by Sable Jordan
“Exactly.”
“You give me the dope, I work your corner….”
“Yes, yes. Now you get it,” Sacha said enthusiastically. “There is plenty of money to go around, Xander. This is a good offer.” He caught the other man’s gaze and said firmly, “Take it.”
“And the funds I provided your father?”
Sacha couldn’t contain the laugh. “You’ll have to get it from him!” Stupid American.
The man sitting across the desk took a moment to consider his options. But that was the point of this exercise, for Xander to realize he had none. If he didn’t take the deal, Sacha had already decided to kill him. Never leave a snake lurking in the grass to come back and bite you later.
Cocaine making a mad dash through his system, Sacha sat up straighter, pleased with the way things were working out. A few more silent seconds before Xander finally spoke, and when he did it was very slowly, as though talking to a child. Sacha didn’t appreciate the tone.
“Assuming I do find a buyer, what’s the turnaround time on something like this?”
Sacha lied. “One week from the time you call to delivery.”
“Hmm. Seems awful fast to cook a nuke,” he said thoughtfully. “So you’ve already tested and got plenty of product lined up…. And the production facility is close, then. In Russia? Or Belarus?”
“Come, now, Xander. You don’t really expect me to give you that information. If you knew that, what would you need me for?”
“Oh, I understand—if you can’t.”
Sacha tilted his head, pulse increasing.
“Tell me about Harvey.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You heard me,” Xander said, voice smooth and even. “You want me to play dough-boy like some two-bit street hustler, when clearly this is bigger than dimebags and eightballs. I need to know exactly what it is I’m pushing. Give me the basics. The alloy used in the casing—primarily gold or cobalt?”
Sacha blinked.
“Core component: plutonium or uranium? Which isotopes, and what are the explosive yield and fallout per megaton?”
He didn’t have those answers. Wouldn’t have them until he located his father’s files. Or—
Nikolay’s screw-ups were bothering him again.
The shift in the room was palpable. Somehow, he’d lost control of this puppet’s strings. He hadn’t even realized until now that this was Xander’s attack. What did the Americans call it? Carrying fire in one hand and water in the other? Duquesne would not fold.
His father had been the same way, unwilling to yield, unwilling to acknowledge it was time he moved over and let Sacha run the show. He’d put up a fight—as much of a fight a man Nikolay’s age could manage—going on and on about the secrets. The cattle prod managed to squeeze a hint out just before the old man died, and he wondered what information Duquesne would spill in a similar situation.
Sacha inhaled another line of snow, ignored whatever Xander was saying, forced one more up the other nostril. He grabbed his cheeks and pulled, sucking in more air. The burn kick-started his brain cells as the pieces dropped into place in his mind. He’d let the man talk all he wanted, because in the next few hours, Xander Duquesne would no longer be a problem.
And to celebrate, I’ll make that bitch of his dance and dance and dance.
8
Finally.
Zlata rolled off of her knees and onto her side, the pain in her joints screaming. She hated uncurling from the position, preferring instead to endure the pain once than to know the sweet relief of relaxing would be cut short when she had to assume the pose again.
At 19, she had the body of a woman four times her age; bones brittle and thin. She ate a little portion of whatever the cook prepared—and as soon as she was dismissed from the table, she ran to the bathroom to return it. Then, in the early hours of the morning when the house was sleeping, she’d creep to the kitchen and steal two slices of bread from the bag, a piece of fruit or raw vegetable if she could find one, and drink water straight from the tap. She needed all of her faculties to execute her plan, and quickly learned every meal was being fortified with things that had zero nutritional value.
Each day she affected the slack-faced look of the other puppets, and waited for the moment this life would end.
She had to believe it would be over soon.
Courage….
She didn’t feel very courageous. But she was determined to see this plan through.
By the crack at the bottom of the door, she could hear the deep voices of the two men inside; could tell from the escalating tones things were not going well. If she went now, she would be back at her post in time—she had to be back in time. Anything else would mean pain. It was a risk, it was always a risk, but there were things more pressing than Sacha’s rage that she had to contend with.
