Whitewater (Rachel Hatch Book 6)

by L T Ryan

  The landing itself was nothing more than a two-tiered scaffolding, not much different from those used for external repairs of buildings. The only glaring difference was this one had a large black sheet covering the crossed support bars underneath. A power strip poked out from underneath its mess of wires, looking like Medusa on a bad hair day, and spread out from the multi-socket outlet.

  A sweaty male wearing a yellow mesh tank top, an homage to the outfits of the 80s big hair rock bands seemed a bit out of place amidst the crowd of hip partiers. He didn't seem to mind, partly due to the inebriated state he was in. He swayed more obnoxiously than Hatch had during her little act in the kitchen area. He gripped one of the support bars of the scaffolding, clutching it for dear life with one hand while eyeing the large plastic cup in the other hand that had gotten him to his current state. In the man's intoxication, Hatch saw opportunity.

  Shooting a quick glance in the direction of the doorman outside the VIP lounge, Hatch confirmed his attention was elsewhere, on a large chested twenty-something bouncing in his periphery. The loud Americans who had been acting like fools in line moseyed up to the distracted bouncer. She couldn't make out what the tallest male in their group was saying, but the slow deliberate shaking of the guard's head told Hatch the request, presumably to gain access to the VIP area, was off limits. Fanning a wad of cash at the bald bull of a man only seemed to strengthen the resistance.

  Bald Bull released his folded-arm, tough-guy stance, opting for a looser, albeit less imposing, stance. Hatch watched as the bouncer's right hand curled into a ball. The loud-mouthed American wasn't paying attention, turned to his friends and laughed. The American crumpled a dollar bill and tossed it over his shoulder. The wadded cash bounced off the shiny bald head of the infuriated door man.

  The tall American never saw it coming. Bald Bull's rage spilled over, and although outnumbered five to one, hurtled his bowling ball sized fist at the back of the man's turned head. The impact flattened him against one of his friends. A churning swirl of wildly swinging arms followed as another pocket of violence erupted inside the club.

  Bald Bull stood his ground against the crew of angry tourists. Several of the nearby locals jumped into the fight as the four bouncers who'd been celebrating now forced their way back through the crowd toward the latest melee.

  The rumble continued as the tide shifted dramatically in the favor of the raging Bald Bull when his numbers increased by the arrival of the other bouncers. Devastating blows were delivered by the professionals, pummeling the younger, less experienced Americans into the ground.

  Only ten feet separated Hatch from the unguarded door to the VIP access door and the chaotic free-for-all taking place in front of it. Using the unexpected disturbance to her advantage, Hatch slipped the full beer from the mesh-wearing drunk's hand. The amber liquid splashed down onto the power strip below.

  A loud popping followed by crackling. The sound of the electrical fire replaced the blaring techno music. Acrid smoke rose in front of the DJ platform as the fire rippled along the network of cords until it reached the wall. In a matter of seconds, the wall behind the turntable, the same one where the VIP access door was located, ignited.

  Fire licked its way up the wall. The topless girl next to the teal haired disc jockey screamed. Her pitched screech sent those in earshot into a frenzy of movement. Hatch was momentarily swept up in a sea of panicked bodies. She swam against the flow, and after wedging her way through, found herself at the VIP access door.

  Bald Bull delivered a final devasting blow to the already unconscious American. He was now busy fending off the panicked crowd who saw the VIP room as an escape from the inferno. Nobody noticed when she checked the knob. Locked. She saw a key attached to a lanyard on Bald Bulls right hipline.

  The fire tripped the circuit breaker and power went out as the overhead sprinkler system activated. Hatch felt the relief of the cold water raining down on her as she used the darkness to close the gap with the bald headed security man.

  Hatch swept Bald Bull's legs out from under him. A quick stomp to side of the downed man's shiny head ended the fight. She pulled the lanyard and unlocked the door.

  In the ensuing chaos, Hatch slipped into the VIP area undetected.

