"Mr. Mandela."
Mario couldn't help smiling. He'd told Bobby in the past to call him Mario. He turned, facing the man, who was probably close in age to Mario. He knew everything there was to know about Bobby. The man had worked at a plastic factory straight out of high school, held on to the job for ten years, and lost it when the factory laid off almost all their workers. Bobby had tried to find another job. When Mario met him that night a year ago, Bobby had lost his car, his apartment, and his girlfriend. To this day Bobby would solemnly tell Mario he didn't have the rank to call Mario by his first name. Bobby was old-school. His loyalty and admiration held more weight with Mario than all the blood his family could offer.
"Bobby, how are you doing tonight?" Mario used the same soft voice he'd used on his army a moment ago.
"Very good, sir. How are you?" Bobby didn't look at Mario's army. He didn't suggest he knew anything about Uncle Petrie's death. The man stared directly at Mario, appearing calm and without a care in the world, and his question sounding sincere.
"I can't complain." Mario continued smiling. It was a line his father always had used and when he'd been alone with Mario had explained that complaining never got a man anywhere, but action did.
"I can't complain, either." Bobby moved his hands behind his back, his blue eyes sparkling and his tousled sandy blond hair making him almost attractive. Recently, Bobby had taken to shaving every day, which impressed Mario even more. Before, with the unkempt whiskers, Bobby had looked like a bum. Now, give the man a suit and he'd probably pass as a businessman. "What can I do for you, sir?"
Bobby never waited to be told what to do. If he wasn't doing something, he asked for a task. Again, another admirable trait.
"Our army looks good." Mario had a good feeling about including Bobby in planning his attack.
"Thank you, sir. They are shipping out to Kansas City in the morning, correct?"
"Yes, they are." It was a small attack, and one easily won. The bombing of the building in the midwestern city wouldn't garnish much attention. The winner of the attack, the one who succeeded in getting their army to perform the attack first, and successfully, would move on to the next battle in St. Louis, then Minneapolis and after that, Dallas. The final American battle was in D.C. Once all twelve buildings, each in a different city, were blown up, the federal government would pay heed and listen. It was rather ironic the game was set up to conquer the United States first. Mario would have chosen the Middle East or several European countries. He didn't mind owning the U.S., though. It was a gluttonous nation but powerful nonetheless.
As if reading Mario's thoughts, Bobby also smiled. "They will be petty attacks at first. But your army is top-of-the-line. I'm very confident, sir, that you'll win this country within a week of playing."
"I am, too." Mario laughed along with Bobby. "I need you to take care of some things for me tonight, though," he added, shifting gears and turning from Bobby.
"Anything you say, Boss," Bobby offered, the smile still in his tone.
"I know."
Mario walked between the cages where each of his men and women still stood perfectly straight and at attention. They would remain that way all night if Mario didn't tell them to lie down and sleep, which they would need to do soon. The slave juice rewired their brains. Mario wasn't sure how the drug worked, and honestly he didn't care. He had tested it to his satisfaction while in California. As perfect as the drug was, humans were very flawed. Run them into the ground and they would collapse. Several of the game members had tried using slave juice on their army and had made that mistake, which inevitably had wiped out their army and forced their elimination from the game. Mario had stepped up and was now a player on the board game. He would go to any means to win.
Mario wrapped his fingers around one of the bars to his hot little puttana's cage. She stood motionless, staring straight ahead with large, dark brown eyes. Her thick, black hair was as long as Angela's although his puttana was much younger, barely legal. She was the tenth member of his army, and definitely the youngest.
"My pretty little puttana" he sung under his breath as he wagged his fingers in between her cage bars. His dark-skinned buena simply stared at him. "Do you remember committing murder, my pet?" he whispered, leaning closer to the cage bars.
"What?" Bobby asked.
Mario shook his head. "Nothing. Just having a conversation with one of my soldiers."
Bobby chuckled. "She's hot as hell."
"Yes, she is. Maybe after you take care of a matter for me, you can spend some time with her. We can order the rest of our army to all watch," he suggested, and caught Bobby grinning. "It's always work before play, though."
"Of course." Bobby nodded at the young woman standing at attention in the middle of her cage. "But shouldn't you enjoy the signorina first?" he asked.
It was strong proof of loyalty when a man understood his lower rank and assumed his boss should enjoy the spoils of war instead of him.
"She's a bit too young for me," Mario said, looking at Bobby. "Now a younger man like you--"
It was probably the first time Bobby had ever interrupted Mario, although he did it with laughter. "You know as well as I do we're about the same age," Bobby said, still chuckling.
"We might be at that." Mario left his puttana and patted Bobby's arm as he started toward the outside doors. "I want you to go up to Uncle Petrie's room. Box up all of his things. Maybe we'll donate them to charity. Let me know if you find anything valuable, though."
"Yes, sir."
"While you're up there, the computer is opened to an article about a local detective. I want you to take a good look at the teenage girl in the picture on that page and tell me what you think."
