Sweet Revenge

by Christy Reece

Dylan stood back, away from the sad line of terrified humans waiting their turn. The stomach-churning scene was beyond nightmarish. There were twenty of them, mostly women of varying ages, and all petrified.

  Even though this was the third of Reddington’s auction he’d attended, the inhumane and sheer vulgarity of the event wasn’t something he could just take in stride. Besides, the big man himself was in the audience today, which apparently meant a bigger production.

  Instead of parading a line of people through a small room as before, Armando had set this auction up like an audition. A small staging area was used to prepare each person; then, one by one, the “merchandise,” as Dylan had heard them referred to so many times, was told to walk out onto a platform.

  Reddington was apparently in the darkened area below, invisible to everyone, but the stench of his cigar wafted through the air.

  Dylan wanted to jump down into that area and get it over with. Never had he wanted to kill anyone so much. Even as much as he’d hated his father, he’d never felt this way about another human being.

  This was the man Jamie had wanted to go after. The sheer gutsiness of the woman would forever amaze him. He was just damn glad she’d seen the ridiculousness of her plan. While he had deep regrets and enormous guilt for all that had transpired, at least she was safe.

  “Stop it! Don’t touch me, you bastard!”

  His entire body clenched with the effort to maintain his cover as he watched a woman, probably in her early twenties and obviously terrified, fight back as one of the men shoved her forward.

  No visible bruises were allowed. Armando had informed him that Reddington reviled damaged flesh. If discipline or punishment was required, it had to be done without leaving marks. As Dylan watched, the man who’d pushed her forward grabbed a wad of her hair and pulled hard as he spoke into her ear. Whether it was from the pain or from the man’s words, Dylan didn’t know, but the woman’s face went paper white. Nodding her head in quick, jerky motions, she turned awkwardly and walked out onto the platform.

  Watching her, the man grinned his satisfaction.

  Unable to do anything but stand by as this took place was, by far, the toughest part of Dylan’s assignment. He could save these people right now. Doubting his abilities didn’t even come into question. As usual, when he entered a room, he immediately looked for weapons. Today had been no different. Not far away was a two-by-four piece of wood. Within a minute, maybe less, the three men back here with him would be incapacitated or dead and the hell these people faced would never be realized.

  Gripping the post he was leaning on, Dylan held himself back. Rescuing these people would feel good in the short term, but what about all the others that had been sold over the years? The ones that only Reddington’s records could reveal?

  No, they’d come too far to end this here. But soon Reddington, Armando, and the whole band of perverts would know exactly how their victims had felt. Then, and only then, could justice be served.

  “You ready to meet the man?”

  With his game face back on, Dylan turned to a grinning Armando. Hell, the guy looked like a proud papa about to parade his son in front of his boss. His nod cool, his expression arrogant, Dylan followed the older man down the stairs to where Reddington sat. The sounds of sobbing and human suffering grew dimmer with each step. The goods had been assessed and priced. A more formal auction of the best “merchandise” would be held tomorrow. The rest of the group would go to various people to be sold again or used in any way their new owners wanted. Just another day in the busy and lucrative life of a human trafficker.

  Reddington sat in the darkness. Even as Dylan and Armando approached, the man did nothing to reveal himself. He was a dim shadow, and other than his head full of silver hair, which caught any available light, he was almost invisible.

  “Sit down.” The man had an impressively deep and cultured voice, almost as if he were theatrically trained. Dylan dropped into a chair and waited.

  “Armando seems to think a lot of you.”

  Until he was asked a direct question, Dylan preferred to maintain his silence. Talking without being asked a direct question could show a lack of control or an eagerness to please. Still, he’d have to walk a fine line … an appearance of arrogance could well backfire and get him killed.

  There was a long pause, most likely to test his control. Dylan waited.

  “You have an impressive résumé.”

  Since Dylan hadn’t supplied Reddington with one, he could only assume the investigation Reddington had done on him had checked out. Score one for LCR cover stories.

