Great.
“Kahk ti-byeh zau-vóot?” Her name would be a start.
“Raisa,” she whispered, seemingly to the floor.
He thrust the shot of vodka at her and nodded.
It took several beats, but her quaking hand pushed the hair from her forehead. Her wary gaze found his. He held still. The whimpering slowly dried. When he stretched the drink toward her one quaking hand eased out to grab it.
“Bóo-deem zda-ró-vye.” Zeke lifted his drink and hoped she understood the double meaning of the phrase, “to our health.”
She shrieked Russian words he knew all too well and tossed the liquid at him. Vodka hit his lids and slid down his chin.
Nope, she hadn’t gotten it, but security watching through the camera mounted in the light fixture above the bar would if he didn’t do something about her outburst.
Zeke tossed the shot down his throat and slammed the small glass against the concrete floor. It shattered and scattered to the corners of the room.
“Shoes off. Get on the bed,” he said, jabbing his pointed forefinger in union with his words.
She stumbled backward, turned, and ran to the bed. The pointed shoes he’d rather not have impaled in his flesh fell to the floor with dual thuds. Raisa climbed up the hip-level—for men of average height—bed and scrambled to the headboard. Her legs folded up to her knees. Her arms banded around her shins.
Shit. He didn’t want to scare her, but if it saved her life, so be it. He stepped toward the bed. Her weeping echoed in the room, almost drowning out the clack of metal on metal from the door knob.
The brass lever turned. Raisa stifled her wailing. One man stepped into the room, holding the door open. Another followed, with Greer draped over his arms like a wet towel.
“I paid thirty-thousand dollars for a blonde haired, blue eyed, conscious, virgin,” Zeke pointed out.
“She’s conscious.” The man holding her pivoted her head toward Zeke.
Black pupils ate the pristine blue of her eyes. Red veins veered every which way against the white around the bloated pupils. Her lips parted with sluggish breaths.
“Hardly,” Zeke countered.
The guy at the door stepped out and let the door close behind him, while the one holding Greer stood her between them. She stumbled forward and then fell to the floor like a wet noodle. The brute placed his boot onto her side and shoved her forward. “Get up, bitch.”
Every muscle in Zeke’s body tensed, ready to pounce, ready to strike the man dead with a single blow to the temple. But he couldn’t. Greer couldn’t defend herself. Fuck, she couldn’t even stand. If she couldn’t stand, she couldn’t walk. If she couldn’t walk, she couldn’t run. If she couldn’t run, she damn sure couldn’t fight. If she couldn’t fight, she couldn’t help them escape. Instead of killing the wanker like he wanted, he stepped forward. “She’s mine. I will discipline her, if necessary.”
“She’s ours. She’s yours for the next few hours.” The lucky son of a whore puffed out his thick chest.
Zeke used a few of the Russian curse words he knew, bent down, and hoisted Greer off the floor. She was almost dead weight. He pulled her hair back. His gaze danced over her pretty face, despite the drugged out haze in her eyes. “What do you expect me to do with her for a few hours, watch her coma?”
“I expect you to fuck her.”
“I don’t fuck the dead. Not my fetish. I like for my women to fight.” Zeke shook Greer, stressing the operative word, trying to get his message across. “Why’d you drug her? I told Anosov not to hit her with another dose.”
“She fights too much without the drugs, more than any cunt who’s come through here. And we see lots of those.” The man looked at Greer and snarled. “Bitch knocked out Ivor’s front teeth on the way to the room.”
“I want her detoxed. I want her to struggle, to try to escape, to make me dominate her.” Greer’s head fell forward onto Zeke’s shoulder, throwing her weight against the front of his body. When his body responded he knew without a doubt he was no better than the men he was trying to rescue her from.
Greer breathed into his ear. The word wasn’t clear. It wasn’t even a word, but the breath in his lungs cemented. Once more she wheezed, “Saulter.”
He liked and hated the name on her lips in equal measure. Its presence meant she recognized him or, more accurately, a version of him. It also put them both in a world of danger. If anyone else heard her call him by another name they wouldn’t make it out of this room.