So long as she hurried she would be fine.
Pushing herself from the floor, she stretched her aching limbs, hearing the pops and creaks as bones shifted back into place. Then she turned on her heel and inched away from the office.
First she’d get to Xander’s sub.
And then, God willing, Xander.
* * * *
Kizzie rounded another corner, walking down a corridor Sumi had failed to show her. She could hear the different activity going on in the rooms, women screaming, whips cracking. The girls here were a livelier bunch, and she figured they must be some of the female guests in attendance, because Sacha’s lifeless puppets couldn’t muster the energy to hum.
From the threshold, she peeked in at the action in a room where a voluptuous woman knelt on the floor, legs on either side of a bolster, grinding against the vibrating Sybian machine. Two men flanked her, cocks in hand, stroking in time with her mewling. She watched intently the way the woman’s fingers roamed across her lush body, head tipped back, mouth opened rapturously.
One man advanced, pushing his dick past the parted lips and—
Kizzie turned away, face heating. She had other things to focus on at the moment, like finding Sacha’s bedroom. Her theory: people kept their valuables close at hand. Sacha was not a trusting man, regardless of how much control he appeared to have over his compound. She’d bet he had Intel on Harvey tucked safely away in a vault in his room. Screw Xander’s ‘look-but-don’t-touch’ edict. She was already here, might as well touch something.
Making another turn, she came to a door—locked. It only made her want to get inside it even more. And with the lock picks she’d hidden beneath the corset just along the stiff ribbing, it would be a cinch.
She tiptoed to the end of the hallway to check that no one was coming, the area darkening a bit as she approached an alcove near a double sash window. A noise at her back made her rush inside the little niche, pressing against a wall, when a warm body brushed her from behind.
The response was automatic; elbow rammed backward into the gut of her assailant, landing with a solid thump, and she threw her head back, missing the chin she’d hoped to find there, connecting with his breastbone instead. Strong arms gripped about her middle, holding her limbs to her sides with the force of a vice grip. A hand clamped over her open mouth, and she tried to bite down.
“Quiet,” the voice whispered.
Kizzie stopped fighting, relief flooding her. Still in his hold, she allowed him to shift his body to the front of the space to peek cautiously around the side. A couple of tense moments passed before he released her.
“How many?” she asked.
“One guard,” Marchande murmured back. “Bedroom?”
She nodded.
“Already looked. Nothing. Even in the safe—just cash. Eyes and ears planted.” He checked around the edge again. “Company.”
Kizzie forced her way to the front, and Marchande let her see for herself. Sure enough one guard headed their way, a compact submachine gun in his hold. He stopped at the bedroom door, jiggled the handle, and continued up the hall. Another pause at a large mirror Kizzie hadn’t noticed and he looked
himself over, finger-combing his greasy hair. He struck a few poses with the gun—‘cause everyone did that when they thought no one was watching.
Really? She didn’t know how long she’d been gone, but if this boob stayed in the mirror much longer, “Lucy” would have some “s’plainin’ to do” once she got back. On the other hand, if he caught Marchande, they’d all have some explaining to do with the added excitement of dodging bullets.
Kizzie took a step forward and Phil grabbed her shoulder, insistently shook his head when she turned to him. “Got a better idea?” she whispered. “Me, then you.”
Nodding begrudgingly, he dropped his hand and she strolled out of the cubby. Caught unawares, the guard—the same one who had tried to pat down her person when they’d arrived—pointed the gun at her. Kizzie raised her hands and gasped, hoping like hell he didn’t pull the trigger. Dying in a cupless corset was not on the bucket list.
“What are you doing over here?” he asked in urgent Russian, the gun wavering slightly.
She shook her head to indicate she didn’t understand, all the while taking slow steps toward him. “Please, I…I just got a little turned around, you know. This place is so big, and pretty, and, well, I just thought—”
“Zatknis´!”
