Tales of Chills and Thrills: The Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Novels) (30 page)

He convulsed in laughter at his risqué proposition, then added, “I figure this lovely redhead is a virtual ATM.”

Nicki peeked out of half-closed lids and saw Boris slap the woman who had been bathing Nicki.

“Finish getting her ready! And don’t give her anything else. She’s already too groggy. I want her feisty, glaring at the patrons the way she glared at me. There’s not a better turn on in the world than screwing an angry woman who puts up a fight. I’m just hoping she’s as much of a fighter as her mama was. Hell, there were eight of us and Tatiana fought every one of us, right to the end. It made for a hell of a recording to send Yuri. Let’s hope his daughter has as much fight in her as her mother did.”

“Christ, man. I thought you said you told our little redhead that her mama was alive.”

Boris sneered.

“How else could I have gotten her to come with me? Hell no. Tatiana died twenty-five years ago, after my uncle and his men and I had at her. We showed Yuri Petrakov but good. He might have put the screws to our clan, but we screwed his wife. To death.”

Aiden whistled in appreciation.

“Damn, Boris. You sure had me fooled. If I’d known what a cruel son of a bitch you are underneath that drunken old man exterior, we could have made some serious bank. But as it’s late in the game, we’ll have to settle for a hundred mil or so.”

Once she was certain that they were gone, Nicki sat up, cringing at the pain in her head. A wave of nausea swept her. Boris’s ugly words echoed in her brain. Her mother was dead. But not in childbirth the way her father had told her. No, she had died a horrible painful death—and one of the men who had killed her was in the next room. Fighting blinding rage, mixed with grief and shame, Nicki excoriated herself. She was furious that she’d allowed herself to be captured, that she’d listened to the evil man spouting what she knew at the time were lies. She knew something was wrong. Her father would never have lied to her about that. He would never have said her mother was dead if she was alive. But Nicki hadn’t listened to her instincts
or
her rational brain. She’d ruined their careful plan, and in the process put her team, the kidnapped girls and herself in radical danger. And she’d done exactly what she’d promised Rafe she wouldn’t. She’d deviated from the plan. Big time!

She struggled to stand, horrified at how weak she was. Startled, she saw that it was after 10 o’clock. Damn, whatever they had given her must have been strong. She needed to focus.

At that moment, the Asian women who had bathed her returned. They looked relieved that she was awake. When the older woman spoke, her voice was low, frightened. “I am glad you are awake. The big man would have beaten us again if you were not ready. We must hurry. The important men will be here soon. You must be ready or they will hurt us. We need to make you beautiful. Shiny. Like the other girls. You are more beautiful than any of them. But we will make you even more beautiful. Come. Now we will finish bathing you, and wash your fire hair. Make you shiny all over.”

After they bathed Nicki, and brushed her hair into a shimmering cascade of curls, all three women grabbed their makeup tools and went to work. One did her face and neck, the other her lips and cheeks, and the third spent at least twenty minutes on her eyes. When Nicki finally saw herself in the mirror, she was surprised but not ashamed. She did look beautiful. Definitely shinier than usual, but beautiful. When they were finished, the Chinese woman gave her a pair of flowing harem pants. Nicki put them on then looked for a top. The women shook their heads, refusing to meet her gaze.

Frowning, Nicki shrugged off her half-naked state, assuming that the rest of her outfit was in another room. At that point, one of the women approached and opened a small silver case containing what appeared to be jeweled barrettes connected by a gold chain. Looking closer, Nicki shivered. While she’d heard about nipple clamps, she’d never seen them—and she sure as hell had never worn them. The largest of the women called out in Russian to one of the guards at the door. The guard strode toward her, a lewd grin on his broad pockmarked face. Before Nicki could react, he had her in a headlock, the back of his hand pressed against her wind pipe. He held her wrists firmly behind her with his other hand. In broken English, he hissed in her ear.

“Be still or I will strangle you.”

While Nicki was sure he was bluffing, she didn’t want to test him. She was already dizzy from the drugs, and now from lack of air. The Russian woman roughly grabbed one of Nicki’s breasts and yanked on the nipple. When Nicki cried out, the woman smirked and roughly rubbed the tender tip between her fingers and thumb bringing it to a hard peak. Before she could protest, the woman snapped on the nipple clamp, tightening it mercilessly. Nicki shrieked as much from shock as from pain. Except that it did hurt! In minutes both nipples were clamped with the jeweled clasps, the gold chain hanging between her full breasts.