  Sixteen

  Hatch clicked the door closed behind her and slipped the Glock into her left hand. She focused her vision ahead while keeping her right hand on the doorknob. The contact with the door served as an alarm system of sorts, should the hulking Bald Bull try to barge in on her little rescue mission.

  Light spilled under a door at the end of a hall leading outside. Only one other door existed in the otherwise barren hallway. The longer she stood in the dark, the better her eyes adjusted to it. And in her renewed vision, Hatch was now able to make out the darkened glass tubes of the blacked-out neon sign's letters. VIP.

  The door remained closed and for a brief second, Hatch's heart sank at the thought that she'd missed her opportunity to recover Angela from her abductors. She released her contact with the doorknob, trading a known threat for an unknown one, and made her way toward the VIP lounge. She was a foot from the door when it opened outward, shielding Hatch from the person opening it.

  "Back in a minute." was what she understood from the guard stepping into the hallway in front of her. It was the same guard who'd escorted the girls in through the back door of the club.

  He closed the door, keeping his back to Hatch. And just as the obnoxious tourist had never seen Bald Bull's wild haymaker coming, the armed man in front of her didn't see Hatch’s attack coming either. Although Hatch's attack wasn't an out-of-control limb wielding amateur hour as demonstrated by the bouncer. No, hers was a refined series of movements designed to incapacitate her opponent quickly and silently.

  Hatch dispatched a violent three-move assault on the unsuspecting man, first stomping down on the back of his right knee and following with a debilitating brachial stun to the side of his neck with the butt of her Glock. Those two moves sent the medium sized guard into a heap. Her third and final move might've been overkill, but Hatch needed to ensure he'd be out long enough to carry out the next step. Snaking her arm under his chin, she cinched herself tight, restricting blood and oxygen for an eight count before releasing him back to the laminated flooring to resume his nap.

  Hatch bound the man's wrists and ankles with plastic zip ties she found in his pocket, the same ones used to bind the girls she'd seen earlier. She gagged him and took the nickel-plated .45 from the man's waist and tucked it in hers. No spare magazines. Effectively pillaged in a matter of seconds, Hatch then dragged his unconscious body to the door leading back into the club and wedged him snug against it.

  Satisfied her thug doorstop would hinder any attempts to enter the hallway, if only briefly, Hatch made her way back to the VIP access door. She checked the handle. Unlocked. She settled her breathing.

  When Ayala had given her the limited information he had on Club de Fuego, there were no details beyond the location and general layout. Hatch was blind to what waited on the other side of the door. Only one way to find out.

  The four girls in the room were already topless and were now in a state of suspended animation, frozen mid-dance as they stared at Hatch. She could see why, Hatch caught sight of herself in the mirror platform one of the girls was dancing on. Her shirt, still knotted above the waist and soaking wet from the sprinkler system, now had accumulated blood from choking the guard in the hallway. The gun in her hand finished off the deranged look as Hatch visually assessed her situation.

  A Mexican businessman sat on a wide-backed dark leather chair with a cocktail in his hand, watching the half-naked girl standing on the mirrored platform in front of him. The other girls were standing nearby. Club Fire's VIP lounge was missing two things, Angela Rothman, and the Mexican's American counterpart. The only thing keeping her from crossing the ten feet of fuzzy purple carpeting, separating her from the room to the left marked private, was the other member of the securit
y team from the van. His dark eyes peered out from under a black baseball cap. His hand was already moving toward the pistol tucked in his waistband.

  A drink caddy with expensive bottles of liquor and wine were lined up behind glasses atop a polished silver cart on wheels, dividing the distance between Hatch and her adversary. Gunshots would alert the others. Gunshots would greatly reduce her chance of survival.

  Her bootlegged pistol was already up and on target. The front sight post hovered over the Club de Fuego's red flame emblem stenciled into the form-fitting black shirt. She had him dead to rights. The security team member, who was of similar size and height as her, had his right hand tightly gripped on the gun tucked in the front of his pants. The white of his knuckles looked like big pearls as the fear seizing control of his mind increased the tension of his squeeze.