"Is there something wrong with her?" Another quality about Bobby: he admitted when he was confused. Not once had he made a mistake while working for Mario. It was because Bobby didn't take on an assignment without completely understanding all parameters.
"Not at all. Just tell me what you think after looking at the picture."
"Yes, sir."
"That's all."
Bobby nodded and left Mario alone with his army. Mario walked over to the cage where a young police officer he had abducted from right here in Chicago stood with her hands relaxed at her sides. "Are you ready to help me conquer the world, mi amore?"
"Yes," she said, her tone breathy.
Mario laughed. She would have agreed if he'd asked her to take off all her clothes and do cartwheels.
"Which one do you think is hotter?" Mario asked the giovane, who was in the cage between the cop and the young puttana.
Each cage was six by eight feet and six feet in height. He had them built into the outbuilding; his intention at the time was to make it impossible to break out of them. The slave juice took away that worry. Mario probably could leave all the cages unlocked and none of his army would go anywhere. As effective as Van Cooper's drug appeared to be, Mario didn't take chances.
The giovane glanced at the cop, since Mario had gestured to her. He looked at Mario and said nothing.
"Does not compute?" Mario sneered, then laughed. "Idioti."
Slave juice didn't allow whoever was under its influence to reason. Instructions had to be kept as simple commands. Mario had taken the time to work with his army while they were on slave juice. He had experimented with many different forms of commands. And although it was likely his competition on the board game would assume slave juice would make their army into obedient slaves, and they wouldn't take the time to confirm just how it worked, Mario was prepared for anything the other players might bring on.
"At least you're a sexy piccolo cogna when you stare blankly at me with those large, pretty eyes of yours," Mario said as he walked over to stand in front of his young puttana. Her eyes weren't too large for her oval-shaped face. She blinked once, flashing long thick black lashes at him. Mario thought he had detected a bit of a fiery nature the day he'd given her a big, friendly hug at the airport before i
njecting her with slave juice.
It had been as easy as he'd been told it would be. The syringe and needle were smaller and more slender than a pen. Coming up behind the signorina as she waited for her luggage, Mario had wrapped his arms around her. He'd hugged her and slid the needle into her pulsing vein at the side of her neck. He had told her to hush and she hadn't cried out, or even uttered a word. The slave juice was one hell of a fast-acting drug. He hadn't wasted any time escorting her out of the airport and had intentionally kept his head lowered or his back to all security cameras he had noticed.
"How much of your brain is still working?" Instead of telling her to move toward him, Mario reached into the cage, took her arm, and pulled her up against the bars.
The young signorina hadn't been the donna Mario had been told he would receive, and that he'd paid dearly for. There were those who were very skilled at finding men and women who were young, healthy, in good shape, and wouldn't have anyone looking for them if they suddenly disappeared. It was unbelievable how many traveled, having told no one they'd left their homes, and had no one waiting for them at their new destination.
Mario paid $500 on the delivery of an acceptable man or woman. The people he contracted to handle supplying his army worked hard for their money. With this particular purchase for a woman arriving at the Los Angeles airport, his contact had found a newly divorced lady flying out of Mexico City into L.A. At the last minute she was a no-show. His contact was on a different flight, intentionally arriving at a different part of the very large airport.
It wasn't until after his contact landed, and had a signal on his cell phone, did he learn of the no-show and was able to call Mario. The donna had fallen through but would a young signorina, a college student traveling all the way from Buenos Aires, do instead?
The young signorina spoke and understood English and was very conversational with the stewardess, explaining that she would have to find another flight after landing in Los Angeles. Her half-sister had a very busy job and hadn't yet confirmed when she would be able to meet. Since the last time the signorina had checked, her half-sister hadn't yet read her e-mail telling her that she was coming to visit. All that told Mario was that his little puttana wasn't shy and was able to strike up a conversation with a stranger. She had spoken openly enough that his contact had overheard and discovered she was a perfect candidate for the game.
A crazy thought struck Mario as he stroked his puttana's smooth tanned arm. She pushed her full lips into a puckered pout and continued staring at him.
"Puttana, tell me your name."
"Marianna Torres," she said, and blinked again.
Chapter Eight
Jake stifled a yawn. He never bothered counting how many times he'd leaned against the side of a building, waiting for something to happen. It was well after midnight, and he wasn't sure what he expected. He hoped nothing. This was the best way he knew to learn the battleground, though. If all went well, he'd return to the hotel and draw a diagram of Mario Mandela's property, highlighting areas where Jake could get on and off the property without detection.
As locked up as the place appeared, it wasn't that hard getting over and past the tall iron fence. After driving around Mario's property on narrow blacktop roads, Jake had slowed near the front of the house in time to see a long black limousine enter through the black gate and head to the house.
There were cameras along the roof of the house, and Jake doubted they were fake. He'd been loitering next to a large outbuilding behind the mansion but didn't want to risk stepping into the line of fire. The cameras might pick him up, and Jake hadn't ruled out the possibility that other security might exist, too.
