West of Sin

by Wesley Lewis

  He stood and followed Ilya into the hallway, locking the door behind him as he went. Jennifer noticed for the first time that the doorknob was reversed—it locked from the outside and required a key from the inside. In the scheme of things, it made perfect sense.

  She dropped the half-eaten cracker sandwich onto the tray and turned her attention once again to her shackled ankle. The handcuff itself was a lost cause—she couldn’t pick it, and she certainly couldn’t break it—so she focused on the footboard. Might there be some way to disassemble or break the intricate ironwork and slip the other end of the handcuff free?

  She saw that the footboard was a solid mass of welded wrought iron. Her leg would break before the footboard would.

  From somewhere inside the house, a faint but shrill noise made the hairs on her arms stand on end. It was a woman’s scream.

  What kind of monsters—

  She heard it again. But this time . . . This time it sounded almost like . . .

  She heard it once more and realized that it did, in fact, sound like screams of pleasure.

  She heard the doorknob and rolled back toward the tray of food. She was reassembling her half-eaten cracker sandwich when Dudka reentered the room.

  “My apologies,” he said, “but my dear friend Ilya was just updating me on the preparations for tomorrow’s activities. I wasn’t aware of the lateness of the hour. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave soon, which is truly a shame because I had hoped to get to know you a little better. I make very few new friends in my line of work.”

  “So stick around,” said Jennifer, worried that whoever replaced him as her guard might not be quite so . . . polite.

  Dudka smiled. “I wish I could, but I’m afraid I must oversee the final stages of this operation myself. My underlings have made too many mistakes already, and I simply can’t afford any more.”

  Jennifer wasn’t sure what he meant, but she nodded anyway.

  Dudka sat on the corner of the bed and placed a hand on her leg, an almost paternal gesture lacking any hint of sexuality. “We have a few more minutes before I have to go,” he said. “Tell me a little bit about yourself. Who is Jennifer Marie Williams?”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  When she was done wiping down her nether regions, Scarlett balled up the old towel and tossed it back into the pile of laundry where Sasha had found it.

  He sat on the bottom step, buckling his belt.

  The show had been a bit too theatrical for Crocker’s taste—too much screaming and moaning. Scarlett was a skilled actress, but her act was geared toward lonely men who wanted to believe.

  To Crocker’s left, Larry had made no apparent effort to either watch the spectacle or avert his eyes. He’d paid it no more attention than one might pay an obnoxious TV commercial.

  Scarlett pulled up her sweatpants and smiled at her hulking former lover. “How did you enjoy the show, Lare-Bear?”

  Larry shrugged. “I’ve seen it before.”

  “Not from that angle, you haven’t.”

  He chuckled. “I’m sorry to burst your bubble, sweet cheeks, but guys who date whores don’t get jealous when the whores fuck other guys. It comes with the territory.”

  Scarlett glared at him.

  He continued, “I’ve been in the business for a lot of years, and I’ve dated a lot of working girls. Do you really think you’re the first one I’ve seen with another man’s cock in her?”

  Scarlett looked ready to tear out Larry’s throat.

  Something in her eyes set off an alarm inside Crocker’s head. Without thinking, he called out, “Scarlett!”

  Her furious eyes homed in on him. He’d spoken reflexively, with no plan, hoping to turn her attention away from Larry. Now he worried that if he didn’t think of something to say, he might become the target of her rage.

  “Tell me something,” he said. “What are you getting out of this? What is Dudka paying you?”

  She stared at him for a moment. Then the corners of her lips turned upward, transforming her sneer into a shallow smile. “Just a small finder’s fee.” Her smile widened. “One point two million dollars.”

  This time it was Sasha who chuckled.

  “What?” she snapped.

  Sasha simply shook his head and laughed again.

  “One point two million?” asked Crocker. “You think Dudka is going to pay you one point two million dollars for helping him retrieve eight hundred thousand?”

  Scarlett scowled. “No, dipshit, he’s going to pay me one point two million dollars for helping him steal six million.”

  It took Crocker a moment to process this. Then it was his turn to laugh. “You think I’m going to steal six million dollars from a poker tournament?”

  Scarlett clenched her jaw. “Five hundred players at ten thousand apiece and a million in the glass vault—that’s six million dollars. Twenty percent of six million is one point two million.”

  Crocker could no longer control his laughter. He was in his current predicament because Scarlett the harlot was good at basic math but bad at basic logic. Both Larry and Sasha had also succumbed to full-blown fits of laughter.

  Scarlett’s eyes darted from man to man. “What?” she screamed. “What is so damned funny?”

  Crocker brought his own laughter under control, and the other two, apparently wanting to hear his explanation, followed suit.

  “The thing is,” he said, “fewer than half of the contestants pay by cash. And the glass vault in the center of the gaming floor is impenetrable. The sides are eight-inch-thick bulletproof glass, and it’s surrounded by six heavily armed guards, with two more on standby in the cash cage. And that doesn’t count the usual security officers stationed in the room and throughout the rest of the casino. It’s more heavily guarded than a presidential motorcade.”