  When Dylan didn’t reply again, Armando shifted restlessly beside him. The man was probably getting nervous, but Dylan had seen too many controlling bastards to let Reddington fluster him.

  Reddington finally asked a question: “Why do you want to work for me?”

  “Money,” Dylan replied.

  “That’s the only thing that drives you?”

  “I have skills suited to the business. I’m good at what I do.”

  “Such as …?”

  “I know quality and value when I see it. And I know how to obtain it without getting caught.”

  The silver head bobbled with a nod. “Important skills, to be sure.”

  Again Dylan maintained his silence.

  “Why do you want to work for me?”

  Dylan shrugged. “You’re the best.”

  “Have you worked for anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Elaborate,” Reddington snapped.

  “I’ve worked for myself for the last few years. Grabbing a tasty piece here and there, making a nice profit. I had several regular customers with specific needs. They would come only to me because they knew I could provide what they wanted.”

  “What changed?”

  “I was getting some heat back in the States. Thought a change of scenery would be best. One good sale can last me a few months, but I like the idea of a steady income.”

  “Armando indicated that you refused to go hunting the other day. You do understand that this is a requirement of your employment. Correct?”

  Dylan didn’t bother to offer an explanation of why he had refused Armando. “I’ve got no problem with that.”

  “What kind of cut do you want?”

  “Fifty percent on what I bring you. Ten percent of the total day’s earnings.”

  “Armando doesn’t even make that.” There was amusement in the man’s voice.

  “Maybe he should.”

  Armando gasped beside him, and Dylan almost smiled. Would Reddington think Armando had put him up to complaining about his pay? It’d be nice if Reddington got rid of Armando before Dylan had to.

  “Armando,” Reddington asked silkily, “are you unhappy with your wages?”

  “Absolutely not. I don’t know why—”

  Reddington cut him off. “Very well, Mr. Wheeler. Fifty percent of what you supply and ten percent of the day’s earnings.”

  Careful to reveal no triumph over the man’s concession to his terms, Dylan nodded his acknowledgment. But still, he waited. Reddington wasn’t going to be this easy to win over.

  “Has Armando mentioned that I have special clients?”

  Surprised but not about to show it, Dylan just shook his head. Armando had shared a lot but hadn’t mentioned specific clients.

  “I have a request from one of these clients. They’re very generous, so I do all I can to provide for their needs.” A piece of paper was thrust out of the dark, in front of Dylan. “My client’s order. Fulfill it by the end of the week and there will be a bonus.”

  Shit. The client was ordering a specific kind of female, the way a normal person might order a meal. Dylan didn’t glance at the list. That would give the impression that he had doubts that he could deliver everything Reddington wanted. He slid the paper into his pants pocket.

  Reddington was once again silent. The interview was over, but Dylan knew the man was still testing and access
ing.

  “I’m giving a little dinner party at my home on the eighteenth. Why don’t you join us?”

  Another test? Or was this invitation because he’d passed the test? Was Reddington on to him and wanted to get him alone? No, that made no sense. The man would have no problem blowing his brains out right here. This was the opportunity they’d wanted.

  Determined not to show any emotion or eagerness at the invitation, Dylan shook his head. “Thanks, I already have plans.”

  “Break them.”

  Dylan allowed a small flare of anger to show, but only briefly. After several seconds, he nodded again.

  “Excellent. We’ll get to know each other in a much less formal setting. I’m assuming Armando has filled you in about my family?”

  Yeah, that had been one of the first things he’d learned and probably the first thing that had surprised him. “Yes. They don’t get involved in your business.”

  “Exactly. No business, ever, is to be discussed around them. Understand?”

  Sensing that this meant more to Reddington than just about anything, Dylan nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good.” The silver head turned to Armando. “You have done well, my friend.”

  Beaming like a proud father, Armando said, “Thank you, sir.”