All he'd determined so far was that he could get over the fence from the backyard without being detected and that standing alongside the back of the outbuilding appeared fairly safe. He needed to push further, determine a safe route to the house. It was his job as backup to have a viable route in and out of there if necessary.
Jake kept his back against the building as he moved sideways, repeatedly glancing from side to side to make sure no one approached. Perspiration trickled down his neck and back as his nerves grew hyper-sensitive to any sound around him. By the time Jake reached the front of the outbuilding he swore he could hear the breeze brush over every blade of grass in the yard.
He put to memory each tree and shrub around him. He made a mental pattern of the row of windows on the first and second floors of the huge, rambling home. Jake glanced down the length of the building and also studied a large wooden patio that spread across most of the back of the house. There were floodlights on the corner at either end of the house that appeared motion sensitive. Where he stood, though, was shrouded in darkness. Motion-sensitive lights weren't around the entire property, just next to the house. The two lights attached to the house didn't quite reach each other. Unless those cameras fixed at the edge of the roof were equipped with night vision, Jake would be safe as long as he remained in the dark shadows looming around the yard and house.
If the cameras could pick up movement in the dark, someone would have detected him by now. Mario Mandela was cocky enough not to use the most sophisticated monitoring system. That or the cameras came with the house, since Mario was renting, and possibly had only simple features. There might be monitors inside that could be viewed, and possibly Mario had employees who kept an eye on them. The guards would see only what the quality of the cameras allowed them to see.
There were bristly bushes along the wall against the front of the building. They didn't stand as tall as Jake but were a foot or so from the steel siding. Jake stepped away from the building, taking in the heavy-looking door that appeared to be the only entrance. A structure this size could store a hell of a lot. Or if the person who lived inside the elaborate mansion was involved in shady, criminal activity, this building would be perfectly suited to hide his criminal activities.
It would especially suit to hide people who'd been kidnapped and possibly drugged. Jake's heart started racing even faster. He kept a tentative eye on the house and sliding glass doors leading inside at the other end of the patio as he moved toward the entrance of the outbuilding.
There was an expensive-looking security panel next to the outbuilding's entrance with a number pad on it. A password was required to enter the building. Adrenaline peaked inside him, making it damn hard to stand still.
With such an expensive-looking security pad installed next to the door, Jake would bet cold, hard cash the people Mario kidnapped and would force to play in the game were inside this building. All Jake needed was proof.
A small voice in the back of his head reminded him he was here to ensure safe passage on and off of this property so he could properly protect Angela. He was doing that. But if while here he could pick up a solid lead or two, he wouldn't turn down the opportunity.
Someone whistled and Jake almost choked on his heart when it swelled into his throat. He lunged behind the prickly bush, moving to a squatting position as he stared wide-eyed into the darkness. Annoying thorns scraped his bare arms and tugged at his shirt. Jake would endure the minor aggravation to prevent being discovered. If whoever whistled had seen him, he would need a damn good reason for sneaking around back here, or he would have to attack and blow his cover. Either way, the situation just went from exhilarating to dangerous and deadly. Jake might have to seriously injure or kill whoever was out here in order to return to the street safely.
Every muscle in Jake's body cramped while he remained frozen, only his eyes moving frantically as he searched the yard. The person whistled again, this time carrying a soft tune while walking across the yard. Jake watched the shadow take form and studied the tall, lanky blond male as he sauntered across the wooden deck and into the yard. The man wore jeans and a T-shirt, was possibly in his early thirties, with hair that once might have been buzzed short and appeared to be growing out.
Jake continued putting the man to memory, guessing him to be around six feet and under two
hundred pounds. The man reached the outbuilding and stopped at the door. He pressed buttons on the keypad. It was dark and Jake couldn't swear by it, but he thought the man pushed four buttons on the keypad. There was a solid beep and the man reached for the handle. The door opened into the building.
For a moment the yard was flooded with light. "I found boxes and sorted through everything," the man offered cheerfully before the door closed behind him.
Which meant there was someone else already inside the outbuilding. Not that Jake hadn't already guessed there were probably a handful of prisoners in there. But the blond guy had reported in to someone, letting them know he'd finished some task that involved sorting. Mario might be in there.
Jake swallowed the lump in his throat and took his time straightening. He wasn't as young as he used to be. This line of business took its toll on a body fast. His muscles stretched and threatened to cramp when he took a second to arch his back and press the balls of his hands against his lower back. It was more than likely time to get the hell out of Dodge. He'd laid out a good feel for the property and would be a lot more comfortable the next time Angela came here. Before he left, though, there was one more thing he wanted to do.
Many brand-name security pads possessed the same type of ten-key pad. They also often came with a precoded password that many people didn't bother to change. Jake crept along the front of the building, continually casting a watchful eye over his shoulder and toward the house until he reached the door to the outbuilding. The security pad was a common brand name Jake had seen many times before. It was one of the secrets of his trade, but quite often Web sites for these keypads had manuals on them that could be downloaded. The manual might say what the preprogrammed password for the lock would be.
Bounty Hunters: 03 Stay Hungry Page 15