  “What does that mean? You mean you’re only going to get . . .” She paused and squinted her eyes. “Two and a half million?”

  Crocker shook his head. “A million dollars at the absolute most.”

  Sasha tried to contain his laughter. Larry did not.

  Crocker continued, “At random intervals during registration, one of the vault managers brings us a fresh cash cart. Then we escort him as he takes the partially filled cart back to the vault. Once the money is in the vault, it’s gone forever. The U.S. Army couldn’t penetrate a casino vault.”

  He could see the wheels turning behind Scarlett’s eyes as she did the math.

  A stricken look crossed her face. “So you’re saying that the most I’ll get is two hundred thousand?”

  “If you’re lucky.”

  She shot Sasha a look. “You knew about this?”

  Sasha recoiled a bit. “I know casinos. I know they don’t leave six million dollars for bored security guard to steal.”

  “But I said—”

  “You say that man who cost us money has plan to steal it back. We promise you finder’s fee. You never say six million dollars; we never say one point two million dollars. You make assumptions.”

  She glared at him.

  He leaned forward and added, “Two hundred thousand is good money. If you don’t want it, give it to me.”

  Scarlett shot him a look. “I make more than that in a year at the Pear.”

  Larry laughed again. “Not anymore, you don’t.”

  Scarlett slowly pivoted toward him.

  He continued, “If it makes you feel any better, think of it as your severance pay.”

  Scarlett’s gaze came to rest on her former boss-cum-lover. The look in her eyes scared Crocker.

  Larry didn’t see it. He was balled up in laughter at his own joke. Sasha was laughing too.

  Crocker didn’t think either of them would be laughing if they could see Scarlett’s eyes.


  Still looking down, Larry said, “Maybe you should charge your friend there for that freebie you just gave him.” He fought back laughter as he spoke. “In fact, maybe you should ask him if he’s ready to go again. It sounds like you’re going to need the money.”

  Scarlett’s hands balled into fists.

  “But could you do me a favor?” asked Larry as he raised his gaze. “Could you face another direction? I’m not sure I can stand another three minutes watching his hairy balls bounce off your cottage cheese ass.” His last word trailed off as he saw the look in Scarlett’s eyes.

  She took a long step toward him and swung her right foot forward like a field-goal kicker. He tried to move his head to the side, but it was too late. Her instep connected with the underside of his jaw and sent a spray of blood across the room as his head jerked violently backward.

  He slumped to his right, not unconscious but not fully conscious. Crocker looked to Sasha, hoping the Russian would intervene, but Sasha just sat there in wide-eyed surprise.

  Before anyone could say anything, Scarlett took another step forward, raised the opposite foot, and brought it straight down on Larry’s face. His nose snapped to the right and gushed blood. As if spurred on by the sight of blood, she let loose a flurry of kicks and stomps, beating him mercilessly about the head and chest.

  Crocker looked pleadingly at Sasha and yelled, “Do something!”

  The young Russian, perhaps fearing retribution if he lost a hostage, jumped to his feet and lunged at Scarlett. He grabbed her by the shoulders, pinned her arms behind her, and dragged her—legs still flailing—away from the bloody mess that had been Larry Chappell.

  Crocker looked at Larry’s limp body and noted with some relief that his old friend was still breathing. Barely.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Under normal circumstances, small talk came easily to Jennifer. But these circumstances were far from normal. She wasn’t sure if Dudka was genuinely interested in her life or simply killing time.

  Perhaps he’s deciding how to market me to potential buyers, she thought as he rattled off one mundane getting-to-know-you question after another.

  She felt as though she were on the world’s most uncomfortable speed date. The man who’d ordered the death of her boss and tried to sell her friend into sex slavery and who somehow knew her middle name now wanted to know about her interests and aspirations.

  “Is that too personal?” he asked.

  Jennifer realized she’d missed his last question. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I asked how it is that a beautiful woman like you is still single at your age.”

  Beautiful? she thought. You mean despite all those “city miles”?

  She shrugged. “Unlucky at love, I guess.”

  Dudka offered a sympathetic smile. “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride?”

  His overly friendly tone made her cringe. She swallowed and said, “Something like that.”

  “All those years without a marriage proposal, watching your friends start families, that must be difficult.”

  For a brief moment, she contemplated trying to kick him in the head with her free foot. Such an action would certainly invite harsh retribution, but that almost seemed preferable to continuing the current conversation.

  Dudka waited patiently for an answer.

  Finally, she said, “I was married once. Briefly.”

  “Really?” He uncrossed his legs and leaned in closer. “Why didn’t it last? Was he a philanderer? Abusive?”

  “No.” The urge to kick him grew stronger. “It was nothing like that.”

  “Then what?”

  Jennifer sighed. “I was about to turn thirty. I was feeling a little desperate. I said yes when I should have said no.”

