Dangerous Connections (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Odell, Terry

  Sounds of breathing overlaid the hum of the generator, as if the room were one big respirator. In, out, in, out. Slow, deep, and even.

  As her eyes adapted, she noticed that instead of an eighth bed at the far end of the room, there was a recliner. Her captor sat there, feet elevated, his arms folded behind his head. His teeth flashed in a cocky grin.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said. “There is even an empty bed. Sometimes, the ladies, they are not so lucky. Then again, maybe they enjoy the sharing.” His guttural laugh chilled Elle to her toes.

  Elle inched her way down the room, pausing at each bed. Her blood chilled as she saw what appeared to be lifeless lumps under thin blankets. Had it not been for the breathing, she wouldn’t have known these people were alive. Not one stirred as she passed.

  Drugged?

  She paused at each bed, hoping to recognize Trish as its occupant. Too dark. She checked for shackles and found them at the leg of each bed, the chain snaking up and under the covers. A closer exam showed another at the head. God, if Trish was immobilized—if she’d been immobilized for any length of time—would she still be alive? If she’d thrown a clot, would anyone have known what to do? Would they have bothered?

  She rested her hand on the pocket where she’d concealed the meds. For whatever reason, the guard who had frisked her either hadn’t noticed the case or hadn’t cared. Maybe he’d thought it was for female things.

  “Go, go,” the man said. “To your bed.”

  Elle found the empty bed, third down on the left. She sat, testing the lumpy mattress and surveyed the room, hoping for a means of escape. One of the two curtained windows, presumably barred, was directly above her bed. She filed that tidbit of information away. A doorway split the far wall. A bathroom, she assumed. At least she hoped it was. And that the guard would let her use it.

  Jinx’s voice carried into the room, asking about his fiancé. She figured they were back to being Elspeth and Stephen when he’d referred to her that way earlier. His use of fiancé confirmed it. She strained to hear more, to pick up on what he was telling them. Standard interrogation techniques meant separating suspects and comparing stories. A single contradiction and it might be over for her—or Jinx. Or both of them. But she needed to try.

  Act like a woman in love.

  “Please. My fiancé. What are they doing to him? Why am I here? What is this place?”

  “This place is your new home.”

  “But Steve—my fiancé? What about him?”

  The man laughed again. “If you are lucky, maybe they will let you go. And maybe he will still want you. But others will have you first.” He made a circle of thumb and forefinger with one hand and with a finger of his other hand moving in and out, indicating what she could expect.

  Over her dead body. Which seemed more and more possible.

  She might as well check out as much of her new prison as she could. “May I please use the restroom? Baño, por favor?”

  He grunted and pointed to the doorway. He tapped a wristwatch and held up a hand, palm out, fingers spread. “Cinco. Five minutes.”

  She nodded. “Si.”

  The bathroom housed the expected facilities. Toilet, sink, vanity, tub-shower combo with a plastic shower curtain enclosure. The curtain had once been transparent, but now was opaque with mildew.

  What the room didn’t have was a door. Or a window that opened. The glass was frosted, but she could see the shadows of grillwork outside. She examined the ceiling and found a vent typical of bathrooms. A yellowed string dangled beneath it. Whether the fan worked was another story. Since the air was musty, but didn’t carry any odors of sewage, she assumed it did.

  The only concession to privacy was a second shower curtain suspended from the ceiling, hanging in front of the toilet. This one was newer, yellow with bright blue flowers. She glanced at the doorway, but the angle was such that she didn’t have a view of the guard’s chair. He wasn’t hovering in the doorway, thank goodness. Bathroom trips were probably routine for him, and she imagined the women were docile enough, assuming they were kept sedated.

  Elle surmised this building had been a residence at one point, converted to a holding facility for Aguilar’s women, although she doubted he ever availed himself of their services, since she couldn’t imagine him in a place like this. Did he reward his men here, in the communal bedroom? Or were there other, more comfortable rooms for… visitation? For that matter, were there more rooms like this one, housing even more women?

