Where There's Smoke

Where There’s Smoke…

Erosa Knowles

Book Three

The Men of 3X CONStruction

Other Books in this series:

Have I Told You Lately

Ready for Love

Where There’s Smoke…

Copyright © May 2011 by Erosa Knowles

Published by Sitting Bull Publishing

Raeford, NC

www.menof3Xconstruction.com

www.erosaknowles.com

www.wix.com/SittingBullPub/sittingbull

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No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed without prior written

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eISBN
978-1-4524-6538-8
 

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Where There’s Smoke

Erosa Knowles

Book Three

The Men of 3X CONStruction

Where There's Smoke…

Chapter 1

“Hey!” Smoke yelled while being lifted in the air. A foul smelling bag was crammed over his head. The next moment, with the ferocity of an out of control Mack truck, his back slammed into a wooden barrier.

“Shit,” he moaned into the darkness. Nerve endings tingled as they raced to his brain, transmitting a litany of body damage. His breath surged from his mouth, as pressure of a well-placed fist to his stomach created a vacuum. The ringing he heard — not from bells, but his ears, as his abdominals took punch after punch. His swollen eyelids attempted to open and close, to brush away the thick, sticky fluid streaking his beat-up face.

Someone dragged and pinned him to the floor. His mind registered the harsh breaths of his attackers, but little else. The orchestrated sounds of a brutal whipping were indelibly printed on his mind.

“Ahhhh,” he yelled, as shards of pain shot up his arm, stabbing his mind. A hand shoved a cloth into his mouth, blanketing the sound.

One thought ricocheted through his mind, prison ass whupings had been less brutal.

“
Uh,” Smoke groaned, doubling over in the dark. Excruciating pain radiated through his abdominals to his back. His arms were stretched wide and attached to the wall. Red-hot fire slammed through his face as it whipped to the side. He tried to spit and couldn’t. That’s right, they’d gagged him.

“Stop,” a voice said. “No more hitting his visible areas.”

“Oomph,” A sickening sound permeated the air. This time darkness swallowed him, he didn’t feel the next kick, the next, or the next.

***

Vianca Marino sat in the dimly lit bar off the hotel lobby, watching the two women work the room. It was slim pickings for a Sunday afternoon. The woman closest to the corner wore a gold slinky dress, with a plunging neckline that gave hints of her silicone treasures. More than one man gave a lingering glance. With the efficiency of a stockbroker, she summed up each potential client with a slow sweep of her eyes. Offering an encouraging smile to some and turning her face away from those who didn't make the cut. She could easily be in her twenties, although she looked much older. This line of work guaranteed added years to one's age. Heavy make-up and a plastic smile covered her pale complexion, providing splotches of color on an otherwise bleak landscape.

No question, the two were neat, polite, and polished, but working girls all the same. Fascinated, Vianca watched the management skills of these women in their personal game of high stakes. Few CEO's could best them. The older one must’ve been training the younger. She’d eye a man from the tips of his polished black wingtips to the cut of his suit or shirt. The smile she granted the potential customer depicted her estimation of his worth. The poor schmuck she’d just dismissed ambled away to the back of the bar, tail between his legs. Obviously, he didn’t make her mark.

The older woman wasn’t who Vianca was interested in. No, it was the younger one. The one sitting quietly nursing her single drink. The one refusing to talk to every man who approached her. The one who currently went by the name Angelique. Her real name, Barbara McDonald, wasn’t as exotic. She stood around five-three, a small, stacked brunette with piercing baby blue eyes, dimples and remnants of innocence on her face. Her short black dress draped conservatively across her front and dipped low on her back, ending just above her hips. Mrs. McDonald had left home four months ago, or so her husband claimed, and hit the streets. Her father-in-law asked their company to investigate, make sure his son’s accounting was true. Judging the blank face of the woman, it didn’t look like she was here for kicks and giggles. More like she had to be here. After reading the dossier on the son, she wouldn’t be surprised if the woman hadn’t been a part of a debt-paying bargain for her gambling addicted husband.

Vianca sighed, adjusting her stuffed shirt. The heat from her disguise made sitting for extended periods uncomfortable. Anyone walking by her table would see a dusky-complexioned, overweight man with nondescript brown hair, plain round face, brown eyes and thin lips. Completely unremarkable and forgettable. Emphasis on the forgettable part.

She’d been trailing Mrs. McDonald for a week, had stayed in the same hotel, checking in and out each day under different aliases. The hotel staff put the prostitutes on the same floor every night, in one of three rooms. None of those rooms was detectable by the hotel's hall cameras. Smart. Vianca had placed her small cameras near the door of each room, making sure they blended with the scenery. From her room she monitored the activity entering and exiting Mrs. McDonald’s room nightly. To date, the young prostitute had one client, the same older man each night, whereas the older woman ran through five to eight different men each night.