  He nodded as if this made perfect sense. “In my line of work, I run across a lot of women who say yes when they should say no.”

  Jennifer wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a joke. She didn’t respond.

  “Was it a painful divorce?” Dudka asked.

  Jennifer shrugged. “He was in love. He didn’t take it very well when I told him I wasn’t.”

  “He made it difficult for you?”

  “You could say that.”

  “How?”

  “He made sure the people in our lives, even my own family, understood that I was the one who’d given up on the marriage. Most of our friends sided with him. Some haven’t spoken to me since.”

  “How long ago?”

  Jennifer thought for a moment. “Nine years, almost to the day.”

  “To the day?”

  She nodded. “He made sure the hearing fell during my annual real estate conference in Las Vegas. I had to choose between letting the judge rule in my absence or taking a forty percent pay cut for the year.”

  “Which did you choose?”

  “On the advice of my lawyer, I attended the hearing. In fourteen years as a commercial Realtor, that’s the only conference I’ve missed, until now.”

  Dudka chuckled. “Your current predicament must make you nostalgic for divorce court.”

  “I suppose. Maybe.”

  She was vaguely aware that Dudka was attempting to say something profound about love, but she’d tuned him out. She was thinking about Crocker and the way she’d treated him on their walk back from the airfield. Perhaps there was a reason she was still single.

  A loud knock on the bedroom door cut her self-loathing short.

  Dudka turned toward the door. “Yes?”

  From the other side, Ilya said, “It’s time.”

  “Thank you, love.” Dudka rose to his feet and offered Jennifer a polite smile. “It has been a pleasure getting to know you, and if we do not meet again, I want to thank you for being such good company.”

  Jennifer didn’t reply.

  He walked to the door and glanced back before stepping outside. “If I might offer a word of advice—your chaperone for the remainder of the day will be young Jesse, whom you met ever so briefly when we arrived. He’s a good soldier, but his manners, particularly with the ladies, are sometimes lacking. You might want to be a bit more discreet in how you lounge about in that short dress of yours.”

  Without waiting for a response, he stepped out of the room and locked the door behind him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Between Ilya’s constant lane changes and the foul odor in the back of the van, the only thing keeping Crocker from throwing up was the fact that he had nothing in his stomach. He’d managed perhaps two hours of sleep chained to the support column. A few minutes after Sasha had dragged Scarlett from the basement, Ilya had returned to assess the damage. He’d walked to the bottom of the stairs, taken one look at Larry, and left, turning out the lights as he went.

  Crocker didn’t remember dozing off, but he’d awoken to a dull pain in his shoulders and a sour taste in his mouth. He’d sat in the dark for perhaps an hour more, listening to the gurgling sound of Larry’s breathing. Finally, Ilya and the fat little American had returned with a meager hodgepodge of toiletries and waited as he did his best to make himself presentable.

  The collection of hygiene products had consisted of a pink disposable razor, an almost-empty tube of toothpaste, and a stick of women’s deodorant. Without the luxury of a toothbrush, soap, or even water, Crocker had improvised, brushing his teeth with his finger and slathering on the deodorant as a weak substitute for a shower. He’d had difficulty getting the well-used Bic Lady Shaver to do its job, but the fat American had solved the problem by tracking down a bottle of sex lube and instructing him to use it like shaving cream. In the end, the sex lube had served as not only shaving cream but hair gel.

  Crocker rode alone in the back of the windowless cargo van. He was pretty sure Ilya was alone in
the cab. It seemed that the rest of Dudka’s men were otherwise engaged. Aside from Ilya and the fat American, the only person he’d seen during the walk to the garage—including a brief stop at a disgusting bathroom where he’d been allowed to use a toilet that wouldn’t flush—was Scarlett, who was sleeping on a couch near the entrance to the basement.

  He’d paused beside her and thought, One swift kick to the throat would save them the trouble of cheating her out of her finder’s fee.

  Ilya made another sudden lane change, and Crocker tumbled to his left. He righted himself and noted that he was now sliding toward the front of the van rather than the back. They were on the downhill side of the pass.

  Halfway there. If I’m going to think of a way out of this, I’d better do it fast.

  He surveyed his surroundings once more. He’d already confirmed that there was no way to open the cargo door from the inside, and he’d failed to locate any exposed wiring. Of course, neither the door nor the wiring was a truly viable option. The standard tips for somebody trapped in the trunk of a car—tips he’d taught in hundreds of self-defense courses—didn’t apply here. The problem wasn’t that the back of a cargo van was so different from a car trunk; the problem was that escaping, disabling the vehicle, or attracting the attention of a passing police cruiser would condemn Jennifer to death. He had nothing more than a vague description of the inside of the house where she was being held. He knew that it had a basement and that it was somewhere in the Pahrump Valley—not nearly enough information to help the police find her before Dudka’s men turned her into cactus fertilizer.

  If they haven’t already.

  He was developing a case of the shakes.

  Get a grip, he thought. Of course she’s still alive. Killing her would be a waste of valuable merchandise.