by Logan Fox
Cora tried to pull herself free from the man’s grip, but he held on despite how she tugged. She sagged, her legs suddenly too heavy and clumsy for her to walk with.
This was the drunkest she’d ever felt, and she’d only had two glasses of champagne. And a shot of tequila, which had burned her throat like liquid fire.
The man from the restaurant slid an arm around her waist, maneuvering her into one of the alcoves studding the ballroom. It was furthest away from the bar and the crowd, but much closer to the DJ box. Here, the music was so loud that it made her clothes shiver against her body.
Something soft under her—a booth—and then a warm body flush against her urging her deeper inside the dark well.
“Who are you?” she asked, when she should have been yelling for help. But, for some reason, she didn’t feel in danger. Not right now. Her body was warm, the air fuzzy and thick around her. Like a hug.
“Simon,” the man said, speaking into her ear.
Simon says, ‘spread your legs, bitch.’
Cora laughed.
Simon gave her a quizzical look, his brown eyes glittering as a strobe light caught them.
He snatched up her hand, feeling her pulse. Then he leaned close, thumbing back her eyelids in a smooth, practiced motion.
“How much have you had to drink?” he asked, his voice different now. No longer soft and sensual, but brisk and business like.
She’d preferred the man who’d dropped to one knee with a gift in his hand. If he hadn’t done it in the middle of a crowded dance floor, letting everyone in the vicinity know who she was, then she’d have accepted it.
It would have been the first present she’d received today. The first present in the last ten years that hadn’t come from her father.
She held out her hands, cupping her palms. “Give it,” she said, but the words came out soft and slurred. She giggled, and ran her hand down the man’s chest. She’d seen him put the box back in his pocket, but she couldn’t remember which one.
Clumsy fingers couldn’t hold their grasp, and her hand slipped into his lap.
He was hard.
Her hand flinched away, but he grabbed it back and lay her fingers over his dick, urging her to stroke him through his suit pants. He slid closer on the bench, and took the gift box from his pocket.
“Looking for this?” Simon asked, his mouth right by her ear.
His voice had gone soft again. It sent a shiver through her.
He drew her hand off his lap, and levered open the lid of the box. In the darkness, she couldn’t quite make out what was inside, but when cool metal brushed her skin, she knew it was jewelry.
“Thank you,” she said, her mouth garbling the words into something unintelligible.
Simon tugged at the bracelet as if to make sure it was securely closed. Then he turned concerned eyes back on her.
“What did you take?” His voice was stern again.
She shrugged, and then shook her head. No, she hadn’t taken anything, had she?
Had she?
Dios Mio, he was so much hotter than she remembered. Flawless skin, thick long hair, and such intelligent eyes.
Simon ducked his head, and pressed his mouth to hers. A shock coursed through her, sending a warm, tingling wave between her legs.
What the hell was she doing?
Cora tried to push away, but she had no strength in her arms. Simon deepened their kiss, forcing his tongue into her mouth, sucking at her, urging her to respond.
Was she having an out-of-body experience? Because things were happening that she had no control over.
This was wrong. This guy could be DEA, FBI, anything, and she was sitting here making out with him?
But it didn’t matter how tumultuous the thoughts were racing through her mind; she just got wetter and wetter.
Simon pulled back, panting into her mouth. “Christ,” he murmured into her ear as he grasped roughly at her breast. “I should be arresting you. But all I want to do is fuck you.”
His words sent an electric whip over her skin. Cora’s back bowed, pushing her breast firmly into his hand.
Then her body went numb.
Panic made her heart flutter in her chest.
“What’s…wrong…?” she asked.
Simon drew back, blinking at her in sudden confusion. He touched the corner of her mouth with a finger, and then looked deep into her eyes.
“You’ve been drugged,” he said, putting his mouth by her ear.
Her heart should have started pounding. Instead, she laughed.
Who would drug her?
No…Who wouldn’t?
Her men had known this party was a bad idea, but she’d pressured them into accepting it because she’d wanted to prove to everyone that she wasn’t scared, that she wouldn’t back down.
“You…” she tried to imply.
“Christ, no,” the man said. Simon drew away from her and began backing out of the booth. “Let me see if I can find someone to—”
A silhouette blocked his path. Vaguely familiar.
Hope soared through her.
And then crystallized a second later when light flashed on the side of the person’s face.
Neo.
He had to see she was in some kind of trouble. He would help her, wouldn’t he?
Neo stepped aside and gestured. She recognized both men who stepped from the shadows; Santino because he wasn’t wearing a mask, and Miguel because he was still wearing his terrifyingly lewd devil’s mask.
Santino grabbed Simon by the scruff of his neck, dragging him out of the booth. And then they were gone, and it was Neo sliding onto the seat.
She hadn’t moved, because she couldn’t.
Neo lifted her hand from the table, laying it over his palm and patting it. He gave her a mirthless smile before leaning closer.
“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he said.
26
Possible Suspect: Dreamy
“Hey, wake up!” Finn patted the side of Lars’s face with his hand. Lars’s head rolled to the side, his ear on his shoulder.
He was out cold.
