Detour Paris: Complete Series (Detour Paris Series Book 4)

by Dancer, Jack

  "Should I?” Tanya asks turning to Madame Bovarie.

  "Of course, he will be much more comfortable,” she replies sliding my underwear down my legs and off and, like a specimen for examination, I'm now lying fully exposed before two strange women.

  "Així, com creus?” (So, how do you think?) asks Madame.

  "Que farà,” (He'll do.) responds Tanya.

  "Now, Señor Blue I will leave you in Tanya's capable...” Madame says, but I'm already fading into oblivion.

  "Deixi'l home dormir Tanya. Una polla flàccida és més útil per a vostè com un cavall castrat.” (Let the man sleep Tanya. A flaccid cock is no more helpful to you as a gelding), Madame says.

  "Si Madame,” says Tanya and the next thing I know a warm, naked body is cuddling against me while I drift out onto a sea of nothingness.

  forty-four

  Morning, Sunday, 7 September.

  The El Raval Apartment.

  The nightmare wakes me with a start, sweaty and dazed. Trying to unjumble my jumbled head, I look down and see Monica sleeping soundly next to me. Oh, thank God, I think, just a nightmare. But, so real!

  Wasn't it real? I take a second look pulling back the sheet covering her head and . . .

  Holy shit! It’s not Monica. Who is this woman?

  I look around, nothing's familiar.

  This isn’t our room at the Hilton. And it's not the Hotel Arts either. It's not even the Fira. Where the hell am I?

  Events begin slowly percolating back into my consciousness when the dam breaks and everything floods over me like a rush of raw sewage, every last awful detail.

  The discussion, if you could call it that, went on and on and round and round, and like a yo-yo, kept returning to me as the only one in a position to do anything, so finally I just told 'em, I'll pay the bloody ransom and be done with it. I'd already made up my mind about it before they showed anyhow, and looking back on it, I wish I'd told 'em that in the first place. We could've skipped the meeting altogether. Maybe that way Monica would be here lying next to me instead of . . . I lift the sheet and take another peek. Holy shit. Tanya? Was her name, Tanya?

  Now I'm certain. It's because the suite at the Hilton was registered in my name. They'd been watching it all along, biding their time until we finally showed. Then they got us leaving. It’s that Goddamn ticket and fucking over Libica's boys (thank you Dick) that any of this happened in the first place.

  What the hell did happen last night that I'm now here in bed with . . . Tanya?

  Oh, Christ. And I dive back into oblivion.

  ***

  Sunlight marches across my face turning up the pink backs of my eyelids, urging me forward, pulling me upward into consciousness, like a bloated corpse through murky waters. Misty forms begin to shape, Madame Ovarie, a young girl, Sanya, no . . . Tanya, an offering, my sedative, Dick, bidding sleep, goodnight, vanishing.

  Clarity's awakening. Something warm rustles beside me. Unsure, I gently pull back the bedcover revealing a young . . . Jesus, she's naked as a jaybird. Did I fuck this girl last night? I can't even remember. This doesn't count does it? I mean, you have to be awake don't you? Shouldn't you have to at least remember? Oh, Christ Monica, where are you? I promise I'll find you, just, please pay no attention to this. It doesn't count.

  "Señor Blue?” a voice calls, footsteps padding toward the bed. "Señor Blue, it's Madame Bovarie,” she sings and Tanya rustles against me, snuggling tighter at the disturbance. "Tanya, you little slut,” she says with affection, gently shaking the girl's arm.

  "Nr.,” (No) coos Tanya burrowing even deeper into me, tightening her leg that's draped over me, nudging it farther up mine until she startles at what she finds. "Ooh, this is what I love about mornings," she coos sleepily, "Is this my breakfast in bed?"

  "Señor Blue?" says Madame Bovarie.

  "Yes," I croak, pinned under human appendages, surely, young enough to warrant statutory rape charges, and what I can only imagine must be the Madame's interrogating glare. I can't tell. My eyes refuse to open.

