The music was louder tonight, the club pulsated with an erotic dance beat. The smoke was heavier, and the waitresses were more scantily clad. If one could call being completely naked except for heels dressed. He scanned the crowd, cataloging every face, every smell, every sound. Within five seconds after walking in, he knew where every exit was. It was a habit that he'd developed way back as a kid, long before the military and the Agency drilled it into him.
“Cuza!” He heard his alias called. He turned his head and saw Anton sitting at the same table he'd found him at two days ago. Only this time, he had a girl on his lap. She was in her late teens, blonde, dressed in a sparkly scrap of fabric, and heels up to heaven. She looked high, which confirmed the rumor that Anton liked to keep his women drugged and willing.
“Glad you could make it, have a seat. You can sit with us during the auction.” Anton jovially gestured toward an empty chair.
Gee, I'm flattered... Dorin sat down at the table.
“Cuza here is a new buyer, we need to show him a good time.” He snapped his fingers at a nearby waitress. “Something to drink?” He took a drag from his cigar.
As soon as Dorin turned his head, he encountered a naked set of breasts that hovered just inches from his face. He looked up at the fake-smile of a cocktail waitress, and he mirrored her cheesy smile. “Beer, please. American, if you have it.”
“I'm sure if you tipped her extra she'd suck you off,” Anton laughed, bouncing the ninety-pound girl in his lap.
He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Not tonight, this is about business.”
“You strike me as the type who doesn't enjoy himself much.”
“I enjoy myself plenty; I just prefer not to mix work with pleasure.” Dorin took out his cigarettes and lit one. “I prefer my women clean and intellectually stimulating.”
Anton snorted. “Suit yourself.”
The cocktail waitress returned and placed an opened bottle of Michelob in front of him. Eh, not his favorite, but it would suffice.
“How can you drink that shit?” Anton asked.
“I spent quite a bit of time in the States and American beer tends to grow on you, “ he replied after swallowing a long drink. “Don't knock it until you've tried it.”
The music cut off, and an auctioneer appeared on the small stage near their table. “Everyone take a seat, we're about to start the bidding,” he began in English.
The room quieted.
“All bids must be made in U.S. dollars, and all payments are due upon collection of your purchases. Please have your account numbers ready.”
The first girl was brought out; she resembled the young woman on Anton's lap—eighteen, twenty, tops. Blonde, sickly thin, and dressed only in a bra and panties. The poor thing was stoned out of her mind, pliable, and completely dead in the eyes.
The bids came pouring in, three thousand, four, five; she was sold at fifty-five hundred to some creep old enough to be her grandfather.
She was dragged off stage and the next girl was escorted on stage. This one was a young black girl, maybe twenty-two, pretty dark mocha skin, curly hair. Curvy. She went for six thousand.
The next item up for auction was a tiny Chinese girl, definitely under eighteen. Maybe eighty pounds soaking wet. Her bidding went on for a while, and she was ultimately sold for nine thousand.
The auctioneer stopped for a moment, a devious grin spreading across his face. “We have an extra special item up for bid next. She's a little older than the rest of our ladies, but she won't disappoint. She's an American, and is as pure and untouched as she looks! Minimum bid is ten thousand.”
The crowd whooped and cheered as the next girl was ushered on stage.
Dorin's heart careened in his chest. Oh... God, no.
Long brown hair, olive skin, 5'7”.
Brooke Kennedy.
Tugged onto the stage by one arm, her bare feet padded across the wood floor. She was dressed like the others, in just a bra and panties. Her long hair was mussed, and her big, dark eyes were glazed with drugs. She stood in the middle of the stage, her arms hanging limp at her sides as her eyes were fixed in front of her in a blank stare.
Dorin wanted to run up on that stage, throw the girl over his shoulder, and make a beeline out of the club. But he couldn't blow his cover.
Do something.
“Starting bid at ten—”
“Fifteen thousand!” Dorin blurted at the top of his lungs.
