by Hope Anika
“Where...?” she gasped, and he said, “Into the casino,” and led them through an even thicker throng of people, his grip inescapable, and she stumbled along in effort to keep up.
“They’re here,” Eva said calmly, and Wanda glanced back at the crowd, terror surging through her, but she didn’t see anyone. No, it was just tourists and—she slammed into a big, hard unmovable object—a man!— and Wylie’s hand was torn from hers, and she stumbled back in those stupid boots, pulling Eva with her, and tried to remember what Ash had taught her—
A big, brutal fist planted itself squarely in her chest, and pain exploded; her breath punched out of her lungs and she bent over and tried not to vomit. She clung to Eva, trying to stay on her feet, but the man was coming at her again and—
“Motherfucker,” Wylie snarled, and the man before her fell abruptly to his knees. Wylie landed on top of him and slammed the man’s skull into the concrete sidewalk. Blood spattered across the pavement. Someone screamed. The man reared up, and Wylie slammed the guy’s face into the sidewalk again, and then again. After that, the man didn’t move.
Wanda trembled—such easy, brutal violence—and Eva squeezed her hand.
“More,” the girl said.
“Fuck.” Wylie climbed to his feet. “Let’s go.”
And then his hand was wrapping hers, and they were stumbling past another fallen man—there had been more than one?—and running through the crowd lining the street, pushing past picture-taking tourists, concierge and showgirls in full regalia. Wanda gasped desperately for air, dizzy, clinging tightly to Wylie’s rough palm. Then they were beneath the big, round glass pendant lights at the entryway, and Wylie turned abruptly and dragged them past two large stone creatures mounted on raised daises, toward one of three curved blue doors that led into the resort.
“Move,” he urged as they streaked through the door, past the grand, carpeted front desk and into a massive room that glowed blue and gold. The cacophony of noise emanated by the slots was like a drunken toddler with a xylophone.
They flew past rows of blinking machines with feverish-eyed players, past an inner sanctum with tables and roulette wheels and a large man in a burgundy suit who looked at Eva and said, “Hey, she can’t—” but then they were gone, down one hall, then another, twisting and turning until Wanda was certain they were hopelessly lost.
“Where are we going?” she demanded, trying to breathe, her chest an ache that made her eyes water, her heart beating so hard it pulsed in her mouth.
“The only place we can.” Wylie turned down another long corridor.
They ascended a set of stairs, then down another long hall, passing waiters and more concierge, who gave them curious and suspicious looks, but they were gone before any questions could be asked. Another set of stairs—up this time—and suddenly there was a door marked Exit.
“You know this place,” Wanda whispered,
“Good thing, too,” Wylie retorted, shooting her a hard look that made her flush.
Then they were out the door and back into the warm desert night. A brightly lit street greeted them, but there were fewer people, and Wylie turned them right, away from the Strip and led them down the street, sticking close to the line of palms that landscaped the sidewalk.
“They’re close,” Eva said.
Fear closed Wanda’s throat, and she turned to look, but she didn’t see anyone. You didn’t see them before, either. And she didn’t know if she could take another blow like that—
“Here,” Wylie said, and turned them abruptly right again, down a dark, narrow alley, and Wanda’s hand tightened involuntarily around his.
Halfway down the narrow passage, he halted at a nondescript wooden door that appeared to be a back entry into one of the large brick buildings that faced the street. Wanda didn’t know what the building held—probably another casino—but before she could ask, he was lifting his fist and knocking at the door.
Less than a heartbeat later, the door was swung open by a large, broad man with scarred and pitted skin and a thick black braid laced with silver beads. Two slender silver hoops adorned his ears and both of his temples bore odd, circular tattoos. He looked Eurasian, with narrow brown eyes, high cheekbones and a thin, unsmiling mouth. When he focused on Wylie, that mouth became a hard, unpleasant line.
“You owe me,” Wylie said before the man could speak. “You let us in, we’re square.”
