The End of Tomorrow

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The End of Tomorrow Page 5

by Tara Brown


  I reached my hand into my bag, dropped my phone in there, and pulled out my middle finger. “I brought you something special all the way from Canada.”

  “You’re ridiculous.” He looked like he might turn me over his knee, not something I generally fought over with him, but tonight I might have actually. When we stepped into the elevator he pressed himself close to me, too close. I was nearly squished into the wall. My phone buzzed in my bag. I lifted the clasp and peeked inside, surprised by a text from another random number.

  We are going to go to the car. They’ll drive us to the location. You are a woman who does talent scouting for me in America and sells in Eastern Europe. We are negotiating a deal for twenty young women. They want American girls, no older than twenty-three. You have some of the girls in Romania right now. If they resist on price, mention how many virgins you have. Make it a good number, like seven or eight. They will not bring in the boss until we have a sealed deal. When that happens the team should meet us. They’re tracking our location. They are not in Belgium, obviously. I just don't trust anyone. But you.

  I didn't understand who had sent it at first, but then he sent another one from his iPad, cluing me in.

  Clearly it’s me, Evie. Try to bring something to the mission beyond being a hooker.

  I wanted to stab him in the eye with my hairpin. I texted back the one thing I knew would aggravate him beyond belief.

  Fuck you, Servario. You told me the team was in Belgium!

  The corners of his lips lifted and all I saw was a punishing smirk. I held my head up high, totally bravado but I didn't care. He wasn't going to rattle me and call me stupid. Texting wasn't my thing. I hated it. My fingers, wrists, and thumbs ached after a long conversation.

  When we got to the car I noticed it was a different one. This was a Mercedes, not a Rolls. The driver gave me a decent up-down before letting me in. I assumed he was checking me out, but then I realized he was looking for a weapon.

  I climbed in, trying not to get nervous. We were going in with no weapons. That was insanely planned.

  Servario climbed inside the car, reaching a hand down into my dress. He rolled a nipple, making it obvious I was a piece of meat for this trip. The driver climbed in, giving us a quick look. I imagined he assumed they would pass me around later, because that's how I liked my gang rape.

  I wanted to kill him. I could smell sex slave on him like it was cologne.

  As for Servario, I wanted to poke his eyes out. He could sense the hostility in me and pulled his hand from my dress.

  I sat there, scared and turned on. It was very conflicting to be so aroused while being afraid. Akin to the time he had chased me around in the dark and fucked me against the pool table.

  He gave me a look. It was an evil grin. It was the one he used when he was winning. I reached over, meeting his hateful look, and grabbed his dick. I stroked, perhaps a little too roughly, but I got my point across. He sat back as if this was his idea and I was his dick-stroking minion.

  I sighed, stopping and staring out the window. Dubai was a stunning and welcoming distraction. The city was lighting up as the sky was starting to darken. Everything about this city made me think Vegas, including the smarmy guy driving and the pervert next to me.

  The car stopped after a while, parking outside of what appeared to be a nightclub. I didn't even want to ask, but when we got inside my view changed. I wanted to ask. I wanted to ask about every aspect of the club.

  It was a strip bar of sorts but the girls were wearing clothes. They danced with energy and skills that I had to assume meant they were trained dancers. The men wore suits and I was the only woman not working there, not technically. For all I knew this would be the place Servario would actually betray me for real. Not fake it and expect me to improvise.

  No one seemed to understand that I had been a mom for a decade, not an agent. They all expected me to bounce back after ten seconds and remember what it was like to be a hooker/agent/mom/wife/killer and whatever else they could add to the pile.

  Servario slipped a hand into mine for a second. He gripped and then let go. It was so fast I almost doubted it had occurred at all. We were escorted to a spot in the back, something akin to a VIP section perhaps.

  I was offered a seat at a lone table by a man who resembled our driver. Servario sat next to me, pretending to be enjoying the show—or actually enjoying it. The girls wore bikinis and danced on poles. It was naughty for the Middle East, I supposed.

