38

They heard footfalls. Jim guessed three, maybe four people. They eased back into the restroom. He hovered above a john. In the next stall O was doing the same thing. The hall fell quiet. Luckily no one needed to take a piss.

Voices wafted from the office. When he was reasonably sure no one else was in the hall, he eased the door open a crack, stuck his mirror out. Erica was in the receptionist’s area. He could see her back clearly in the reflection.

“Affirmative,” Jim heard a deep male voice say. Then a moment later the guard moved into his view. He was silent for a moment, followed by, “Wilco.”

Then two men were in front of Erica in a heartbeat. Both had high and tight cuts, matching dark suits, and ear set radios. “Are you pilots?” She giggled.

Drugged. Not good. She’d be harder to handle, slower to move when Jim needed her to. Her arm was wrapped in bloody fabric. It must have been injured in the crash. Her head was bleeding in the spot Banks had knocked her into the wall. Given that the car had rolled a couple of times, she was lucky to have a pulse.

“Hey!” Ex-Marine Thug Guy A ignored her exclamation as he pulled her to her feet, even though he’d been nice enough and not grabbed the injured arm. Hell. Maybe he wasn’t nice. Maybe it had just been by chance.

Ex-Marine Thug Guy B caught her up when her legs refused to play their part and hold her weight or participate in the dynamics that were required to place one foot in front of the other. He also grabbed the top of her jeans and not her arm, so Jim knew they had some sense of her injuries and no real wish to make them worse. For now.

The ex-marine thug guys dragged her into the inner office as if they were helping her past a finish line.

To keep an eye on her, he had to move, possibly expose himself if he got closer. But Zant was likely in there. He needed to hear what they said. There was no choice. He’d like to have a plan for all the players in the building, but this was urgent. He had to go out. He glanced at Oscar. Got the nod.

O signaled that he was going to check the rest of the layout with a twist of his finger. Jim nodded.

He crawled into the outer office that Erica and the thugs had just exited and ducked behind a secretary’s desk. He lay flat. The position gave him a view under the front panel of the desk that faced incoming guests. Part of the room was blocked, but he could see her. And Zant.

Zant stood behind a pretentious black lacquer oriental desk. It hadn’t been that long since Jim last saw the man, and as usual he turned Jim’s stomach. The guy’s features were small, as was his stature. Jim always fixated on his little mouth. It was tiny compared to his head. Should be on a boy. But very grown-up shit spewed from those lips. Jim had once pictured him as a small-mouthed bass, all face and a pie hole so small he probably had someone cut his meat into tiny bites in order to eat it.

Jim’s focus drifted to the dead gaze of Zant’s equally thin eyes. He needed to visit the same barber that the ex-marine thug guys used, because his hair was wavy and reached well past the collar of his four-thousand-dollar suit.

Erica was on the floor before the desk. She tried to hold herself upright in that kneeling position, but she faltered and swayed back and forth a couple of times. She caught herself since her hands were tie-wrapped in front of her. She closed her eyes tight, took a deep breath. Coughed.

Get your shit together or this bastard is going to kill you.

Zant appeared disgusted. “Give her some water. I didn’t want her dead. Who is responsible for the bruising and bleeding?”

That was good news. Zant picked up a gold cigarette case with hands that were also in proportion to his mouth and his eyes. Manicured fingers took out a small black cigarette, tapped it on the shiny lid, and placed it between his skinny fish lips. All of his movements were smooth, exact.

The twisted trail of smoke that left his mouth was as compact as the man. No big show of the act of smoking. No wasted effort. He’d smoked often and for years. Maybe he was already being eaten alive with cancer. Brain cancer might explain how his mind was so twisted. Jim could only wish.

“Broady said the car flipped four or five times.” Ex-Marine Thug Guy A handed Erica a full bottle of water. “Water should help move the drugs through your system quicker.”

She drank it down fast, even as he tried to pull it back from her. “Easy, girl.”

Jim saw her grab her stomach and look up at Zant and his immaculate appearance, that glaze gone for an instant. Maybe she wasn’t as drugged as she was letting on. Then Erica let it go, vomiting, making sure the trajectory was in Zant’s direction, as if she wanted to sully him.

“That’s an antique Afshar carpet. Do you have any idea how much that cost me?” He tossed his lighter to the desk and glared down at her, but the man wasn’t rattled, didn’t come closer to her.