The man’s gaze moved to Wanda, lingered, then fell to Eva. He scowled. “Do not be ridiculous,” he said in a thick, disapproving French accent. “This is no place for a child.” He sniffed, as if in affront, and Wanda blinked. Both his words and his manner were cultured, a jarring juxtaposition against his swarthy appearance. “I cannot possibly let this child inside.”
Where had Wylie brought them?
“Better inside than dead,” Wylie said, his voice hard.
The man sighed and shook his head. “She will not like it.”
“She owes me,” Wylie said. “She’ll live with it.”
Who, Wanda wondered, was “she”? And then she thought she probably didn’t want to know.
“One room, just for the night,” Wylie said. “Then we’re on our way.”
For a long moment, the man only stared at him, and Wanda looked back at the entryway to the alley, her heart beating like a drum, her chest throbbing as she waited for the SUV and its occupants to appear. If that happened—
“One night, and we are out of your debt forever,” the man said. “Agreed?”
“Done.” Wylie offered his hand, and they shook on it.
The man turned to Wanda and bowed slightly. “Welcome to The Butterfly Club, mademoiselle.”
“Merci,” Wanda said, and the man offered her a small smile.
“Inside,” Wylie muttered, motioning impatiently with his hands.
“I am Henri,” the man said to Wanda, ignoring him. “Whatever you need, you will ask me.”
“Mais oui,” she replied.
“For fuck’s sake, we’re in a hurry here,” Wylie growled. “Flirt inside, damn it.”
Wanda glanced at him, startled. She reached up and rubbed her aching chest, and his gaze followed the movement and narrowed. She dropped her hand, and when Henri stepped back and swept open the door, she hurried inside, pulling Eva behind her.
“Look at the butterflies,” the girl murmured softly.
They were everywhere. Painted in delicate strokes on the walls; hanging from the high wooden ceiling; woven into the mosaic tile beneath their feet. Even the door Henri swung shut had a large monarch carved into it, its wings inlaid with glittering amber and black onyx.
“This way,” Henri said and led them down the hall. It was a long, narrow space, filled with windowless wooden doors, all of which were decorated by more winged creatures: the garden tiger moth and southern dogface, the zebra swallowtail, the red admiral, and the brilliant mountain blue. The artistry was exquisite, and Wanda would have liked to linger and admire them, but Wylie had captured her hand and was hauling her behind him once more.
They walked the entire length of the hall until they came to the end, where two large teak doors sat. An intricate mass of flowers, vines, birds and more butterflies had been carved into the wood, and when Henri waved a hand before them, the doors slid open, revealing an elevator. Lined in more wood, with a pale marble floor and antique copper buttons.
A large, broad-winged butterfly was painted on the back wall, brilliant violet wings outlined in the palest brown.
“Xerces blue,” Eva said in a subdued tone as they stepped onto the elevator, and Henri shot her a surprised look.
“Oui,” he said. “A favorite of the mistress.”
The Mistress?
Eva reached up a hand and stroked the painted wing. “They’re extinct.”
“Sadly, yes,” Henri agreed. “I think nothing so unique can survive for long in this ugly world.”
Eva looked at him, and for the first time, Wanda saw a flicker of emotion cross the girl’s
face. It looked like...sadness. “Perhaps.”
Wylie scowled at Henri and put an arm around Eva, and even though Wanda still wanted to punch him in the face, she thought it was a kind gesture.
Henri hit the fifth floor button, and they began to ascend, but as they approached the second floor, the elevator began to slow, and Wanda’s heart pounded with painful intensity behind her bruised breastbone.
They would be safe here...right? Wherever “here” was...
Wylie went stock still; his hand tightened around hers when the door slid open, revealing a slender, dark-haired man and his companion, a tiny, curvy redhead dressed in a glittering green sari. The red bindi between her brows winked in the light, and Wanda stared at her in bemusement, wondering—
“Nisha?”
She jerked as if slapped, and her gaze slammed into the black eyes of the man who stood beside the redhead.
Ajmil Patail.
India’s ambassador to Germany, and son of the man to whom she’d once been betrothed. The man she had fled and rewritten her entire existence to escape.