Zeke tossed her onto the bed and climbed on behind her. Raisa flattened her body against the headboard and averted her gaze. He yanked Greer’s ass to his hips and pressed his full erection into the crack of her firm cheeks. A groan rumbled from his throat. He tried to make it sound like disgust, which shouldn’t have been hard since he was beyond pissed by his reaction to her body in this helpless state.
“See. No fight,” Zeke yelled and shoved her away. “I can’t even get her to cry.”
“She doesn’t cry. Hasn’t since we got her in.” The guy pointed to Raisa. “She cries.”
“Too much, but I’ll take care of that.” Zeke pointed to Greer. “She has strength. All the better when I break it.” He pulled the last of the cash from his jacket and tossed the three stacks onto the bed. “I’m leaving. Stop drugging her. Lock her in here. When I get back I want her fierce.”
“The boss won’t like it.”
“But he’ll love my money.” Zeke leaned over Greer. He turned her face to the glorified bouncer, and then pointed to Raisa's. “You see these faces? I don’t want them bruised. I’ve paid for the privilege.” His gaze found Greer’s hazy one. Her cheek rested heavily in his palm. He injected the proper amount of threat into his voice for his audience, but hoped Greer wasn’t too far gone to decipher his message. “When I get back you better be ready.”
“Don’t,” she croaked in the stale air between them. Her throat worked, struggling to swallow. “Go.”
Zeke stood. Her dilated eyes followed. He turned and stalked from the room.
2
O ne hour. Zeke had closed the laptop for one hour and now the video feed he’d had into the Stas’ “gentlemen’s” club was a diagram of twelve small black windows on his screen. He’d showered and dressed with an eye locked on the unfolding scene. The scuzzy bastards prepared for another night of depravity, while Raisa cared for Greer with nibbles of bread, drinks of water, and a cool rag through the night and long day.
Now…nothing.
“Bloody fuck.” He tossed the laptop into the passenger seat and beat his fists on the expensive steering wheel. The impact rattled the leather and plastic dashboard.
Were the Stas onto him?
Zeke slammed the laptop lid closed and turned up the volume on the walkie talkie. Scratchy air waves filled the interior, clawing up his already prickled nerves. Three security guards argued over who would tell the boss.
“Tell the boss what?”
Xavier Grisha Filipov ran the New York faction of the Russian Mob known as the Stas. He’d ordered Zeke’s capture. His son had tried to blow up Zeke’s sister, Khani.
Despite his mounting irritation a smile pulled at Zeke’s lips. Grisha Filipov, Xavier’s son, nor his sycophants had succeeded in extracting information from Zeke. Neither had they succeeded in exploding his sister. They’d succeeded in becoming popsicles for the next few centuries. His sister’s team erased every scrap of evidence that a cabin, the small shed that had been his hell, and the men ever existed.
He was about to do the same thing to this gentleman’s club…obliterate it, which was the only reason he’d left his round-the-clock retina fry. Explosives didn’t place themselves. Due to the club’s extensive security set-up Zeke had parked blocks away, scaled the building at the end of the club’s block, and run the rooftops to the large facility’s tar-topped one. The night before he’d taken the same route to clip into their mainframe. When he’d left the rigs of different size balls of C-4, the
wire and transmitter he’d secured to their hard wiring hadn’t been compromised.
So why could he no longer see inside?
The plan had been to blow security, the front and back exits, breech the building, and then clear it of all Stas and Stas supporters one room at a time. Not knowing for certain that Greer and Raisa were still locked in their room slashed that strategy’s throat.
Security’s argument crackled over the airwaves, but no one reverted back to the actual incident that prompted their discord. The clock read 9:45 pm.
Time for plan B.
Zeke removed his thigh and chest holsters and then stuffed them into the large bag in his backseat along with a string of cheeky expletives. It had been hard enough going in last night without a weapon. Disarming tonight shot fresh pain into his ribs and the wounds on his neck and chest.
He yanked off his black shirt with little regard for the marks of his captivity. The boots and trousers came next, plopping into a heap on the floorboard. Zeke stuffed them into the smaller bag. Approaching footsteps jerked his attention around. His hand found the grip of one of his Glock 17s on the seat.