  The music was loud techno with a slight Eastern flair to it. It was actually nice to listen to. Several men walked toward us, sitting near Servario. One man stayed standing, waiting, as Servario stood and they embraced. They hugged and smiled like they were old school friends. I started to feel a little nauseated. I had to chant that he loved me and wouldn't do that to me again. He wouldn't leave me to be killed or worse.

  The man’s eyes darted to me but Servario brushed him off in Arabic.

  They talked for another second and the man embraced Servario again. I started to glance about the bar, looking for any sign that I wasn't alone—that Coop and Luce had come to be with me.

  But all I saw were businessmen and dancing whores.

  Finally they sat, Servario again next to me. The man nodded at me. “I understand you have twenty girls.”

  I smiled wide, bringing out my best American accent from the South. It wasn't great, but there was no way they could tell. “Yes, sir. I do have twenty girls. I have more than twenty but some are spoken for.”

  He gave me a weak smile. I wouldn't have called it that though; it was more of a grimace. “You are a woman who sells women—not something we see very often.”

  I smiled wider, hating myself. “Well, everyone has to be good at something, and I happen to be very good at spotting a virgin.”

  His dark eyes widened. “Virgins—you have some of those for sale?”

  I sucked my breath through my teeth. “Not really. I have several but they are spoken for, like I said. I have other buyers.” My heart was aching in a big way.

  He nodded. “That is good to hear. We get a lot of demand here for virgin Americans. Very hard to find. Your country doesn't savor their virginity very well.”

  “Too true.” I laughed, hating myself and Servario equally for a change. “Well, you know those girls in the North, they are loose. But the girls in the South have been raised right. Real wholesome girls. You just have to convince them of the modeling contracts and jobs as nannies. It’s easy when they come from real small towns.”

  “And because you are friendly and a pretty American woman, they trust your lies.”

  “Yes, sir.” I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. “They sure do.”

  His dark eyes darted back to Servario. “She is a—how do you say?—piece of work.”

  Servario snorted, coughing a little. “I think you mean keeper.” Their accents made the mistake slightly less painful.

  The man shook his head. “No, I believe I know this word. Piece of work. Like rare, like art.”

  Servario chuckled again. “Do we have a bargain then? You will give us the guns and money, and we will give you the girls.”

  “How many virgins?” He looked at me again. “I will pay more for virgins.”

  I wanted to kick his fucking teeth in, but I pretended to be coming up with a price. Servario leaned in, whispering something to the man. Whatever he had said made the man’s eyes light up. He nodded and wrapped an arm around Servario. “Do you wish to stay for the evening?”

  Servario glanced at me. “No, we have more business to attend to. I will meet you at the drop spot to get acquainted with the area.”

  “How will you bring them in the country?”

  Servario glanced back at me, realizing he hadn’t told me that. I answered. “Au pairs. Nannies. It works real well. We just need fake families to do the sponsoring and hiring.”

  He nodded. “Let me take care of that paperwork. I will have it sent to Gustavo.”

 
He called him by his first name. Even I rarely did that.

  Chapter Six

  The porn basket

  The driver and I sat perfectly still, waiting outside the second building where Servario would be met to exchange cash and guns with the worst people in the world. They truly were the monsters your mother warned you about when you were a child. The worst of men that laughed in the faces of victims as they took everything they wanted. The sort of men who respected no one and feared nothing.

  They made my blood boil.

  I sat there, tapping my perfectly sculpted nail against the rim of the window, waiting for him to reappear.

  The driver didn't make a sound. He sat perfectly still.

  I sighed, drawing his face up so he could see me in the rearview mirror. “Shouldn't be too much longer, ma’am.”

  I nodded, pulling out another dose of my amazingly poor Southern accent. “Y’all are awfully polite for such bad people.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “We are bad?”

  It made me smile my response. “Reminds me of home. We always like to say the nicest thing and mean the worst.”