She blinked at him in shock, unable to move, aware of Wylie glancing at her sharply, of Eva suddenly taking her hand, of the blood draining from her face.
Found.
“Nisha...” Ajmil said again and took an abrupt step toward her.
“Fuck off.” Wylie was suddenly between them. “She’s mine.”
And then the doors slid shut, and up they went. Henri was eyeing her in speculation; Eva squeezed her hand. Wylie stared down her, his midnight blue gaze narrow, direct and intent. Seeing too much.
But Wanda only stared blindly at the closed doors, and all of the terror she had buried—so that it would not bury her—flooded through her like a swollen river cresting its banks.
What were the odds that Ajmil would be here, in this place tonight? That she would be here, in this place tonight? That they would come face to face as she ran from a different threat entirely—
“You’ll tell him nothing,” Wylie said to Henri, his voice hard.
Henri only gave him a baleful look. The he turned and offered Wanda a gentle smile. “Do not worry, cherie. You are safe here.”
Wanda nodded woodenly, knowing it wouldn’t matter. Ajmil had recognized her; nothing Henri said would make any difference.
Found. She’d been found.
“Nisha.” Wylie’s mouth was suddenly at her ear, his breath hot as it swept her skin, and Wanda flinched and tried to step away, but his arm slid around her waist and held her easily in place.
“You’re going to tell me who that fucker was,” he said softly. “But not right now. Right now, you need to focus. Eva. You focus on Eva, and you stay with me, and you hold your shit together. We’ve got bigger problems, baby.”
He was right, she thought distantly. The problem of Ajmil Patail would have to be dealt with—there was no escape from that—but here and now, their job was to save Eva Pierce—and themselves—from the men chasing them.
If she failed in that, nothing else would matter.
And any distraction on her part would only endanger Eva—and Wylie—more, and there was no excuse for that, not even the crumbling of her world. There was no time to dwell on Ajmil or the repercussions of their encounter, no time to give into the fear.
So she nodded once, sharply, and the approval that gleamed in Wylie’s eyes made her want to punch him in the face again.
He underestimated her. Every time.
The elevator halted and spat them out into another long, narrow hallway, this one lined by a thick Persian rug in rich blues and dotted by tall glass vases filled with a wild array of flowers. The scent was overwhelming as they moved down the hall: roses and lilacs and spicy, aromatic lilies. More doors lined the hall, but there was only silence to greet them, until halfway down, one of the doors opened and a woman exited.
Wanda halted at the sight of her, jerked abruptly from her state of shock by the fact that the woman was...nude.
Well, not nude, not entirely...but she might as well have been. Clad in only a mesh, pale pink negligee and a pair of spiked red stilettos, the woman pulled the door shut behind her and sauntered down the hall toward them, her breasts swaying, her large, dark brown nipples jutting against the mesh fabric, lewdly accentuating them. Her skin glistened in the warm golden lighting, and at the juncture of her thighs, she was bare.
Wanda gasped and slapped a hand over Eva’s eyes. A stream of disgusted Hindi escaped her.
“Three-twenty-seven’s ready for turn-over,” the woman said to Henri as she got closer. When her gaze turned to Wylie, a broad, warm smile curved her mouth, and she angled toward him.
“Wylie,” she purred as she halted before him—far too close, so close her breasts touched him—and stroked her hands over his shoulders, uninvited. “It’s been too long, sugar. Love the hat. Did you come to give me a ride?”
“Not tonight, Honey,” he murmured.
Wanda’s cheeks burned, and she tried not to look, but it was impossible. Eva yanked her hand away and watched avidly.
“No?” The woman pouted; like the artwork, she was exquisite. Thick, long blond hair, skin like caramel. Full lipped and doe-eyed, her sexuality pulsed from her like the glare of a neon sign. “Are you sure?” She pressed closer; one of her hands slid down, toward Wylie’s—
“Easy, now.” He let Wanda go and caught the woman’s hand, halting her. “I said not tonight.”