  "How this morning do you feel, Señor? Did Tanya comfort you last night?" she asks, pleasantly.

  Am I safe?

  Tanya comes around rubbing the Sandman from her eyes like a child.

  "Yes, thank you. I slept like a baby. Did you give me a sedative last night?” I ask.

  "Yes, I did, Señor. You came here in quite a state, very disturbed, unsettled. I gave you a Vicodin and Secobarbital to help you settle down and sleep. Tanya here was to help comfort you so you would not awake in a startle. Did she do that for you, Señor?"

  "Uh . . . yes, I believe so, though at the moment she's causing me to become a bit anxious."

  "Should I leave, Señor, and allow you a few moments to relieve yourself with Tanya?" she says as if Tanya's a Fireman's pump.

  Tanya pipes up, "I would like that very much, Madame. Please leave me to the señor, and I will be sure he is fit and ready for the day."

  I'm frozen to the bed, way too tongue-tied to respond when Madame turns and quietly departs the room. Tanya slides the rest of herself over, on top of me, covering me lengthwise with her body and without saying anything pulls her entire self up over me and down. Straddling me she reaches between her legs and with me in hand, teases herself open, guiding me into her warmth and a shiver runs through me from head to toe. I feel myself growing so hard it's like it belongs to someone else and Tanya's using it like a best friend.

  "Ah," she moans as I slide into her warmth, inhaling her intoxicating youth. Shame nearly overcomes me that I'm allowing this girl, who's probably no older than my own kids, to do this. But, then it doesn't. Why let guilt ruin something so purely pleasurable? For her? My whole-body stiffens, and I give up everything and she answers, tightening like a coil, then releasing, pouring forth like warm candy.

  God, these young ones, I think, so wet, and slippery still.

  "Do you feel better now, Señor Blue?” she asks.

  "Oh yes. And you?”

  "I feel I'm just getting started. Is it okay if I fuck you more, and we will call it brunch?” she asks with a beguiling smile.

  "I think you've emptied the well, Tanya, but if you feel the need to take another drink; I'll try to oblige."

  "Good,” she says, and she moves into a long slow roll over me again, her body tightening, bracing against another swell before dropping back down onto me, spent; she tucks her head under my chin like a child.

  "That was very nice, Señor Blue. Thank you for allowing me to use you. It is not often I am using the man."

  "It was my pleasure."

  "I know it was,” she says.

  A familiar singsong announces Madame Bovarie's return. "Señor, if you are through with my little birdsong, she needs to begin preparing for the day. I have a nice warm breakfast coming for you."

  Tanya takes her cue and comes out of the bed showing me her lithe young figure before disappearing through a door across the room. Another woman enters through the same door bearing a steaming tray of covered plates. I raise myself, and she places the breakfast bed tray over me and uncovers the two plates of eggs, sausage, fruits, and breads. She pours a cup of black coffee then steps back, next to the Madame.

  "Doubtless I came out of hell last night only to awaken in heaven this morning,” I say.

  "You certainly did, Señor Blue,” says the Madame motioning for the girl to leave. She pulls a chair from a nearby table and sits next to the bed.

  “Señor Dick brought you here last night in quite a state and instructed me to take care of you for the night, though I understand this will be your new home for a while. It is the apartment he has arranged for you in the El Raval."

  “Oh, yes, I remember,” I say.

  “I own the building next door to this one. The two are connected by way of a short underground passageway. I will show you after you have had your breakfast and taken your toilet. Señor Dick's men have brought over all you had at the Hotel Arts. Everything has been placed on t
he dresser or hung in the closet or is in the bath. The belongings of Señora Monica are here as well."

  A knife plunges into my heart as she says this, but she continues without skipping a beat.

  “I am the Madame of the house next door and my girls, and I will be at your service for anything you may wish. We will prepare your meals and provide all the cleaning and any other services you may require. You will be quite safe here, Señor. The apartment is fully secured and equipped for any situation. I will give you a tour after your toilet. Just ring the buzzer on that wall (she points to a doorbell across the room), and I will return,” she says getting up.