  Armando stood, and Dylan took his cue and got to his feet. Surprisingly, Reddington stood as well. He held out his hand and shook Dylan’s in a hard, firm shake. “I look forward to doing business with you.”

  “And I you.”

  With those words, Dylan turned and walked away. He was more than aware that both men stared at him until he was out of the building. Knowing that eyes could be anywhere, at any time, he maintained his demeanor even as he jumped onto a city bus. He didn’t know where it was headed, and he didn’t care. The most important thing was to get away from that place.

  Late afternoon meant a bus full of people heading home from work, their minds on what to have for dinner, how their kids’ or spouse’s day had gone, or maybe a television show they were looking forward to watching. Normal people going about their everyday lives and most never realizing that garbage such as Stanford Reddington lived within their midst. He was a well-known and widely respected businessman here in Madrid, envied and admired by many. Little did the city’s residents know that beneath the polish and the sophisticated façade lurked a soul-deep filth.

  Crammed into a tight space, Dylan paid little attention to the chattering voices around him as he reviewed every sentence and undertone from the meeting. His undercover story of sleaze and corruption had held up. LCR had some of the best cover-building people in the business. Within hours, any operative could be anyone. Still, with Reddington being on higher alert than most, Dylan had wondered if there would be trouble.

  The only hiccup had been the specific request. That was new information. Would Reddington have these clients’ names written down? Dylan cursed silently. They were banking so damn much on Reddington’s records. With Noah’s intel that the man was anal about record keeping and the information Jamie had gleaned, getting to those accounts was their best bet for nailing the bastard.

  The prosecutor’s hands were tied without proof, and though the information would be obtained outside the norm, with those records in hand, they’d have a good chance of not only shutting the bastard down and putting him behind bars but finding all of the people he’d sold through the years.

  Wheels squealed as the bus made a stop, and almost half the bus unloaded. Dylan got to his feet and followed other riders out. He needed to get back to his apartment and make the appropriate contacts. First, he needed McCall to find him a female operative with the specifications this client had requested. And he needed to update his boss about the invitation.

  The plan would have to be fluid until he arrived at Reddington’s home and figured out what he faced. Getting there didn’t mean the records were going to be easy to find.

  Another job, and equally important, would be finding Raphael and getting him the hell out of there. Dylan just hoped to hell the kid hadn’t gotten caught trying to find the information on his own.

  Hailing a taxi in the middle of workday traffic would be pointless. Dylan started down the narrow streets, dodging harried pedestrians, bicyclists, and the occasional streetwalker. Always aware of his surroundings, he knew no one had followed him from the meeting or from the bus. Still, he wasn’t surprised to see a shadowy figure hovering at the corner of his apartment building nor to glimpse a man inside his apartment, passing by the window. How many times was he going to be searched before they realized there was nothing to find?

  The goon on the corner was one he recognized from the bar where Armando had set up his test. Figuring the guy knew what could happen to a pissed-off Dylan, he strode toward the creep. “Hey, asshole, you got a reason for being in front of my place … like wanting to get your face flattened?”

  It was apparent the guy didn’t speak English, and Dylan didn’t bother to translate. The closer he got, the wider the man’s eyes grew. When Dylan was within ten steps of him, the man whispered, “Lo siento. Dirección equivocada” and took off running.

  Wrong address, my ass. Shrugging, Dylan headed inside. The lookout would have been the weakest one. The man in his apartment would be tougher. The meeting with Reddington had left him disgusted and angry. Nice that he now had an outlet for his pent-up rage.

  Inside the dingy foyer, which always held an interesting fragrance combination of urine and cinnamon, Dylan stooped down and withdrew his Glock from his ankle holster. He preferred hand-to-hand combat, but going into a room without a weapon drawn was asking for trouble. He didn’t want trouble … he wanted to kick ass.

