t reached his tired eyes. “I’m gonna need you to hold hands and walk as fast as you can to the hallway. Don’t look at the bed. Okay?”
Anya had squeezed her hand so tightly that Sylvie’s knuckles cracked as they emerged into the light. Sylvie hadn’t meant to look, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. She turned her head toward the uniformed men huddled around her mom’s rumpled bed.
Cheap, yellow satin spl
otched with crimson.
Her mother’s green eyes, normally glazed over by whatever drug was fueling her high, stared out, clear and hard.
A pillow sodden with blood, brains, and soiled dreams.
Water couldn’t wash away the images. Anders. Her mom. Sylvie’s own blood-speckled hands.
She slid down the shower wall, too weary to keep the despair at bay.
“Sylvie, you doing all right in there?” Tony’s voice pushed through the closed bathroom door.
Unable to form words over the lump blocking her throat, she let the water flow over her bowed head.
The water stuttered and stopped. Warm, thick cotton enveloped her and strong arms lifted her to her feet. Tony dried her skin and wrapped her in a terrycloth robe and then carried her to the living room and lowered her onto the couch.
He settled in next to her. “Tell me what you need, sweetheart. I can still take you to your dads’. Your sister’s and Drea’s planes won’t be landing until the morning.”
Sylvie shook her head. “Seeing my dads at the store was about all I could take. I need time to get my head together. Thanks again for staying with me. They would have kidnapped me for sure, otherwise.”
“I don’t blame them.” He turned her head away from him and combed through her wet hair with his fingers, gently untangling the knots. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“I’m not.” She melted backward against his strong chest, his heat evaporating the chill clinging to her bones. “I have you with me.”
Tony tensed behind her and his fingers froze against scalp. “Sylvie—”
His hands fell away from her, leaving her damp hair clinging to her head. The cold returned with an inevitable vengeance and seared her with its brutal intensity. Tomorrow she could face all of the ugly. But tonight, she wanted to find hope somewhere in the mess the last few weeks had left behind. She needed Tony, and not just for tonight. Somewhere in the middle of everything, he’d become an anchor to a better version of herself, and she’d realized how much she’d been hiding herself away. What she’d thought was lust had turned into something far more important.