“I— fifteen thousand! Do I hear sixteen?” Another bidder joined in and raised the bid.
“Seventeen!” Dorin countered.
The other bidder countered with eighteen.
Dorin was shaking, his heart had taken up residence in his throat, and his mouth ran dry. He couldn't screw this up. If she were bought by anyone else, she would disappear forever. He took a deep breath.
“Twenty thousand!”
Dorin waited for a counter; he'd keep going as high as he had to. He was walking out of this club with Brooke, even if he had to resort to violence.
No counter bids. Dorin breathed a sigh of relief when the auctioneer closed on his bid.
He gave the cashier his account number for the wire transfer. Led off stage and up to him as if she was his fucking prize, Brooke finally looked up and made eye contact with him. Her big, brown eyes were watery and dazed, and she swayed where she stood. He honestly hoped she had no idea what was happening. Being stoned out of her mind was a mercy for her. If there were any justice in this world, she wouldn't remember a second of this.
“Congratulations, Mr. Cuza.” Anton approached him as he was about to scoop her up and run. “You're certainly an aggressive bidder.”
Dorin tore his eyes away from Brooke to acknowledge Anton. “I don't back down from the things I want. I think I might keep this one for myself.” He tried to paint on a falsely triumphant smile.
Anton waggled his eyebrows as he cast a lecherous glance over Brooke's slender body. “You'll have fun with her, for sure. She's definitely a lovely little thing. Part of me wanted to keep her for myself too, but I don't fuck virgins if I can help it. A word of caution, though, she's feisty. It may be better to keep her doped up.”
Dorin scoffed. “I'll keep that in mind. Excuse me, please.” With an arm wrapped tightly around Brooke's shoulders, he started to walk away. “Have a wonderful evening, thank you for the invitation.” He headed toward the door before anyone could stop them. He felt physically ill leaving with only Brooke while so many other girls had to be left behind.
Outside on the sidewalk, he stopped and removed his jacket. “Here,” he said as he wrapped it around Brooke's shoulders. It was chilly out tonight, and she was still barefoot.
She didn't acknowledge him, just stared down at her feet. Her dark hair hung around her face like a curtain, and she looked paler than her photo. There was no point in trying to talk to her right now, not with all the drugs in her system. With his arm around her shoulders, he led her toward his car, and helped her into the passenger's seat.
He turned the heat up all the way in the car, yet she still began to tremble. Maybe the drugs were wearing off, or she really was just cold. She slumped against the door, occasionally looking over at him with a curious, yet pleading look in her eyes.
He should have driven straight to the Embassy with her, but he couldn’t take the chance that he had been followed. So his only option was to return to the hotel for the time being. He pulled into the underground parking garage of the hotel, and parked the car. The best thing about this hotel was that there were no security cameras. It was also late enough that most of the guests would be in their rooms for the night. The elevator in the garage led straight up to the rooms, no need to pass through the lobby. They truly had discretion in mind when they’d built this hotel.
Scanning the hallway for people, Dorin led Brooke to his hotel suite. She was still dazed, and hadn't made a sound the entire time.
Maybe I should try talking to her?
He step
ped in front of her, his hands gently grasping her small shoulders. “Miss Kennedy?” He tried to call her attention.
She blinked rapidly as she slowly looked up at him. Good, she heard him.
“Listen to me,” he tipped her chin up to look at him when her gaze started to drift away. “I'm not going to hurt you. I know you probably don't understand what's happening right now. But I know who you are, and I'm here to help you.”
Her eyes flickered with comprehension, their chocolate depths swirling with a glimmer of understanding.
His heart sank at the desperate fight in her eyes, the battle to claw her way back to reality. He knew the effects of the drug she was under; her mind a million miles away while a small part of it tried to stay tied to here and now. It was heartbreaking.
He let out a deep breath as he brushed a lock of Brooke's hair behind her ear. Then, almost on reflex, he jerked his hand away. He'd never touched a trafficking victim before. Not like that. It was almost subconscious; part of him hadn't realized he'd even done it.