Ex-Marine Thug Guy B rushed to attempt to clean Erica’s stomach contents off the rug.

She burped. “Excuse me.”

With that, Zant did stalk around the desk. “There is some nasty stuff still in your system. Short-term unconsciousness is difficult to manage.” He leaned back against the front of the desk, crossing his legs at the ankles, relaxed and making sure his presence allowed Ex-Marine Thug Guy B to continue to clean the evidently very expensive carpet. Jim thought her contribution was more an improvement to the busy red pattern than a distraction.

Without a word Zant watched, then took a long toke from the cigarette. Or was it a little cigar? And why did Jim care enough to consider the distinctions?

Zant motioned for Ex-Marine Thug Guy A to give her the bottle back. “Slower this time.” She took it and nodded. “Leave us,” he said to the big men. The thugs hesitated. “Her hands are tied and she’s still fighting the effects of the injection. I’ll be fine.”

They dutifully filed out, moving as one. Jim ducked his head and pulled his legs in to be as small under the desk as possible. They weren’t expecting trouble out here, so they weren’t being overly careful. Neither did a visual scan as they left the office. Cheap muscle had no clue what they were up against.

Jim listened as they marched down the stairs, then he resumed the position that gave him the best view of the room and the quickest access to get Erica if needed.

He wanted her out of that small room, down in the open where he and O could take them all out. Zant gave Erica an appraising look, tilted his head. “I was going to kill you once you got to the city. Clean. Simple. Let your pretty little sister go with the others and kill you outright. Maybe even do the deed myself.” He inspected his smoking hand, his right hand, like he was giving himself a moment to imagine what joy that might have brought him. “But kismet intervened in the little script of our association for a second time.”

“Second?” She took another, slower drink from the bottle.

“Yes. The first was the wonderful revelation that Chris Floyd—the woman nosing about my business, costing me money—was none other than your baby sister. It was like a Christmas gift from the universe all wrapped up just for me.” He shrugged. “Things fell into place. It wasn’t hard to feed her a few extra bits of information, make sure she got close enough. Not often do things fall in line like that. And she was so pretty. Much like you.” He bent forward, putting his face only a few inches from Erica’s. “A shame it will take a while for that beauty to show through again. Very headstrong, that girl.”

Jim heard O moving in. Held his hand up for him to stay put. They needed to know what Zant was planning, and the megalomaniac wouldn’t be able to contain that kind of plot, keeping it for himself. No, he was going to lay it all out to frighten, to torment Erica. This guy was all about wielding power.

“She’s alive?” Jim could feel Erica’s relief from the other room as she sagged forward, dropping the water bottle.

“Of course.” Zant sucked on the cigarette, taking a moment before letting out a long puff of stale smoke. “She’s graduated. You, on the other hand, will not be trained. I can’t risk the entire operation to put you into the pipeline now. Schedules are tight, preplanned for months. Lots of logistics to this business, you know.”

“Trafficking sex slaves? I can only imagine.”

“Commodities, Miss Floyd.” He turned his back on her to look out at the warehouse below. The cars lined up, the girls dressed like pros—all toys to him. Smug. Showing he was unafraid to turn his back to her. No way she’d manage to inflict any pain on him since she could barely move.

“You of all people should understand that. Everything is a commodity in the modern world. You work with that reality constantly.”

“People are not commodities.”

“Really.” He spun back to her. “You trade on labor forces all the time, don’t you? Investing in companies who outsource to third-world countries, Miss Floyd. What kind of people do you suppose do that cheap work? And how are they treated?” He arched an eyebrow, as if she would give him an answer. “You simply choose to ignore what you do not have to see firsthand.”

“That’s not rape and torture.” She tried to yell it, but it came out squeaking, like her lungs lacked the anger her heart did.

“You know this to be true? In those dirty little factories producing widgets for companies you funded, you know the little girls and boys toiling for long hours in horrible conditions are never molested or beaten to ensure productivity? Maybe in front of the rest of the workforce to make an example.” He took another slow drag. It snaked around his head as he let it out. “You’re a hypocrite. You and your corporate kind.”

Jim now saw anger in his dead eyes. He didn’t want the man mad.

“So you want me dead for not funding the Lionbridge projects?” She shook her head. “It was a small deal for you. Do you kill off every businessperson who goes against you?”