Following the women down the hallway, she entered a large room off what looked like an auditorium. Horrified, she saw fifteen to twenty young girls huddled against the far wall. They were dressed in the same harem pants as hers, and all sported jeweled nipple clamps with a connecting gold chain. They wore as much makeup as she did, and all looked older than they likely were—until you looked into their terrified eyes. After waiting until the servant women left, Nicki moved toward the group and motioned them to come to her. At first the girls resisted, too frightened to move. Nicki took a deep breath, and prayed with all her heart that what she was about to tell them was the truth.

“Please, come, sit down. Come close. I don’t want anyone else to hear me. Listen to me. I am like a policeman. I am here to help you. Do you hear me? My team, strong men, are coming to save us. Do you understand? You have to hold on, not give in. We all do. Do you hear? Right now we have to do what the bad people say we do, but you need to watch me and do whatever I tell you. Do you understand?”

Some of the girls burst into tears. Nicki shushed them then quickly touched up their makeup, wiping away the streaked mascara—knowing that the servant women would be beaten if the girls looked like they had been crying. In low tones, Nicki encouraged them to be strong, told them she was certain that help would come. She believed in her soul that Rafe would save them. Rafe and the rest of the men would never leave her or the girls behind; they would never let these hideous men succeed. And neither would she. If it was the last thing she did, she would kill the man who raped and murdered her mother.

Chapter 33

The doors to the private elevator slid closed. Conscious of the cameras and certain microphones, the eight men inside were silent. Words weren’t necessary. Like a pack of cunning lions on the prowl, their communication was virtually telepathic. Rafe forced himself to take deep breaths, to contain his anger, focus it solely on the task ahead. Counting the floors, he reminded himself that each level they passed brought him that much closer to Nicki. Closer to the men who had captured her and beat her—closer to the men who would not live to see the next light of day. When the light for the penthouse flashed, a surge of unspoken energy rippled through the men in the burnished copper and teak cab. The doors opened directly into the foyer of the penthouse apartment. The blueprints they’d studied indicated that the extraordinary complex high above the New York skyline housed no fewer that thirteen rooms, not counting the six bathrooms and two full kitchens. Grayson and Caleb stepped out, followed by Cam and Danny. Rafe and Abdullah, resplendent in floor-length thobes and bishts came next. Sergio and Jeff brought up the rear. The six men in western dress formed a tight phalanx around Rafe and Abdullah.

The six ISA men didn’t attempt to hide the bulges under their jackets, signaling shoulder and ankle holsters containing a variety of weapons. The burly welcoming committee with similar bulges under their coats stood to one side. In negotiating his and Rafe’s invitation, Abdullah made the honored sheik’s attendance contingent on his bodyguards accompanying him into the penthouse. He explained that the “Saudi prince” rarely attended such events—and never without his personal guards. The host’s resistance weakened when Abdullah paid the required $1 million dollar entrance fee, half of which was non-refundable even if no purchases were made… and then sweetened the deal with an additional $4 million dollars. Abdullah had intimated that the sheik had a penchant for young, fair-skinned American girls of excellent pedigree, and would likely be purchasing a number of the auction stock, if they pleased him. A letter from a well-known Geneva financial institution confirmed the sheik’s credit worthiness and immediate access to cash. Rafe shook his head when Abdullah told him the host agreed to allow Rafe to enter with a heavily armed guard. He huffed in disdain. As always, money was power, and the greedier the adversary the more vulnerable they were.

A booming voice broke the tense silence as a portly dark-haired man rounded the corner. His thick accent confirmed his Russian heritage before he introduced himself as Boris Lubvik. His swarthy skin had a sickly grey undertone and was marred with red veined splotches. The slight sheen of sweat on his upper lip and sour odor emanating from his expensive suit were sure signs that their host relied heavily on the preferred libation of his country. His smile and unctuous welcome contrasted with his sharp beady eyes. They darted from one man to the next, then landed on the two Arab men in the center of the group. Rafe raised an eyebrow and turned away when the Russian man extended his hand. Abdullah shook his head and flicked his fingertips, a dismissive gesture indicating that the Prince did not shake hands.