“You need some sleep.” He led her over to the king-sized bed, leaving her for a moment to take a clean t-shirt from his suitcase, and pull it over her head. Maybe she'd feel better if she woke up and found herself covered up. Then, he helped her into the bed, and pulled the covers over her.
As if some part of her foggy brain understood that she was safe, Brooke snuggled down into the soft comforter, and was sound asleep almost instantly.
Dorin stepped out onto the balcony of his room, but kept the door cracked to keep an eye on Brooke. He lit a cigarette and called Tanner.
“About fucking time, what's up?” Tanner answered without preamble.
“Some pretty awesome news that's going to make your day.”
“You're sending Amber Heard to my house?” Tanner had been obsessed with the actress ever since he saw Three Days to Kill.
Dorin chuckled and rolled his eyes. “You wish.” He took a deep breath. “I found Brooke Kennedy.”
There was a pause. “You're shitting me. Alive?”
“And safe.” He glanced through the crack in the balcony door. She was still sound asleep. “Doped out of her skull, but she's fine. Anton's men snatched her; she was at the auction tonight.”
“Wow,” Tanner replied. “Nice job, dude. I'll notify the State Department that she's been found.”
“Yeah, about that.” Dorin rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “There's going to be a sizable wire transfer pending from my alias account. I kind of bought her.”
“How much are we talking?”
“Twenty grand.”
Tanner whistled. “Damn, D. You weren't fucking around, were you?” Tanner took a deep breath. “No worries, you did what you had to do. She's safe and sound; that's all that matters. Keep an eye on her for the night while I get in touch with the State Department. You okay with handling the transfer back to the Embassy for debriefing?”
“Yeah, no problem. She's passed out anyway, figured I'd let her sleep.” The poor girl earned it.
“Cool. I'll call you later.”
“Later, man.” Dorin hung up the phone. He finished his cigarette and went back inside. Brooke hadn't budged. He watched her for a moment. One arm tucked under her pillow, her head rested in the bend of her arm. Her lips slightly parted, he could hear the tiny puffs of air from her shallow breaths. Her dark hair fanned over the pillow, with a few strands falling over the side of her neck. She really was a pretty little thing. Cute. The kind of pretty that he found the most attractive, if he had seen her out somewhere back home, he would've tried to talk to her.
Dorin's protective instincts fired to life in a way that wasn't quite familiar to him. At that moment, as he watched her sleep, she looked so sweet and innocent that he felt he would do anything in the world to keep her safe. For a split second, he contemplated lying down on the other side of the bed. Next to her, so she wouldn't wake up alone. However, reason quickly dawned on him, a terrified trafficking victim waking up next to a strange man would be a very bad idea.
Instead, he called it a night on the couch.
CHAPTER SIX
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Your debt is paid.
Richard held his head in his hands as he stared at the simple, four-word text message. He sat at his desk in his study with a near-empty bottle of Maker's Mark next to him. He had long since abandoned the glass and drank straight from the bottle.
How had it come to this? How had his life spiraled so far out of control that he wanted nothing more than to drown himself in liquor and die a miserable death? He felt he was more than deserving of such punishment.
He jumped when his cell phone rang, and all of the liquor threatened to come back up when his stomach swooped painfully. His phone's display lit up with the name he had been dreading all night:
Sarah Taylor. His ex-wife, and Brooke's mother. Looks like the State Department had already notified her that Brooke was missing.
He took a deep breath to quell the crippling nausea and steady himself before answering. “Hello, Sarah.” He greeted her, his voice somber.
“What the hell happened?” Sarah's voice shook, garbled with her sobbing. “What happened to Brooke?”
“I—” He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “I don't know, Sarah. She said she felt sick at the restaurant, and got up to go to the restroom but never came back. No one saw or heard anything.”
“I told you!” Sarah shrieked, and her voice cracked. “I fucking told you I didn't want her going over there! I told you if you wanted to see Brooke, you needed to come back home to see her.”