A tall, dark haired, Brad Pitt clone approached the older woman at the bar. He leaned forward and engaged her in conversation. Straightening at the oddity, a chilling alert went through Vianca. Men didn’t indulge in long conversations with hookers. They negotiated briefly. This man spent at least fifteen minutes talking; the older woman laughed unabashedly at whatever he said. The younger woman took note at both the man and her partner. Finally, the man whispered into the older woman’s ear, she nodded, still smiling. He put money on the counter, and walked off. As he walked past her, the smile dropped and a calculating gleam entered his light brown eyes.

The older hooker walked over to McDonald and spoke to her ear. McDonald shook her head, obviously wanting no part. The smile dropped from the older woman’s face as she whispered fiercely into the younger woman’s ear. Red faced, McDonald slid from the stool, turned puppy-like and followed the woman. As they passed Vianca’s table, a fog of misery wafted from McDonald, she’d lost weight since the beginning of the investigation. The drawn look on Barbara McDonald’s face screamed her shame, and a semblance of acceptance of her fate. Vianca hated that her client insisted she not make contact with his errant daughter-in-law. She was simply to report everything she saw. If ever anyone needed help, it was Mrs. McDonald.

After the women left, Vianca waited a few minutes and looked around at the remaining patrons in the area before she left for her room. Glancing toward the lobby she noticed the man from the bar waiting for the prostitutes near the bank of elevators. As she passed them, the man squeezed the older woman’s ass. The woman giggled like a schoolgirl at the prom. Shaking her head at their antics, Vianca headed to her room and booted up the computer. A few clicks later, she saw the man from the bar walk in the room with the two women. Grabbing a bottle of water from her stash, she took off the padding, the wig and stepped out the fat pants. Shaking her head, she finger combed the dark mahogany strands that flew around her face before settling gracefully around her neck and back. She removed the dark contacts from her eyes and blinked rapidly. Bending forward to the monitor, she watched as another younger man, could’ve been a college student, walk to the same room, knock on the door and was let in.

“Okay, maybe they’re doing a little group thing,” she murmured. That didn’t fit with how these women worked all week. Following her gut, Vianca sat and looked at the halls where she placed her other cameras. Something was definitely off tonight. A third man, a little older, better dressed, walked toward the room, and knocked. She panned in closer, and noticed he used a cloth to open the door. Not good. A sliver of dread slid down her spine. Barbara McDonald was in trouble with a capital T.

Without further thought, she moved quickly, throwing her things into her bags without taking her eyes off the monitor. Although her client didn’t want her to intervene, her conscience wouldn’t allow her to leave the woman in this mess. That glimmer of misery mixed with innocence tugged at Vianca. She had to help if she could.

Another man walked to the door and, using a cloth to push it open, walked inside. Just as she placed her luggage by the door, a fifth man walked into the room. Bells clanged inside her mind. Gang rape? Hell no. Bile rose in her throat as her anger spiked. Rape to any woman for any reason was unacceptable. Fuck her client, as long as her partner understood, she didn't give a damn. She planned to get McDonald away from these assholes.

Earlier that week she’d stashed two housekeeping uniforms, a master key, and a map of the hotel, although after ten days, she knew the layout by rote. Within minutes, she was dressed in the housekeeping attire, makeup, wig and contacts in place. Movement on the monitor arrested her attention, the five men left, one at a time in two-minute intervals. She marveled at how normal, calm they looked. Crisp shirt and ties, suit coats buttoned, hair in place, no one would guess they’d just violated two women in some way.

Disgusted, she put on her overcoat and a large hat. Moving at a normal pace, she went outside, placed her belongings in the trunk of her Honda Accord. She then drove her car around back to the employee entrance. Sprinting to a side door, she re-entered the building and headed for her room. As she passed the computer, she froze in surprise as two men dragged a black man into the room where Barbara McDonald entered earlier.

Had the women left? She replayed the tape the few minutes she’d been gone from her room. There’d been no activity. Why would more men go into that room? No matter how good the women were, she doubted they could handle three more men so soon. Stumped she sat in the chair and watched the monitor, wondering how this new development would affect her plan to save McDonald.

The clock on the computer monitor showed ten pm. The women had gone inside the room two hours earlier. People would be returning from dinner and night pursuits soon, there’d be more activity outside. During the week, she’d noticed the hotel rarely placed any guests on the same floor as the women and never placed anyone in rooms close to the prostitutes. She'd been hoping that factor would help her get Barbara out and down to the employee exit unseen.