At the mouth of the adjacent alley three teens shuffled along. When the leader passed back a joint his gaze alighted on the two-toned Rolls Royce Wraith. Six feet stopped. Three jaws dropped. The feet changed direction into the alley. One yanked a jimmy stick from his baggy drawers.
Fucking great. Some limp-dick slackers wanted to steal nearly half-a-million dollars’ worth of car, while Zeke was next to naked inside it. He didn’t have time for this shit.
Zeke turned on the car, hit them with high beams, and revved the engine. Too bad it barely purred. A throaty growl would’ve had more effect.
Two of them stopped. The leader pulled a gun from the front of his trousers and waved it in the air. The kid’s head bobbed with the motion of the pistol.
Zeke’s laugh rumbled against the car’s supple leather.
With a slight of hand, Zeke shifted the car into gear and put all 12 cylinders to the test. Loose gravel flew from under the tires. The machine accelerated from zero to sixty in a little over five seconds. It took three seconds for the sordid gang to turn and run. He depressed the brakes with enough leisure that the Spirit of Ecstasy, mounted to the hood, threatened to jam right up the mastermind’s keister.
After corralling them round the block and up the street Zeke wheeled to the nearest quiet alley and dressed in Alexi Basov’s suit. The man didn’t exist, but if someone looked—and the Stas had—they’d find him a wealthy, ruthless son of a bastard.
He stuffed the computer into the large duffle, opened the coach doors, and placed all evidence of his duplicity in the trunk. Instead of pulling around front to the valet as he had the previous night, he parked the car at the back exit and knocked on the door.
“Mr. Basov?” A member of the security team opened the door and extended his hand into the dimly lit space. The man held his gaze, but a dimple plagued his brow. “Why don’t you come in? Your key should be ready at the front momentarily. I’ll take the car around to the valet. It will be—”
“I parked it where I want it.” Zeke dropped the statement like a gauntlet at the threshold and continued toward the receptionist’s desk.
Behind him the door closed with a hefty smack. Boot treads thumped close enough that Zeke exhaled long and slowly, ready to defend an attack.
“As you wish, sir.” The guard beat him to the security door, blocked the keypad with his bulk, and entered a seven-digit code.
9584629.
Thanks to the camera, he’d seen four different codes used by various Stas employees, their use delineated by organizational rank.
Anosov stood next to the front door, wringing his hands. Beside him, in a single row of red leather wingback chairs, a handful of bidders stared in rapture at the receptionist’s desk. The manager of the fine establishment wiped sweat from his brow and watched the front door with a wide gaze.
Before the security guard could speak, Zeke used the principle of surprise to throw the man further off his game. “Anosov Sadovsky.” He smacked his palms together in a deafening blow, and then spread them wide. “I know you have a treasure awaiting me.”
Every hint of eyelid Anosov possessed disappeared in stark reaction to the use of his full name. The man’s gaze shot to Zeke, and then to the row of men. They couldn’t give a shit less about the man’s name. After rounding the wall he could plainly see their minds were enthralled with the fervent coupling of the receptionist and what looked to be her identical twin.
As Anosov crossed the room the soles of his shoes scuffed the ground. “Mr. Basov, good evening.” The lanky man bent imperceptibly at the waist. “Protocol dictates that I be referred to as Anosov in all our dealings. No one knows my full name.”
“That’s not true, is it?” Zeke plucked a handkerchief from his breast pocket with a snap of his wrist and offered it to the dripping man.
The manager flinched.
“Come now, Anosov. It’s just a hankie.” Zeke’s gaze lifted to the man’s beaded forehead.
“No, thank you.” A flick of his long fingers and shake of his head further denied the offer.
“Suit yourself.” Zeke stuffed the fabric back into the pocket.
“How do you know my name?” The man nearly gagged on the question.
“I wouldn’t be who I am or where I am in our business without knowing a thing or two to which others are not privy.” Zeke fished a stack of hundreds from his inside pockets and extended it to Anosov. “I am thorough because I like the luxuries it affords me. Now, I have more than sufficiently paid for my pleasure and am more than ready to indulge.”