She had, it had taken Richard over a month to get Sarah on board with the idea of Brooke coming to Romania to visit.
“Do you know anything? Does anyone know if she's still alive?”
Richard had a sinking feeling that she was. And suffering a new, devastating reality that Richard would happily take in her place.
“No, Sarah. No one knows anything yet; they're still investigating.”
“Steven and I will be on the next flight; I want to be there when they find her!”
“No!” Richard covered his mouth at his sudden outburst. “I—I mean, there's nothing you can do here. Just stay home and pray.” He hung his head, holding it up with one hand. Tears flooded his eyes, escaping down his cheeks. “Just pray that our baby girl will come home safe, and soon.”
The conversation soon ended, once again leaving Richard alone in his self-loathing. Just as he had feared, the liquor made a return trip—or maybe it was guilt—but all he could do was helplessly grip the sides of the trash can by his desk as he vomited violently. When he was finally done, he sat hunched over the trashcan with his head cradled in both hands, and sobbed.
This was his fault—all of it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She dreamed of a white knight, of an unlikely hero who swooped in and rescued her from the depths of hell. Handsome, charming, and he smelled so good.
Brooke woke up with her nose buried in a pillow. She was bundled in soft, clean sheets, and burrowed under a fluffy down comforter. She was warm, comfortable, and felt safe.
She identified the amazing smell. Men's cologne. Clean, a little musky, a little sweet with a slight, but not unpleasant trace of cigarette smoke. It was the smell from her dream. Her white knight wrapped her in a cloak of safety, and carried her away in his chariot to his castle.
Her mouth felt dry, and her brain still buzzed with a lingering fog. She smacked her lips to wet her mouth, and cracked her sleepy eyes open.
Where am I?
Wherever she was, it was nice. It looked like a hotel room. She rolled over on her back, and rubbed her eyes with her fists. Why was she so groggy? How had she ended up here?
Then, it all came rushing back. The memories hit her with such force that a hard knot of nausea twisted her stomach painfully. Ice flooded her veins as the scattered pieces of her memory pulled together. She was in Romania; she remembered the flights coming here. She rememb
ered visiting her father, and going out to dinner—
Dinner.
Kidnapped from the restaurant, she’d been thrown in the trunk of a car. Humiliated and degraded. And ultimately—put up for auction like a priceless piece of art.
Had she been bought? It was the only explanation why she was in some ritzy hotel suite. She sat up in bed, and looked down when the covers fell away. She was dressed in an oversized t-shirt. It was softer, and smelled a lot better than the ratty one she had been in before. Everything was such a blur, and it terrified her not knowing what happened.
She got out of bed and looked around. She didn't see anyone, or hear anything other than the traffic outside the window. She took a few tentative steps further into the room, her feet silent on the plush carpet. Then she rounded the sofa in the sitting room, and came to a screeching halt with a quiet gasp.
A man was asleep on the sofa. He lay on his back with his arms crossed in front of him, his feet propped on the armrest at the opposite end with his ankles crossed, and his head tipped to one side. He looked comfortable. He was handsome, without a doubt. Older than her, but not by much. He had brown hair that was a little darker than hers was and neatly cut. He had a straight nose, and a slightly squared jaw and chin.
The white knight from her dream? Or the sicko who bought her?
She wasn't sticking around to chance him being the latter.
She spotted the door nearby, and with quiet steps, she made her way to it to make her escape.
As soon as her hand touched the knob, a shriek tore from her throat when she felt someone grab her. One strong arm banded tight around her waist, and the other clamped over her mouth. The man from the couch had woken up and caught her in the time it took her to walk five steps.
He bent his head down and shushed her next to her ear. “Settle down.” His voice wasn't menacing, but it was stern.
Brooke twisted her body to try to throw him off, or to uncover her mouth to scream for help. Then he spun her around to face him, and backed her against the wall next to the door with his hand still over her mouth.
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