Undeterred, the woman wiggled against him. “But I’ve been bad, Wylie. So very, very bad. Don’t I need to be punished?”
“Knock it off,” Wylie said, steel suddenly weaving through his voice, and a sharp, almost painful spear of startling awareness arced through Wanda.
“Oh, yes,” Honey said softly. “Just like that.”
Wanda steered around the lot of them and dragged Eva away. Her heart felt too big, and between the growing ache in her chest, the blinding fear, that woman, and Wylie’s obvious history with that woman... Wanda simply couldn’t take any more.
Nope. Full up.
Behind her, she heard Henri speaking in clipped French. And then Wylie was grabbing her hand, which she tore from his grip with a low, angry growl. She whirled toward him. “This is a brothel! Why would you bring us to such a place?”
“Because no one will look for us here,” he snapped, and she was startled to see a faint red flush bloom across the sharp ridges of his cheekbones. “Because I thought it would be safe.”
Safe—except for the presence of a man who would hunt her to the ends of the earth...
Wanda shook away the thought and glared at him. “It is a bordello!”
“It is necessary,” he grated.
She wanted to scream at him—did he have no respect for her? For Eva? That he would bring them to this place and rub her nose in...in his women?
A brothel!
“Goddamn it,” he rasped. “Don’t you judge me. Don’t you fucking dare.”
Her gaze flew to his, but before she could respond, Henri was there.
“Come,” he ordered, and they obeyed as he led them to the last room on the right, waving a security card in front of the stylized pewter handle to unlock the door. He pushed it open and stared pointedly until all three of them stepped into the room.
“You will not leave this room,” he said sternly.
They stared at him, silent.
“Say it,” he ordered.
“We will not leave this room,” Wanda muttered, the vow making the fear choking her tighten its hold. Eva said nothing.
Henri pointed at Wylie. “You will promise this.”
Wylie held up his hands. “No worries, Frenchie.” He shot Wanda a dark, narrow look that made her spine stiffen, and when he spoke, his tone was more threat than promise.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
CHAPTER
-8-
GenTek Industries
PRIMARY DESIGN PROJECT
—Mission Statement—
Objective: To design through genetic manipulation a viable embryo free from genetic defect while maximizing attributes of superior intelligence, physical strength and form, mental acuity, and longevity. This embryo will be considered a Primary, and will contain the exact DNA coding of all future engineered embryos.
Length: The Project will last the duration of the embryos’ existence.
Testing: Twelve Primary embryos will be created, one every six months for a period of six years. Every successive Primary will be reworked in order to maximize the data learned from its predecessor in effort to eradicate any anomalies or defects. The Primaries will be implanted within carriers with clean medical histories procured through private application. Primaries will be routinely examined and tested and monitored continuously through tracking implants and surveillance.
Non-physiological data will also be collected: IQ levels, social interaction skills and sexual proclivities, as well as any unique skill or talent demonstrated. Any physical deterioration, genetic defect or anomalous behavior in any Primary will also be closely monitored, and if proven too degraded, the Primary will be terminated.
Anticipated Production: Once the formula for a viable Primary has been successfully vetted, GI can begin manufacturing.
Not only will the manufacture of Primaries be highly profitable, it will alter evolution of the entire human species, with each new generation suffering fewer genetic defects, until all chromosomal deficiencies have been completely eradicated from the human species.
“Eugenics,” Ruslan said.
Beside him, Ash snorted. “Stupidity and greed.”
The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence. They sat in the Firm’s conference room, the contents of the file they had pulled from the envelope taped to Joe Pierce’s mirror spread out on the table before them. Just beyond the pile sat The Bandit, silent and unhelpful.
“Perhaps,” Ruslan allowed. “But there is an argument to be made for utilizing scientific knowledge in pursuit of genetic refinement.”
Ash only shook her head. Just when a shadow of a human being lurked in him—as it had when she’d confronted him about his numerous and unacceptable secrets, and she’d witnessed, if only for an instant, an echo of the man who lived within the ice —I will not let you down, words he’d meant, even if she didn’t really believe them—he just ended up rebounding.