She immediately stopped talking—that tone was understandable in every language—fixing her face with as much fear as she could muster. She took in short, quick breaths, made her body tremble. She couldn’t have been more than eight feet from him, and she continued to inch forward. They’d only have one shot at this, so the closer she got, the better.
“Stop there,” he commanded in accented English, lifting the weapon higher.
Or I could stop here…. She lowered her hands, smiling as they trailed over her nipples and down the fabric covering her belly. It drew his eye for a moment, but didn’t completely distract him. “See. Unarmed.” She giggled nervously, crooking her finger for him to come closer. “But you can check for yourself.”
The guard took a step, trepidation slowly losing out to baser instincts, lust pushing him closer and closer to her until he was only a few steps away. Hand extended to touch her, something over her shoulder caught his gaze.
Using the moment, Kizzie’s arm shot out, the heel of her palm connecting with his nose. At the odd angle, the force didn’t jam the cartilage into his brain as she’d hoped, but it stunned him enough to make him drop the weapon and claw at his damaged nostrils. Moving fast, she delivered a knee to his solar plexus, and he oomphed, doubled over but didn’t fall.
Sweet spot, she decided, kicking upward between his legs. The goon had other plans, catching her foot mid swing and yanking her toward him. She stepped down hard on the extended leg, pain shooting up to her hip, and the fingers of his open hand caught her across the face. Drama added, she fell to the ground. With her training, she didn’t register the blow, compartmentalizing whatever pain the tap might have caused and focusing on her short-term goal of bringing the man down. And she didn’t have long.
Regrouping, she laid on the ground, soft moans escaping her throat. Instead of coming to finish her off as she’d hoped, the man went for his gun.
Retrieval of the weapon was not an option.
Kizzie sprang from the floor. Charging the man from behind, she hopped on his back and snaked a forearm around his neck, the other behind his head. The front hand gripped her elbow, and she used her arms to leverage his head forward, cutting off his air.
He batted at her with his hands, tried to ram her against the wall, but Kizzie held on. Legs tightened around his torso, she maintained position until his flailing turned to staggering, and that turned to him slumping onto the floor. She kept her hold tight until she was sure he was out, and Marchande left his hidey-hole to join her.
“Could’ve helped,” she breathed.
Phil looped his hands under the guard’s arms and dragged. “Had to take down the one on rounds outside. Thought I’d let you have a little fun.”
Kizzie chuckled. “You’re so thoughtful, Phil. How’s it you’re not married?”
The man sliding along the wood groaned. They pushed him into the niche, and Phil pressed down on a spot at the base of his neck. He slumped again. Out cold.
“Y’know, you seem to be the only person to appreciate me.” He flashed her a devastating smile. “What d’ya say? Wanna get married, Kizzie?”
“I’d love to, handsome. But your boss is my current owner. I’ll keep you in mind when this honeymoon ends.”
Marchande pulled a pair of zip-ties from his pocket and bound the guard, following through with a strip of duct tape to the mouth.
“Is that what you pulled on me in Mauritius?” He nodded and she cut her eyes at him. “You’re going to teach me that trick.”
Phil went to the window, lifted the sash. “We’re not married yet, dear, so you can’t order me around. Scoot.” He climbed through the opening and lowered the glass, disappearing into the frosty night.
Kizzie turned and went down the corridor, laughing in her head. Between Phil and Xander, they made it hard for her to remember they were the bad guys.
No sense in sorting out her career issues now, she had to get back to her spot at Sacha’s door.
* * * *
Her Master secured in the office, the puppet slipped into a side room and found the recess in the wall. She was early, she knew, but the information she had could not wait.
Making quick work of the tunnels, she located her contraband and pulled it from the niche in the floor. Adrenaline coursed through her veins at what she might be told.
On the third international ring, her call was answered.
“Kotenok.” Such a simple nickname, but it always made her heart flutter. “I expected you tomorrow.”