Finn gritted his teeth, hoisted Lars to his feet, and swung his arm over his shoulders. He dragged Lars around the corner, flung open the kitchen door, and wrestled him through the bustling crowd. As soon as one of the waiter staff saw them, people began asking if they could help.
“We’re fine,” Finn snapped, turning around so he could back out the kitchen door.
Halfway up the ramp that led to the ground floor of the hotel, Bailey arrived at his side.
Finn stared past him, waiting for Cora to emerge from the corridor they were headed towards, but she never did.
When he turned furious eyes to Bailey, the man broke eye contact, deciding instead to grab Lars’s other arm and swing it over his shoulder.
“Where is she?” Finn craned to see past Lars’s bobbing head.
“She was dancing,” Bailey said, refusing to make eye contact, “and then she was gone.”
“Gone?” Finn climbed out under Lars’s arm. “Take him to the den,” he said, stabbing a finger down the corridor to where they’d met with the dealers earlier that night.
Bailey went without another word, but at a much slower pace than Finn had. It wasn’t that Lars was heavy, but the man was so tall that it was difficult to get him around corners.
Finn snatched his radio from his belt. “November, this is Mike, come in.”
He pressed the edge of the radio against his forehead, pacing two steps before spinning around and pacing back the other way. Eventually, a crackle of static came back with a hesitant, “Yeah, it’s Neo.”
Finn waited, but of course Neo didn’t know the first thing about call signs. “Where are you? Over.”
“In the ballroom. Why?”
“Can you see Cora anywhere?”
“Can I or have I?”
“Can. You.”
“Uh…” Static. “No. Not from where I’m
standing. Should I be looking for her?”
Finn clenched his jaw, the radio creaking as he tightened his fingers around the plastic unit. “Yes,” he said. “Get word out; she’s gone missing.”
“You sure?” Neo gave a short laugh. “She could be in the pisser.”
No, Cora wasn’t powdering her fucking nose. She hadn’t slipped off to the bar. What he’d been dreading since the moment he’d walked into this fucking death trap had finally happened.
Someone had taken her.
“Tell you what,” came Neo’s voice over the radio. “I’ll radio up everyone and ask them to lock down. No one leaves until we’ve found her.”
It might already be too late, but it was better than nothing.
“Keep a look out for Ana, too. She was supposed to be with Cora.”
“Sure. I’ll let you know if I find something,” Neo said. And then added a grim, “Over.”
Finn let out a stale breath. He barged into the den, making Bailey flinch where he perched beside Lars’s motionless body on one of the leather sofas.
“Leave him. We have to find her.”
“But he’s—”
“Drugged, not dead. He’ll survive.” It was harsh, but it was true. Lars was no stranger to amphetamines, psychoactives, or opiates. He probably hadn’t had more than one drink before being drugged, so there wasn’t any danger of whatever he’d been spiked with mixing with too much alcohol and causing issues with his respiratory system.
Right now, Cora was their priority.
Even as the flood of logical thoughts tore through his mind, Finn felt a pang of regret at having to close the door on Lars’s pale, unmoving body.
Bailey was staring down the corridor when Finn came up behind him. He grabbed the man’s sleeve, swung him around, and backed him hard into the wall. He almost threw a punch too, but managed to keep himself in check. Bailey flinched as if he’d been expecting that blow too.
“What the fuck did you do?” Finn spat.
“I only took my eye off her for one second—”
And then he did punch him, because his beast was baying for blood and it was that or explode with fury.
Bailey grunted, but he took the shot in stride, turning his head back and sticking out his chin.
As if he knew he’d deserved it.
“Did you see anything that can help us? Was Ana with her?” Finn realized he still had a fist bunched in the front of Bailey’s button up shirt, and he tore it away with a grimace.
Bailey staggered, caught himself against the wall, and touched his jaw as if it ached.
Good. He hoped it hurt like hell for the next week.
“It was just her. I was on my way back. But it was too loud—” Bailey lifted his radio “—I couldn’t hear you, man. I had to—”
“That’s it?”
Bailey drew a visible breath, and glanced down the corridor as if steeling himself. Then he looked back at Finn, and Finn’s skin began crawling like it was in a hurry to leave.
He took a step forward, shoulders lifting, but Bailey put up his hands. “There was a guy. It looked like they were dancing, but I wasn’t sure. When I looked again, they were gone.”
“A guy…” Finn repeated slowly. “Does this guy have a face? Hair? Clothes? Something we can use to fucking identity him with?”
Bailey gave a hurried nod. “Long, dark hair. Wore a weird mask, like two sides of a coin. Posh clothes.”
“That only describes like half the fucking men in here,” Finn said through his teeth. He grabbed Bailey’s shoulder, shoving the man in front of him as he headed down the corridor.
“November, this is Mike. Come in.” His voice sounded strained. It was no surprise, his beast was foaming at the mouth.
“Yeah?” came Neo’s reply.
“Possible suspect: long dark hair, two-faced mask, suit. He was dancing with Cora. Over.”
“Dark hair?”
Finn’s skin tightened. “Yes. Over.”
There was a long moment of staticky noise. “Think we got him, Milo.”
“And Cora?”