  If this were game of slapjack Hatch would've won, hands down. Question now was, what to do about this paused standoff. Seize the opportunity that presents itself and be ready because it may be the one you least expect. Her dad's voice in her head brought an added layer of clarity to Hatch's already intense focus.

  Keeping her weapon on target, Hatch thrust-kicked the metal cart, stomping her boot into the push handle and sending it torpedoing forward at the man. Instinct took over and he released his gun hand to stop the rapidly approaching cart. A moment later, the beverage tray slammed into his midsection with a crash.

  Hatch was already pouncing as he cast the cart aside. She snatched a diamond encrusted bottle of champagne as the tray crashed to the floor beside them. Hatch swung for the fences and connected with the man's chin. The impact from the bedazzled bubbly spun him in a drunken pirouette and sent him into dreamland before he hit the ground.

  Hatch searched his pockets just as she'd done with the man in the hall. Finding a similar cache, she secured the downed guard, zip tying and gagging him. She took the gun he'd unsuccessfully tried to pull on her, and instead of keeping it as she had the other, Hatch walked over to the half-naked girl standing in front of the businessman. He was still rooted in frozen terror on the seat in front of her and she handed the dancer the gun out of necessity. If she was to effectively clear the next room, she had to ensure the wealthy A-lister didn't escape and alert the others. His panic-stricken paralysis would only hold him so long.

  The girl shook her head. Her eyes watered. "Please—no." Her broken English barely comprehensible through her ragged breaths as she tried to choke back tears.

  "It's simple," Hatch pressed the gun into her hand, not wanting to give any more time to this debate, "if he moves, shoot."

  The girl's trembling hand accepted the foreign object Hatch forced on her. She was scared. And Hatch didn't want her to pull the trigger. In fact, when she'd quickly assessed the four girls standing around the seated man, the girl Hatch selected was probably actually the least likely of them to actually use the gun. It was the reason Hatch chose her. Hatch couldn't afford to have the gun go off while she was searching the other room. On a moral level, Hatch didn't want to force this girl, who looked in her late teens, to shoulder the burden of taking a human life. Hatch had experienced it enough to know the toxic effect it had on one's life.

  The gun vibrated in the girl's hand, but she managed to keep it pointed in the direction of the seated VIP. "He moves, you shoot," Hatch repeated before hustling off to the closed door of the private room. She'd kept her eye on it since taking out the guard and was surprised nobody came from inside to investigate the noise. Could mean a lot of things. None of them good.

  The door was locked. No matter how remote, explore all avenues until you find a way around. Sometimes you'll find the doors of life locked, and then what? Do you quit? Raise the white flag? No. You kick it in. And that's what Hatch did.

  She booted the door, striking with the heel of her boot just above the knob. Normally, she would've donkey kicked but didn't want to breach the unknown with her back turned, so Hatch opted for the traditional method of raising the knee and stomping out. Less reliable, but more tactical in a one-man, or one-woman, dynamic entry situation.

  The door's frame cracked, and the free-swinging door slammed against the inside wall of the small room. The private room was nothing more than a sex closet, containing only a bed and a nightstand. Mounted by a series of hooks, the wall to the left was a sadist’s dream board. Tasseled whips and rods of different thicknesses hung for a client's choosing. The American VIP member had opted for a long, pointed needle. Hatch couldn't fathom its purpose but assumed it had one because there was a similar tool on the wall rack. She knew the purpose for which it had been made was not how the terrified businessman now wielded it.

  When Hatch entered, he was already tucked on the opposite side of the bed with the tip of the needle pressed firmly into the neck of the girl on the bed. The girl's red hair spilled across a pillow and in the dyed highlights Hatch saw it wasn't Angela. The girl's naked body was tied by bungee cords to the four black wrought iron posts rising from the corners of the bed. She was unconscious, or at the very least teetering on it. A teardrop clung to the end of her thick eyelashes and captured the light from the flickering candle on the nightstand, the only source of light for the otherwise pitch dark of the room.