She spoke urgently in Russian, hoping her voice didn’t carry, but too nervous to really care. “I believe the meeting has moved for tonight. They have been talking for a while now and not—”
“Calm yourself, kotenok.”
A deep inhale and she started again, slower this time. “The Duquesne man arrived, with a submissive. The meeting is tonight, not tomorrow as planned.”
The person on the other end did not respond for what felt like an eternity, and the puppet grew more and more restless. She had to get back.
“When a warrior strikes—”
The code. “It,” she cleared her throat, “it is with stealth, accuracy, and purpose, so that his enemies have not the ability to counter or strike back.”
“And who is your enemy?”
“Sacha,” she said automatically, feeling the calm settle where anxiety had reigned for months. It would take her ten minutes to set the charges, but she’d have to wait to retrieve the cell phone. Now she just had to figure out a way to get him to the Dungeon. A slow smile crossed her face. “And one more.”
“One more, pet?”
“Oh, yes,” she nodded, empowered by what she would soon do. “One more.”
9
Kizzie jogged back the way she’d come, making her way through the different hallways until she arrived at one of the main playrooms. The action seemed to have continued without her, no one noticing her absence, but she was still cautious of being seen.
“Where are you going?”
Shit. The skeevy-looking Dom from before crossed her path, the stench of vodka and cigarettes strong on his hot breath. Brown shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows revealed short, hairy arms. Leather crop in hand, he slapped it against the opposite palm as he leered at her breasts.
“To my Master,” she said begrudgingly, glad Xander wasn’t around to hear that. She moved to go by him, but he stepped in the same direction, blocking her. “Please, I don’t want any trouble.” Not that she cared either way. With the adrenaline still pumping from the tussle with the guard, she was up for either fighting or fucking. Fighting was all this guy would get.
“Not so fast, puppet,” Master Vadim said. “I’m going to play with you first.”
&nb
sp; He reached out a hand and tugged on the lock of her collar. That he’d touched it pissed her off more than his skin on hers. She slapped his arm away. “I said I’m going to my Master.” ‘Dumbass’ was implied.
The man grinned, exposing teeth gaped so wide she could see the whole house through the picket fence. “Sacha always shares his toys. Every woman here belongs to him, in one way or another.”
“Not me,” she chirped; gave an over-bright smile. Her gaze went beyond him and she blinked, sure she was seeing things. Zlata approached then paused, eyes widening, before she turned and rushed back down the hallway, moving surprisingly fast for someone who was supposed to be frozen before her owner’s door.
The girl glanced back and then hurried out of sight. What is she up to? Kizzie was so confused she reacted to the touch before her brain even registered it. Her arms lifted, throwing his palm off of her. The move exposed his throat and with a stiff hand she jammed her fingers firmly into the soft depression at the base, curled them sharply inward over his sternum. It amplified the sound of his breathing, and she tugged him toward her, slapping him hard across the face. The loud smack ricocheted off the walls.
“Bitch!” he wheezed and quickly raised his arm, the rigid end of the crop slashing her cheek. It stung, but Kizzie had other things on her mind. She pushed her fingers in a bit more, assisting him in taking a seat on the ground. Then she took off running behind the puppet.
* * * *
Certain he’d kept Sacha occupied long enough for Phil to access the house, Xander decided it was time to end this little power surge the young Sokoviev had shown. It took every drop of his dwindling patience not to hop the table and strangle the kid with his bare hands. Threatening me? Wrong move. But that was not the way to handle Sacha. He’d kill him with kindness, or calm, at least.
For now.
Speaking in a tone that brooked no argument, Xander said, “The loss of my initial investment is not something I’m going to just live with. We’ll have to come to some sort of arrangement that ensures I’ll see that money. I don’t care how you get it, just so long as you get it. Quickly. In the meantime, I may consider acting as a distributor—of course the split would be 60-40 in my favor, with the added caveat that my sphere of selling be worldwide.