“You have no appreciation for the depth of my business and the—how shall I say?—temperament of some of my associates.” He smashed out the remaining bit of his smoke. Quite quickly, his face again became an emotionless mask. He was void. Empty.

“In that particular deal, we were looking for a vehicle to clean up a great deal of cash reserves. Your denial of the project left my business associate with a load of cash that he was unable to move, and with the research you did, he was linked to a past associate with whom he would rather not have been connected publicly. That managed to put him on a list. An FBI list.”

His lips tightened enough to look like an asshole. “So, he lost his money and his ability to move about freely. He is most unhappy.”

Even with her hands tied in front of her, Erica’s fingers drifted to her forehead. “I don’t under—”

“We needed the bank and the developments to help this South American associate get his cash unsullied.”

“Jesus Christ.” Her face tightened. Her spine straightened. She now apparently understood something Jim still did not. Big business financials were beyond his usual economics. Lately, anything beyond poker and beer money was beyond his economics. “We would have asked you for an up-front cash investment. He had it cooling somewhere. You were going to make the down payment in dirty cash and use the bank and the land sales to get clean money back.”

“We were—” He stopped short. Jim saw that he was watching someone coming down the hall. He was as still as he could make himself as another man walked by. The newcomer stopped with his back to Jim.

“I brought your friend. He’s admiring the cars.” The man shrugged before he glared down at Erica. “She good to go? I’m ready to start the next batch.” He turned, giving Jim a profile. An aging, balding pudge of a man in a tacky leisure suit. His neck, his wrist, and two fingers sported chunky jewelry. What was left of his hair was combed back and sprayed stiff to stay in place. Tasteless Vegas stereotype if he ever saw one.

“Gregory, you are a man with a singular track of attention. I admire that about you. But this one is to remain pristine.”

Fat man made a tsking noise. “Doubt she’s a virgin.”

“Mr. Dubai doesn’t want a virgin. He wants one to break himself.” Zant looked at Erica. Jim saw a hint of glee in his eye. The crazy fuck was enjoying this game. Jim was about to rain on his parade. “I’m afraid his methods may not be as civilized as mine.”

“Nice name.” Gregory Lake snorted. “Those guys piss cash. I hope you charged a premium. Getting her across the border untrained will be a nightmare for the driver.”

“Triple. For that and the fact he wants to inspect her personally before the shipment. That’s why I had you bring him out here.”

“Risky.”

“Profitable.”

Lake sneered down at her. “She looks like shit. I wouldn’t pay seven hundred and fifty for that.”

“This guy did. More, actually. He’s a sick fuck.” Zant took two steps closer to her. Bony fingers locked on her chin. He tilted her head to make sure she was looking at him. He wanted the audience. She closed her eyes. His grip tightened until Erica had no choice but look at him to stop the onslaught of more pain. “You embarrassed me. Cost me a few million in apology money. I have a reputation of being reliable. That’s been strained. Unacceptable.”

He dropped her chin, turned to the fat guy. “Have the boys take her to the others.”

“Knock her out?”

“No.” The answer was fast and firm. “He’ll want to see the fire of her anger, the concern over her sister. Clean up the injuries. Dress her in something … fitting for the occasion. I’ll go entertain Mr. Dubai while you get her ready.”

Erica grunted as Lake yanked her to her feet. He led her out of the offices and to the stairs. Zant lingered and straightened his tucked-in shirt. He took a moment to let them get on down the stairs. He smiled at his reflection in the glass. He wouldn’t be smiling much longer.

They needed a distraction.

Jim backed out. O was in the bathroom. Time for the assessment.

“Four ‘men’—two have the potential for being trouble, two are minions loading the RV. Zant, Lake, and the guest.” O shifted the holster at his waist and unlatched the leather that held it in place. He clicked the safety off the other. “And three girls.”

Zant waltzed past. Jim heard his shoes tapping on the walkway. They waited a full minute before easing back into the empty office and looking over the floor.

Lake had dragged Erica down to the main area and into the RV. It was time to move.

Jim and Oscar made their way to the end of the catwalk over the open floor. Tucked back by a small stairway intended for emergency use only.

Double O stood up straight and pulled his shoulders back. Something cracked. “Outnumbered. Under gunned.” He handed Jim one of the handguns.

“Shame if something happened to one of those expensive cars.”

“Damned shame.”