  I start to rise, but she motions for me to remain and enjoy my breakfast. I do until I start thinking about last night and Monica, and I'm overcome with a paralyzing fear. I drop the fork to the plate and fall back onto the bed and am assaulted by the image of Monica being dragged into that van.

  Then the thought takes hold of me, and I move the breakfast tray to the floor and go to the closet to find my computer. It's there. I open it and power up. It seems to take years to boot and when it does it starts looking for local Wi-Fi's. As the list appears, I don't even think about finding the one for this apartment. I simply select the first one I see is not locked and click on it. I go straight to my Hotmail account and there's a new email with an attachment.

  The subject line is: Guess Who? I clicked the attachment and the display slowly unfolds a blood streaked human form, propped in a chair, naked, in a tiled room. The head is skinned completely. The skull's mouth hangs slack and one eyeball bulges from its socket staring straight ahead, the other dangles from an empty socket by a string of flesh. The torso said, woman. I slam the laptop shut and run into the other bathroom and vomit.

  Oh, my God! That bitch has done this to Monica? I'm gonna fuckin' KILL HER! Oh, Jesus, no. Don't let it be Monica. Wait! Could it be Ebba or Terry? Oh, my God! Which one?

  I run back into the bedroom and open the laptop again and pull up Ebba's ransom note and reply . . .

  I will pay what you ask for the one remaining woman and the woman you kidnapped last night - two million euros. I cannot do anything until the banks open tomorrow, but I will be there first thing and begin the process of collecting cash. I don't know how long that will take, but I would imagine at least a day. Be assured, I will pay. However, let me warn you this, if you harm a single hair on either of these women, you can be sure I will spend everything I have to hunt you, your family and your friends down and I will flay them alive, you sick motherfucker.

  I will send an email confirming when I have the cash available for delivery. If you cannot abide by these constraints - which are not within my control - then, fuck you. And I will flay everyone you know and care about anyway. Then I'll hunt you down like the dog you are, and I promise you; you will beg me to kill you and end the unspeakable horror I will show you.

  Tucker Blue

  p.s. It saddens me I cannot shank you through this email.

  I hit the SEND button with relish. I feel better, but it's only because I am so fucking mad I could spit lead. If I had that woman in front of me right now, I swear to God, I'd tear her into pieces and shove 'em down her throat one by one and watch her choke the life out of herself. I've never in my life felt so frustrated that I cannot put my hands around this woman and peel every living fiber out of her until her life is no more than a thread away from oblivion. I want to rip her soul out and eat it in front of her. God, I've never felt such a hatred burning inside of me as I'm feeling at this very moment and it feels so fucking good. I've never felt more alive. I've got to get my hands on this woman and tear the life out of her.

  My cell phone rings shaking me out of my euphoria for killing this woman. Is it possible the bitch is calling already about the reply I just sent out? Impossible!

  I pick up. It's James. He apologizes for calling but says something's come up, and he needs to speak with me as soon as possible and I can only think, James you do not want to be anywhere near me at this moment because whatever's tearing at me to get out right now would probably gladly devour you as an expedient substitute. I don't think it really cares who at the moment.

  “Go ahead now, you're speaking,” I say barely able to contain myself from reaching through the cellular airwaves and ripping his throat out.

  Get a hold of yourself Blue or you're going to lose it and everything you're trying to save.

  “Not over the phone, Tucker. This is too important. We need a face-to-face. (How about me eating your face off? Would that face-to-face work? It would for me.) I don't feel comfortable doing it here at the Fira. Too many eyes and ears. Can we meet at your suite at the Hilton? Is that where you are now?” he asks.

  “No, it needs to be somewhere else,” I say biting all the flesh from the inside of my mouth. “How about at the outdoor cafe in the center of Park Güell? I'll meet you there in two hours and whoever gets there first gets the table.” (Or, come over hear and I'll turn you into bite-size body parts to send to the fucking bitch and set the mood for when I really come a callin'.)