  The shirtless businessman exposed a corner of his shoulder. Hatch brought her aim to the small bit of exposed, sweat-covered skin showing from behind his bound hostage. The restraints binding her body made it impossible for him to completely hide from view. Whatever tv show this user of women had learned his hostage-taking skills from didn't seem to be working in his favor.

  But there was still the possibility he could push the needle inside the girl's throat before she could kill him. Slim, but present. "You move and you’re dead. Drop the needle!"

  "I'll do it! I swear to God, I'll jam this thing so deep!" spit flew from his mouth as he spiraled out of control, "Get the hell out of here or I'll kill her!"

  "You don't want to do this. Put it down."

  "Hell no! You're just going to kill me." His eyes darted past Hatch.

  "Nobody's dead out there if that's what you're looking for. I don't have all day, and the longer you take in making it, I can't guarantee this bullet here doesn't rip through your shoulder."

  The frantic hostage taker tried without success to press himself further behind the girl, but to effectively hold the needle to her neck, he could not. And the effort left him in no better position than when Hatch first made the offer. No gunshots, she told herself.

  "Let me tell you how this is going to go. First, I'm going to shoot you in the top of your right shoulder. It's not going to kill you, but the pain of it will make you wish it had. You will be in screaming agony in a matter of seconds. I will then fire a second shot after the first one moves you safely away from that girl. However, you will not feel this second shot because the jacketed forty caliber round inside this gun will pass through the front of your skull at nearly thirteen-hundred feet per second, killing you instantly."

  Her aim never wavered as she negotiated the terms of surrender. He didn't utter a response. Hatch watched the businessman's shoulder rise and fall in rhythm with his breath as he weighed the offer. Hatch took the slack out of the Glock's trigger as her timeline in which she would make the decision for him rapidly approached.

  The gunshot that came next cracked like a whip and caught Hatch completely by surprise.

  Seventeen

  The shot hadn't come from her gun. It came from the other room. Hatch spun to see the source of the discharge. Smoke seeped from the end of the nickel-plated pistol, encircling the head of the tear-stricken girl who'd fired the shot. Her eyes apologized to Hatch as she and the other three girls made a mad dash for the hallway door while the expensive wardrobe of the dead man in the lounge chair absorbed the blood spreading out from the center of his chest.

  The dying man's agonal breaths were drowned out by the wild scream from inside the room where Hatch stood. The shirtless American had launched himself into t
he air with the needle outstretched in his right hand looking like a pirate diving off the top mast.

  Hatch sidestepped the poorly planned attack at the last second, allowing the deranged man's momentum to do the heavy lifting. His forehead struck the corner edge of the doorframe with a sickening thud. Until he let out a whimper, she thought the impact might've actually killed him. One solid stomp silenced any further resistance.

  Hatch had no time to spare if that shot had been heard over the chaos of the club. There was a chance it wasn't. But Hatch didn’t like playing those odds. In less than twenty seconds, she had stripped the guard of equal size out of his clothes. Seconds later, Hatch was now wearing the clothes of the man she'd bested with a drink cart. Hatch tucked her shoulder length hair inside the ballcap and cinched the brim down, hoping to block her face from view.

  Hatch then set about undoing the knots and freeing the girl's hands and feet. "Gracias," she muttered. Her voice was stronger than Hatch expected, but then again if you're drugged and bound to a bed maybe it's best to put your mind elsewhere. Hatch spoke softly but firmly. She needed to get this girl out of the room, but she needed her functional enough so Hatch could address any threats.

  "Do you speak English?"

  "A little." The weakness in her voice was matched by the trembling wave of her hand.

  Hatch was able to get the girl up. With each passing second her assailant's smashed face rested against the frame of the door, she seemed to grow a little stronger. Hatch got the girl into her old clothes.

  "I'm Leticia," her voice a whisper, "but you can call me Letty."