He wasn’t surprised when Neo said, “No. He’s alone.”
But he hadn’t come alone. There was obviously a team at work here tonight. Someone to distract Cora, someone else to take her away. Three, four other people. Maybe more. Lookouts, and guards, and muscle.
And every single one of them had slipped past him. Past Lars. Past Bailey.
Finn turned and swung his hand hard into the wall. Pain burst through his knuckles and tore up his arm. His beast bellowed, and then hunkered down.
Watching.
Waiting.
“Where is he?” Finn asked Neo, not bothering with call signs anymore.
A burst of static, and then, “We’ve taken him to the first floor. Second door on the left.”
“I thought they’d sealed the first floor?” Bailey said, and Finn jerked at the man’s voice so close to him.
His beast growled unpleasantly, but at least it wasn’t snapping and trying to take out Bailey’s eyes with its teeth.
“Apparently not. We all fuck up,” Finn said roughly, pushing past Bailey as he headed for the stairwell leading to the first floor. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Some more than others.”
27
Her Dark Lover
A hard thump and a noisy rattle tore Cora from the void of sleep. She waited for her eyes to adjust, but they didn’t.
Darkness surrounded her. Shrouded her. Embraced her like a lover.
She dipped out of consciousness, waking up when her world shifted and something bumped softly against her body. She blinked hard and tried to wipe at her eyes, but her hands were bound behind her back. Her heart—already racing from such a rude awakening—began thumping in her chest.
When she tried to open her mouth, she couldn’t.
It had been taped closed.
She lay on her side, her floor shifting ceaselessly under her.
A car. She was in a trunk.
No. Dios mio, no!
Her breath grew frantic, rushing hard and fast out of her nose, and it bounced back almost immediately.
A very narrow trunk…or were there other things in here with her?
Another thump. This one sent her spilling forward, and she knocked heads with someone else.
Violent panic coursed through her. The duct tape muffled her scream as she kicked back from whoever it was that lay in front of her.
Now she could smell sweat in the air—and it wasn’t hers. Then, a hint of cologne.
A streak of light painted the inside of the trunk through one side of the ill-fitting lid. Like a photocopier’s scanner, it drew a white light down the trunk space. It moved so fast, all she had was a split second’s worth of illumination.
Cora squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing down a wail. With her mouth closed, the smells in the trunk became stronger.
The metallic stench of blood. The beefy stink of urine.
Another strobe of light passed over her eyelids. They had to be driving down a freeway—somewhere with street lamps set at regular intervals.
It took another three lights before she could will herself to open her eyes.
When the next street lamp passed overhead, she was afforded a glaringly fast view of Miguel’s dead face, inches from hers.
Mouth slack.
Dry eyes wide and staring.
Black-dried blood painting his chin and throat. He’d been stripped to his vest and boxers.
Cora let out another muffled scream, and tried moving back from the dead body. Her bare arm came away from the carpet with a squelch.
Blood.
She whimpered, squeezed her eyes shut again.
Por favor, Santa Muerte — don’t let me have a fucking heart attack. The way her heart raced, she was sure whoever opened the trunk—whenever they opened it—would find two dead bodies.
When she could breathe again, Cora opened her eyes.
There was one last stro
be of light, then the car turned a sharp left and rapidly decelerated. She had barely enough time to drag her knees up, managing to keep one futile inch between her body and Miguel’s as the drop in velocity sent her tumbling forward.
Panting through her nose, Cora squeezed her eyes shut to ward off the sight of Miguel’s dead face so close to hers.
The vehicle rattled alarmingly as the road grew rougher.
Gravel?
The air became scented with dry dust, and she coughed.
Dirt.
After what could have been anything from a few minutes to an hour of driving, she was now headed down a dirt road.
Panic consumed her mind, but she forced it down with iron will. This wasn’t the time for screaming or passing out like a stupid girl. Even though that’s exactly what she was; a stupid fucking girl.
She’d been so convinced of this fool-proof plan. Finn had tried to warn her, and she’d ignored him.
Wriggling furiously, Cora tried to slide her bound hands out from behind her back, a surprisingly difficult task in the trunk’s confined space. She kept bumping heads with Miguel—not that he complained—until she eventually got her arms out. Her shoulders burned how she’d pulled her muscles, but at least her hands were free.
She used the knuckle of her thumb to feel down the front of her dress, and let out a relieved huff through her nose when she touched the handle of the cheese knife.
It took a few minutes to get it out; what with her hands being bound. She used it to saw away awkwardly at the rope around her wrists.
She had to get out. Had to get free.
She might be alive for the moment, but she had no doubt that she’d be dead in the next few hours. Miguel’s corpse, the remoteness of whatever location she was being taken too…
It could mean nothing else.
The car slowed, and then stopped. Cora paused, straining for a sound. Footsteps headed for the trunk.
Cora sawed frantically at the ropes with her tiny knife, hopeless tears pricking at her eyes.
. . .
When the trunk opened, Cora was ready. She lunged out with her knife, slashing wildly. The tiny blade snagged on something, but then a hard blow knocked it from her hand. There was only time to see a moonlit silhouette before a fist crashed into her face.