  He chuckled as if he knew what I was talking about. He leaned into the back, I assumed to tell me some funny story about how his people in the Middle East also did this. What I got was a hand up the skirt.

  I tried smiling and turning him down politely. “Sir, please. Let’s not get into any trouble, huh?” I swatted at his grabby octopus hands and arms, but his size won over.

  He slid into the backseat as if he didn't think Servario was coming back anytime soon. I had stashed one thing and one thing only on my body. The only weapon I had. I remembered it from training; a woman’s best place to hide a weapon was her hair. I lifted my hand, pulling the long, thin silver pin I had used to hold my half twist in place. I let him slide his hand down the top of my dress the way Servario had done and stabbed quickly into his temple, sliding away from the stream of blood as he collapsed.

  I contemplated leaving the thin sword-like hairpin where it was, embedded into the side of his head, but it was my only weapon. I dragged it out, feeling his body twitch next to mine as he died slowly and his grip lessened.

  I slumped him onto the floor of the backseat with a huge amount of effort, ripping my dress a little but not caring the slightest. Running my hands over his warm body, I searched for a piece but there was nothing. He was unarmed. I jumped into the front seat, feeling around the car for a gun. Finally, I opened the trunk and sighed when I discovered a cache of weapons. He had grenades, handguns, and assault rifles. My best chance was with some handguns, but I grabbed a grenade just in case and tucked it into my cleavage.

  I turned and ran toward the direction I had seen Servario walk when he left with Harry, the man who had been hugging him and calling him Gustavo.

  The streets were busy, even there in the industrial part of town. I hurried past several groups of people.

  I stopped walking and listened for any sign that they were left or right on the street lined with buildings. The heat had sweat plastered to my forehead and underarms, and I dearly regretted not wearing underwear.

  A red light inside a building caught my eye. The outside was sandstone and old looking, even charming. But the inside had several red lights glowing through the windows. To me a red light always meant prostitutes so I decided to give it a go and see what happened.

  My heels clicked against the beautiful street as I rounded the side of the building to the back. A single steel door with dark-green paint sat there, looking awfully lonely, considering the larger doors had been at the front of the building. I tucked my guns, pulled my hairpin out, and thumped on the door. It hurt my knuckles to do it.

  I rapped again, only harder. The door groaned as a large man opened it, giving me an odd look.

  “I’m here to meet Harry. I have the virgins.”

  He scowled, about to say something, but I jumped, driving the hairpin into his temple, right where I’d lodged it in the driver. He staggered back, but I pulled him forward and let him fall onto the street. I really hoped I was right as he died. I pulled the hairpin out of his head, wiped it on him, and crept inside the building. I closed the door, letting my eyes adjust to the dark and creepy glow of the red lights.

  A sound near the back of the large open-warehouse-style building drew my attention that way.

  I slipped my shoes off and tiptoed over the pale stone floor. When I got to the back, there was a long hallway with nothing—just silence and lights, thankfully not red ones.

  At the end of the hall there was an entrance with a sign in Arabic. I twisted the handle slowly, peeking past the thick door. It was a waiting room with seats made of leather and a basket of magazines, only they were not like the ones my doctor and dentist had. They were porn. What kind of office had a porn basket?

  I closed the door, slipping the hairpin back into my hair, trying my best to ignore the human remains on it, and pulled a gun. Ever so softly, I slinked down the hall, searching for the answer to the question of who keeps fucking porn in the magazine basket. The answer came in the second hallway, behind the first door I cracked open. Peering into the small slit, I realized it was just like the office we had raided and saved the sex slaves from last time. I knew this would be the exact same situation. I would open doors and find horrors I couldn't unsee.

  Leaving the door ajar and my heart closed, I crept into the room, pulling out my hairpin and stabbing as the frightened eyes of the victim being assaulted closed. She didn't see the horrors I committed upon the man tormenting her, just as I overlooked the ones she was suffering through.