The Russian’s face flushed a beefy red. Trying to recover from his obvious faux pas, he greeted them in a clumsy accent-laden version of Arabic.

“
Ahlan wa sahlan
.”

Abdullah responded, “
Ahlan bik
.”

Rafe replied with the more formal, “
Masa an nu
.”

With a slight frown, Rafe refused one of the guard’s offer to take his bisht, as did Abdullah. The ornate cloaks hanging loosely over their thobes did more than merely speak to their wealth: they hid an arsenal of weapons.

“Please gentlemen, won’t you join me? My other guests have arrived and are in the viewing room.”

Nodding to Grayson and the others, Boris continued in an oily voice, “Gregori will show you to the library where I hope you will partake of the refreshments we have provided.”

Grayson didn’t hide his contempt.

“That won’t be necessary.” Nodding to include Caleb, Cam and Danny, he continued, “We will accompany His Excellency to the viewing room.”

Grayson indicated that Jeff and Sergio were to stay in the foyer. At the agreed-upon signal, their job was to take down the burly sentinels and allow access to the SWAT team that waited in the staircases and landing below.

The Russian guards came to attention at Gray’s impertinent order, but Boris waved them off. Rafe could only guess at the anger that now seethed below Boris’s patently false pleasantries. Rafe thought with a sneer, the smell of filthy lucre brought even righteous men to heel… and turned scoundrels of Boris’s ilk into obsequious curs. Rafe forced himself to walk quietly behind the odious man. The mental image of Nicki’s unconscious, injured, exposed body, combined with the Russian’s exhilarated threat to rape her, tore at Rafe’s restraint. The thought of wrapping his hands around the Russian’s pudgy throat and squeezing the life out of him contented him for the moment. Both Grayson and Caleb moved closer—a solid show of enraged camaraderie. Rafe knew their anger was as intense as his; the most challenging task was for everyone to control their mutual rage, until they could implement their carefully conceived plan.

Abdullah and Rafe walked beside the Russian, the others following closely behind. Boris initiated a patter of small talk, pointing out various paintings lining the stunning hallways, noting casually their price on the commercial art market. With a simper, he indicated that if any pleased “his excellency” he’d be willing to consider a sale at a discounted price. Assuming that the art work was fake—and stolen, at that—Rage struggled to hide his scorn. Reminding himself that Nicki’s life and the life of God knows how many other girls depended on them, he refused to allow himself to react to the loathsome man.

When Boris stepped aside to usher them into the “viewing room” Rafe exchanged a quick glance with Gray and Caleb. From their reconnaissance, Rafe knew that the likely auction site was the large room surrounded on three sides by walls of windows, providing a panoramic view of the city below. To his surprise the dimly lit room had been transformed into an auditorium setting, with risers holding luxurious leather chairs. A small table covered with bottles of ostentatiously expensive liquors sat next to each chair. A cadre of large muscular men, their weapons in plain sight, stood discreetly along two walls. Their demeanor and facial features reflected the Russian army that spawned them. Seated in the luxurious chairs were approximately twenty men, their features obscured by the muted lighting. All of them were focused on the stage at the front of the room.

Rafe and Abdullah followed Boris down the aisle, to the two empty chairs on the front riser. Bottles of alcohol were noticeably absent on the tables next to their chairs. Apparently someone in Boris’s entourage understood that serving alcohol to Saudi sheiks was a grievous insult. Gray and Caleb positioned themselves at the end of the front row, next to the Russian hit men. Cam and Danny moved discreetly to the other side. Settling into the chair next to Abdullah, Rafe allowed himself to look at the stage.

Backlights illuminated the long platform. A raised dais occupied center stage. Behind the dais was a row of women. In the dim lighting they looked similar in size and shape. They each wore harem pants, and were naked from the waist up—except for the bejeweled nipple clamps torturing their tender flesh. Rafe’s gut clenched. The stage shimmered in the red haze of fury that flashed in front of him. Abdullah clutched his arm, restraining him. Rafe gasped for air as his eyes sought Nicki out. Even in the low lights, Rafe zeroed in on her. No one could mistake her slender yet curvaceous body, or haughty carriage. Even in this hideous setting, she held her head high; Rafe was certain that was defiance glittering in her eyes. Rafe wanted to connect to her, but knew the women were likely blinded by the lights, and moreover that she wouldn’t recognize him in his disguise.