Anosov stepped back and entered the crowded parlor without grabbing the bills. “Please, have a seat and enjoy the show.” He smiled at the two women mauling each other.
“I didn’t pay for a preview.” Zeke allowed the rasp of agitation to escape his throat. He leaned forward and allowed his height to intimidate further.
The security guard stepped forward, but Anosov waved him off. The man straightened his shoulders and squared to Zeke. “I won’t take any more of your money, right now, Mr. Basov.”
“Why the fuck not?” His voice raised for the first time. It drew the attention of some of the bidders.
Lines creased Anosov’s mouth. His nose crinkled. “Please, step back here with me.”
He dipped around Zeke, slipped a key off the desk where one twin’s ass cheeks pressed against the glass while the other girl’s face disappeared between her legs. Anosov rushed to the back door and opened it. When Zeke stood his ground the manager shooed away the security guard. “Just keep an eye on them. We’re fine, are we not, Mr. Basov?”
“That depends.” Reluctantly, but without much choice, Zeke stuffed the money into his jacket, followed the man through the door, and to the left into the narrow corridor with its low lantern light and labeled doors.
Anosov stopped outside of room H, but didn’t move to insert the key. A tingle of unease skated up Zeke’s spine.
“When you left yesterday,” he said accusatorially, “you demanded the unstable virgin be left to detox.”
Zeke pursed his lips.
“We did as you asked, as you paid for, contrary to our better judgment.”
“Get to it, Anosov. My patience is thin.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to cost you a bit more than we agreed upon for you to enjoy these women.”
“You think so?” Zeke challenged.
“Yes. That demon woman…” The smaller man’s jaw clenched and then jutted. “Well, I’ll just let you see for yourself.” Anosov slipped the key into the knob and opened the door.
Glass shards covered the floor. Fuzzy bits and large chunks of cotton joined it like freshly fallen snow. Hunks of sheet rock collected in heaps around the wall. Insulation protruded from each hole. Light fixtures slouched at odd angles around the room.
The women looked much like they had the previo
us night. Raisa quaked in a ball clutching the headboard with a white knuckled grip. Greer lay in the middle of the bed, her arms splayed wide. Her legs dangled over the side with the shredded covers.
“You see,” Anosov interrupted, “we had to sedate her or risk complete ruin.”
Zeke stepped into the room, at a loss for Greer’s spastic behavior. Glass and grit crunched under his hard soles. She’d recognized him. She’d known he’d come for her last night. So, why had she freaked and destroyed the room? Had they incited her? He’d given them enough money to ensure they wouldn’t. She’d known he was coming back.
But then…
When he’d been locked in the shed he’d clawed his fingertips to nubs, working every unforgiving surface for escape. Judging by the damage, her prison was more merciful.
Anosov stayed back while Zeke walked to the bed. Upon closer inspection, small cuts and dried blood covered Greer’s dainty hands. Her lids lulled at half mast, but the visible part was more pupil than iris, telling him all he needed to know. She couldn’t run or fight her way out of this. He’d have to do it on his own.
Nothing new there.
Raisa whispered, drawing Zeke’s scrutiny. Though he was here to help, she would only make escape more difficult. They didn’t speak the same language and she couldn’t stand being in the same room with him. What would she do when he tossed her over his other shoulder and bolted? She’d probably scratch his eyes out.
Their gazes caught. Raisa leaned ever so slightly to the right. Her gaze jumped high and to the far right before snapping back. She did it once more. This time his gaze followed. In the far corner the wall camera, which had been mounted in a fixture, dangled from the drywall. From a one inch hole behind it yellow, red, green, and black wire drooped to the floor like day old party streamers. Judging by the heap she’d yanked them from the server…dismantling the club’s security system.
Genius. Make the destruction so complete that no one notices your actual motive.
It seemed Raisa had a greater understanding of his role in this scheme. Greer had to have instilled the knowledge in this girl during the long night and day. Maybe they could get out of here in one piece.
Prisoner Mine Page 2