  “That'll do. I'll see you in two hours. Sorry to make this so hush-hush and urgent, Tucker, but I think when you hear what I have to tell you, you'll understand,” he says.

  “All right,” I say and hang up wondering just what the hell's so important. Probably wants to give me pointers on taking a rim job.

  Fuck! I got to get ahold of myself. I take a fifteen-minute break and do my best to Zen out and calm down. Once there, I shave and shower, get dressed and ring the buzzer for Madame. Not sixty seconds go by, and she's at my door.

  “Ready for your tour, Señor Blue?”

  “Yes, thank you Madame. So, what is it we have here?"

  “We start with an operator's manual you may peruse at your leisure.” She hands over a three-inch ring binder. “This will itemize the various features of the apartment, including equipment and locations."

  “Holy smokes. Is there a test on this stuff?"

  “No, Señor Blue you are completely on your own as to how much you'd like to learn about the apartment. In reality, you'll probably not use ten percent of the features the apartment has to offer, just as you most likely use no more than ten percent of the available features on your smart phone or computer. They are there if you so desire,” she says. “To start, let me just run down a list of some of the more important features, and you can delve into the rest at your leisure."

  “Sounds good."

  She passes to me a device with a separate plastic bag of small accessories. "This is a hand-held GPS that is preprogrammed with the more important locations throughout the El Raval district, including, safe houses, escape routes and other interesting places you may want to explore.

  "The plastic bag contains a dozen or so tracking discs. As you can see they are very small, measuring only one inch in diameter by one-half inch thick. They are attachable to clothing or to any metallic object. Try to place the tracker so it is not terribly blocked by metal for maximum signal output. The tracking discs come in an assortment of colors - black, white, tan and clear. Just select the color you think will best hide with the person's clothing or the metallic object; they’re magnetized for easy attachment.

  "In addition to the present location of the disc, the device reports specific routes taken, stops made and durations. Each burst of signal is date and time stamped. Each tracking disc is solar powered but contains an initial charge, good for 72 hours. If the person or object is stationary, the power drain is minimal to none and available power may exceed 72 hours. Also included in the bag are instructions for downloading special applications for tracking these discs from your iPhone, iPad, or computer.

  Speed's going to love this, I’m thinking.

  "The apartment itself is a virtual impenetrable fortress capable of withstanding a small army for up to a week, as long as they have no heavy artillery, guided missile or nuclear devices of course.

  Are you kidding me? I'm thinking.

&nbs
p; "Exterior walls are paneled with carbon steel bullet resistant sheets - nothing is truly bullet proof - with intelligent sensors buried throughout to detect and deflect intrusion. Windows are barred and shaded and constructed of polycarbonate plastic, again, bullet resistant.

  "Entry doors are plated titanium and also bullet resistant. Each entry door has a rotatable telescopic peephole so you can view more area than normal peepholes would allow. They are also camera lenses so if you want to take a photograph of the person or persons standing outside, you can. The resulting images are then immediately processed through facial recognition software, and you will receive either a green light indicating positive recognition of a friendly face, a red light indicating positive recognition of an unfriendly face or a yellow light indicating no match to the database. Should you be confronted with an unfriendly or unwanted visitor, by pressing this button (she points out the button) the peephole will spray a very noxious gas into the person's face rendering them temporarily blind. The effect to them would be as if they were sprayed in the face by a mofeta . . . or how you say, a polecat . . . skunk I believe is the proper term.”

  “Jesus that must be pretty nasty,” I say cringing.

  “Yes, nasty. It would not be a pleasant experience, and you will likely never have another visit from that person. Visions of last night's meeting come to mind.

  "All entry doors are secured with automatic locking deadlocks that activate upon the door closing behind you. They may also be locked or unlocked using either a special six-digit combination which you will designate or with thumbprint recognition. Let's take a moment right now and program into the system, your thumbprint, and your six-digit code. Better to do it now so when you leave you can gain re-entry."