  She ducked behind the curtain and took care of business. Running water was good. She let the water flow into the sink. Although the sink was rust-stained, the water ran clear. A soap dish held a small bar of soap.

  Two threadbare hand towels hung from a stainless steel rod mounted on the tile wall. A potential weapon? Could she break it off? She tugged gently. It seemed tightly fastened, but she might be able to. Another tidbit she filed away in case she needed it. She held her hands under the stream. The water had warmed, although it didn’t get hot. Then again, in this climate, lukewarm wouldn’t be bad. She washed her hands and face and noticed a tumbler with four toothbrushes. There were six women out there. Were they expected to share? That was pushing it.

  “Time, time, time,” the guard said.

  Elle wiped her hands on her cargo pants. At least she knew where they’d been. When she left the room, the guard pointed toward the bed. “Breakfast in two hours.”

  Dare she sleep? A two hour nap would do wonders, and there was nothing else she could do. However, she had to try. “My fiancé? Stephen? Stephen Brand?”

  He rested his palms on the arms of his chair, as if he were going to stand. “If you are needing a man, I will oblige.”

  She shook her head. Pulled the cover folded at the foot of the bed around her. Curled into a ball. Two hours. She’d think of something by then. Right now, what she was thinking of was Jinx. Curled up behind her, his arm clutching her to him, his cheek resting close to her face. The sounds of breathing surrounded her. Lulled her. And then there was nothing.

  Jinx forced himself to breathe as he waited for Ramon’s response. He strained to pick up sounds from wherever they had taken Elle. He thought he heard her voice, but the thrumming of the generator masked anything specific. He heard the guard mention a bed and his heart thumped. Was the sleazebucket going to rape Elle?

  Unlikely. From what Jinx had seen of Elle, the man would probably be missing a vital part of his masculinity if he tried.

  Ramon crossed the room and poured another cup of coffee. He leaned against the credenza and sipped his drink. “Your story is intriguing. Hard to believe, but intriguing. Perhaps you would accompany my men and show them where you discovered your treasure.”

  “I doubt I could find it. One jungle bush looks like every other jungle bush to me. I’m a city boy. And frankly, I’m exhausted. Even if I knew where it was, I don’t think my eyes could focus.”

  Jinx hoped Ramon didn’t think to call Aguilar and verify his story. The private network phones should still be defunct, but the regular phones might be able to get a signal through, although his and Fozzie’s “fixes” should still be creating intermittent problems. Also, this area was remote, and he hadn’t seen any cell towers along their route. He tried to fabricate a contingency story in case Ramon did get through to Aguilar.

  “The women will be served breakfast in a few hours. Meanwhile, you may rest.” Ramon strode to the doorway and indicated Jinx should follow. They passed through the foyer, down a short hallway. Ramon opened a door to a cozy bedroom. “This room is currently unoccupied. Someone will come for you when it is time to eat.”

  Jinx eyed the queen-sized bed. “I don’t suppose you’d let my fiancé wait here with me?” He didn’t have to stretch to add a bit of pleading to his tone. “I mean, you know, I’d rather not be alone.”

  Ramon frowned. “You ask a lot.”

  “Is it really so much? She is my fiancé, after all. A few last moments together—?�
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  “I cannot. But you have my word she will not be harmed or… bothered… in any way while I investigate your story. If everything is as you say, I will consider your request. Later.”

  Jinx wondered what Ramon’s word was worth, but kept his mouth shut. He bobbed his chin in deference to the man’s power. Ramon smirked, then turned to leave. “In case you have thoughts about leaving, be aware I will have a guard outside your door.”

  As if Jinx thought it would be any other way. “I’ll be here.”

  He took a moment to investigate his quarters, hoping to find a bathroom. He did, and it was almost as grand as the one in Aguilar’s compound, albeit on a smaller scale. Polished tile, plush towels, soaps, shampoos, shaving accoutrements—both masculine and feminine—indicated this was a place where women were expected to entertain. If he had any doubts, the huge assortment of condoms eradicated them.