  Easing up the stairway, he stepped lightly around the areas he’d memorized his first day here. Knowing which part of a stairway creaked made a surprise entry so much more fun.

  On the fourth-floor landing, Dylan stopped for a listen. Other than a crying baby, a couple of cats screeching outside, and a too-loud television, he heard nothing. His room was at the end of the hallway. Taking the same care he’d used coming up the stairs, he made his way down to within a few feet from his door.

  He glanced down at the large crack under the door. One advantage to living in a shitty residence was that there was plenty of space to see beneath the door. The lights were off, but he sensed the man’s presence inside the room.

  His hand on the doorknob, Dylan twisted, and was pleased the man had left it unlocked. With his gun at the ready, he exploded into the room, then came to a screeching halt. The man sitting in the lone chair beside the window wasn’t a threat, even though he’d pissed Dylan off on occasion.

  Lowering his gun, Dylan flipped a light switch near the door and frowned at the dark countenance of LCR operative Jared Livingston. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Broad shoulders shrugged. “Thought it best to get out of town for a while.”

  No other explanation was needed. Livingston walked on thin ice with McCall on a weekly, if not daily, basis.

  Dylan holstered his gun and headed to the kitchen. Pulling two beers from the fridge, he returned to the living room and threw a bottle toward the other man. Catching it with one hand, Jared twisted the cap off, took a long drink and sighed. “Thanks. I wanted one but hated to take it without asking.”

  Almost choking on his mouthful of beer at the outrageous lie, Dylan swallowed quickly and said, “How very polite of you.”

  Livingston took another swallow, then gestured at the window with his bottle. “You take care of the giant outside?”

  “Yeah. Barely said boo before he ran. I figured he’d brought a friend who would be here, waiting for me.”

  “Wished he had.”

  Dylan couldn’t argue, since he’d been looking forward to letting off a little steam. “There’s a boxing gym a block from here.”

  “Good.”

  Staying in shape on an op wasn’t a huge issue for most operatives. A person could do pl
enty of physically challenging exercises without special equipment. But releasing pent-up energy wasn’t as easy. Since he’d been looking forward to kicking ass, Dylan was grateful to have a worthy sparring partner.

  “We’ll go after I finish my beer.” Dylan stood to begin his nightly search for planted bugs.

  “I’ve already checked.”

  Nodding his appreciation, he headed to his bedroom to change. Doing a sweep for bugs was as natural to him as taking in air. One slip and an entire op could come crashing down on him, getting him and others killed.

  As he emptied his pockets, he came across the piece of paper Reddington had given him. For the first time, he glanced down at the requirements and was surprised by not only the detailed specificity of the physical features but also the experience and education sought. Hell, the guy wanted the woman to be able to speak English fluently, have at least a four-year degree and the kind of social skills to host parties. These weren’t the usual kinds of sex-slave requirements. This man was looking for a companion—long-term or just for the night? Whoever he was, there was no doubt the man had major money to spend.

  The reasons behind the detailed needs heavy on his mind, he almost missed the bug. A tiny microchip attached to the edge of his right sleeve. Shit, when had that happened? When he’d shaken hands with Reddington or when Armando had bumped up against him earlier that day?

  The men were taking no chances, but neither was he. Leaving the bug in place, he changed quickly and walked back into the living room. He held the shirt up and nodded at it, knowing Livingston would catch on. “Got a job. You interested?”

  His slate-gray eyes gleaming with knowledge and challenge, the LCR operative asked, “What’s the cut?”

  “Twenty percent of my take.”

  “Fifty.”

  “Thirty.”

  “Deal.”

  Dylan handed him the paper with the specific requirements. “Got any ideas where we can find one like this?”

  Livingston’s eyes widened slightly, revealing the same surprise Dylan had felt. They both knew that not only were specifics like this rare, but the man who wanted this kind of female wasn’t worried about getting caught. This type of woman would have a family, friends … a job. Unlike a homeless person or a prostitute, this person would be missed.