  I lifted a finger to my lips—a bloody finger. She shook, sobbing and scared. Needle marks scarred her arms and a black bruise marred her face. “Are you American?”

  She nodded, heaving when she heard me speak, “Just stop crying and follow me. I’ll get you out.”

  “My sister—” Her Southern accent bothered me, like she had been one of the girls I was selling.

  “Okay.” I sighed. “We’ll find her too. Just shut up, please. We can all cry and drink some scotch on the plane ride home.”

  She stood on filthy feet and shaky legs and followed me from the room. She leaned against the wall in the hallway as I interrupted the occupants of room number two. It was much worse—a horror show—but both men were dead within seconds. I dragged the young girl, who was maybe nineteen, from the room. She collapsed into the sobbing arms of the other girl.

  “Is this your sister?”

  The first girl shook her head as silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

  I turned and started toward door number three, scared of what we would find. Each door got worse as we went along. The sex of the slave changed a couple of times, but the age stayed very close to twenty. It was sick and disturbing, but I thanked God for their ages. I didn’t need to see a small child in the arms of a grown man. There are things you cannot drink away. I knew that already.

  We cleared a whole hallway without any interruptions. That made me suspicious. So I led them all into a room, the sobbing and traumatized mess they were, and whispered, “I will be right back. Do not make any noise and do not leave this room. I will be back.”

  Not a single one believed me. The hollowness in their eyes and the acceptance of their fates told me they might even be beyond saving.

  I snuck down another corridor until I reached a large area. Men were laughing and playing cards. I could see them through the slight crack in the open doorway. Servario was one of them. Guns sat on the table as they laughed and joked.

  My heart was racing, imagining the worst of him. He wasn't in trouble. He wasn't scared. He was drinking scotch and smoking a cigar. He was fine and I was a mess.

  I turned, certain he had a reason for staying and laughing while the driver sexually assaulted me. Not even mentioning the sexually assaulted teenagers down the hall. Whatever that reason was though, I didn't give a flying fuck. I could not risk anyone for the good of the world. It
wasn’t who I was.

  I stalked back to the room I had left the teenagers in, opening the door slowly. One of the boys jumped at me, but I caught his weak arm in my hand. I lifted a finger to my lips.

  They gripped one another and followed me back to the green door. We slipped out onto the road, each of them crying and sobbing and wanting to kiss the ground, but I shook my head. “Kiss American soil when we get home. Right now, we gotta go.” I started to run at a light jogging pace back to the car with the dead driver. I grabbed my cell phone from my clutch in the backseat and dialed 9-1-1.

  “JESUS CHRIST, EVIE! WHERE THE FUCKING HELL ARE YOU?” Coop was calmer than I had imagined he would be. He was only screaming and swearing, not threatening to kill me himself.

  “Running back to the Burj Al Arab in Dubai.”

  “OH THANK GOD, YOU’RE STILL HERE! YOU SCARED THE HELL OUT OF ME! WHERE ARE YOU? I WILL COME AND GET YOU!”

  “Just stop freaking out. I can meet you on the beach by the hotel. Bring a boat that can take about fifteen teenagers in bad shape.” I clicked the phone off and continued running. I opened my Google Maps and put the hotel into the link. We ran through the side streets and across main intersections. They were dressed in sheets and blankets and not one person stopped for us.

  No one cared about the group of people who were clearly injured. Not that it would have done a fucking bit of good. I would have killed anyone who stopped as it was.

  When we made it to the beach I almost started crying too. The sand and rocks on my feet were soothing and amazing, like a sign that I might actually make it back alive with the kids—the kids I couldn't turn and look back at. The kids I didn't want to mother, regardless of the desire I had to do it. I just couldn't. The horrors in my mind, lurking behind my eyes, were too fresh. I needed a minute and a drink and maybe some heroin.

  But I didn't get any of that.

  I turned and pointed at the seawall along the beach. “Sit there and talk to no one. Unless I come, you are a shipwrecked group of sailing kids who are awaiting your parent chaperones. That's your story.”

 

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