  He would have loved a nice shower. He eyed the oversized tub. That would be even nicer, but not alone. However, he wasn’t going to get caught in the buff if something went down, so he settled for using the head and a wash from the waist up at the sink. The window in the bathroom was frosted, small, and high. These people didn’t build houses with easy exits.

  He went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Comfortable enough. A large armoire sat against one of the walls, but it was padlocked. He wondered if Elle could pick it. Not that it would be a weapons stash, not in here. He sank into the mattress. He’d be smart to take a catnap. Refresh a few brain cells. Until Ramon came back, there wasn’t anything Jinx could do.

  He didn’t think his brain would shut down enough to sleep, but apparently he’d reached a point along the exhaustion trail that overpowered even the energy booster, because the next thing he knew, there was a knock on the door and someone was calling for Señor Brand.

  Jinx struggled out of the deep, hard sleep he’d fallen into, and caught himself before telling whoever it was they had the wrong room.

  You’re Stephen Brand. Engaged to Elspeth… what the hell is her cover name? Grisham. Right. Elspeth Grisham.

  He staggered to the door, his brain only partially registering that here, nobody had barged in the way they had at Aguilar’s compound. Stifling a yawn, he opened the door. Cigar Man, minus cigar, stood there. Did that mean Ramon hadn’t been able to poke holes in Jinx’s story? Or was Cigar Man here to take Jinx to a firing squad?

  “You will come eat now,” Cigar Man said.

  Jinx’s stomach rumbled. Eating was good. Much better than the firing squad option. The bite of chocolate he’d shared with Elle, wonderful as it was, had long since disappeared.

  “Lead the way.”

  Ramon had said something about the women’s breakfast. If Jinx was eating with them, he might be able to catch up with Elle, compare notes. Not that he had a lot of notes to compare. But they needed to figure out a way to be somewhere Fozzie could find them. Before they’d left the helo, Jinx and Elle had provided voice samples for Fozzie’s voice recognition program, but he wasn’t sure their hosts would approve of Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer, or that he and Elle could talk enough for the computer to pick up their voices.

  It was still too early to expect Fozzie to be flying overhead, so Jinx set that aside to deal with later. After breakfast.

  He sniffed, seeking the aroma of bacon. Eggs. Pancakes. He got nothing. Not even coffee, with or without cinnamon.

  Cigar Man led him across the foyer, past the room where he’d met Ramon, and down a dimly lit corridor. He shoved open a door and gestured Jinx to a scarred wooden trestle table with benches along either side. Windows with the curtains pulled aside allowed light into the room, but the heavy foliage kept it from being cheery. As expected, wrought iron grillwork covered the windows.

  On the table were eight bowls, each with a spoon beside it, set neatly atop a folded paper napkin. Two boxes of corn flakes sat in the center of the table, along with two yellow plastic pitchers, which Jinx assumed held milk. No sugar bowl. No coffee cups. And most definitely no Red Bull.

  “No bacon?” he said.

  Cigar Man grunted. Pointed to a bowl at the end of the row. “Sit. Eat.”

  He sat. “I hate eating alone. Where’s everyone else?”

  “They are coming.”

  “Then I’ll wait. Some of us have manners, you know.” A rattling sound in the hallway seemed to be moving toward the room. Jinx turned toward the door. If he’d been eating, he would have dropped his spoon. A line of women shuffled into the room, their legs shackled. They seemed to lack the strength to pick up their feet. Heads down, shoulders slumped. They all wore oversize, thin cotton t-shirts which hung past their knees. Flip-flops on their feet. Lank, dirty hair. Nobody spoke.

  Jinx searched the line for Elle, not sure if he’d be glad to see her. Could she have been spared whatever indignities these women had? Been taken to quarters like his? And that thought led to the obvious—if she had, had she been alone? Or had company? Of the male variety.

  He spotted her, dressed like the others, second from the end, and decided seeing her, even in these conditions, was better than wondering. The women slid along the benches, taking seats as if they’d been following this routine all their lives. Jinx got a few questioning glances, but they quickly focused on the place settings in front of them. The woman at the far end of the opposite side picked up a cereal box, poured herself a bowl, then passed the box to the woman beside her. The woman seated next to Jinx turned toward him, waiting.

  He dumped some flakes into his bowl and handed her the box. She served herself, passed the box and used her chin to motion to the pitcher in front of him. He added milk to his cereal and the process continued. Nobody waited for the group to finish serving. As soon as they had cereal and milk, they gobbled it down, as if someone would take it away if they didn’t finish immediately.

  Jinx spooned up a mouthful. Powdered milk. Lukewarm. Nevertheless, he finished his portion, wondering if seconds were permitted. Wondering if this might be the only meal of the day. Wondering what it had taken to create such robotic behavior in what appeared to have been attractive, vibrant women.

  Shit. He was supposed to be looking for Crystal. From Elle’s expression, none of these women was Trish. Given the transformations, he wasn’t sure he’d recognize her—or Crystal Montlake, for that matter.

  “Nice day, isn’t it?” he said by way of trying to draw at least one of the women out of her semi-zombie state.

  They all stared at him, eyes wide in horror.

  Cigar Man, who had been lurking in a corner spoke up. “He is new, and here only for breakfast. He does not know the rule, so there will be no punishment. This time.” He stepped closer, put his face next to Jinx’s. Cigar or not, his breath reeked of his last smoke. “There is no conversation permitted. Do you understand?”

  Jinx nodded, adding more to his list of things to wonder about. What kind of punishment was meted out for speaking? And was it only at mealtimes? Were there designated conversation times?

  Elle seemed to know the rules, for she sat, head down and ate her cereal, eyes fixed on the bowl in front of her. She finished, set her spoon down, wiped her mouth, and tapped the table with her fingernails three times, as if she were nervous. A pause, then three more taps. And again. Code? But she was avoiding eye contact. Maybe it was nerves after all.

  Before Jinx could figure out a way to communicate, Cigar Man swaggered to the door and lifted a hand. The woman next to him took Jinx’s empty bowl, motioning he should place his napkin inside it. He watched as each woman crumpled her napkin into her bowl and passed it along, each adding hers to the stack as it passed by. The spoons made a separate trip. When everything was piled neatly at the end of the table, the women slid along the bench, formed their line, and shuffle-clanked toward the door, leaving Jinx to stare, open-mouthed, after them.

  Chapter 26

  Elle kept her eyes lowered as she took her place in line, glad she’d been forewarned about speaking. E
arlier, when she’d taken her assigned bed, hushed whispers from the woman next to her had warned of the consequences of any attempts at communication during meals, and she’d shown Elle the bruises as proof. Had Jinx checked out the woman Elle thought was Crystal Montlake? Thinner and shop-worn, but there was a definite resemblance to the pictures she’d seen.

  When they got to the room, a new guard was sitting in the recliner. Elle could feel the undercurrent of electricity passing through the room as the women entered and returned to their beds. The man rose and moved to the center of the far wall, where he stood at the head of the line of beds, his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze moving from one bed to the next. Scrutinizing them. Studying them.

  Elle perched on the edge of her bed, her gaze alternating between the man and the women in the beds across from hers. The women seemed excited, almost eager to hear what he had to say. Like children in school, waiting to be called upon. As if they were sending mental Pick me messages.

  Elle spared a glance at the woman she thought was Crystal Montlake, who seemed as expectant as everyone else.

  The man’s gaze swept the room again. He pointed to two women. Both brunettes, both slight of build. They smiled and stood beside their beds. The guard unshackled their legs and they followed him out of the room.

  When they’d gone, Elle turned to the woman beside her and whispered, “What just happened?”

  “Some guy wants them.”

  “And they’re excited about it? Being prostitutes?”

  “Sugar, around here, it’s the price you pay for a hot bath, fancy shampoos and soaps, a good meal, nice clothes, even if they’re only temporary.” A hint of the South colored her words.

  “But the men—?”

  “Most of them are just plain horny. Close your eyes and think of England, you know. Wham, bam, and it’s over. Most of ’em don’t say thank you, though. The trick is to stretch out the preliminaries—chit-chat, nice glass of wine, get them talking about themselves.”