Chayton

The Royal Elite:

Chayton

by

Danielle Bourdon

Published by Wildbloom Press

Copyright © 2014

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Dedicated to the fans of the Royals and the Royal Elite

Thank you!

Sacrificing himself for another man's cause was noble and honorable, he supposed, except most noble and honorable men didn't have blood dripping from their nose or a nasty cut on their forehead. He doubted they had blurred vision, sore ribs or multiple bruises littering their torso. Then again, Chayton Black wasn't most men, and he relished the pain because it made him feel alive. It reminded him there was still work ahead and that it paid not to get soft.

Sniffing once, he bent his head to smear some of the blood onto his already bloodstained shirt. Tied to an uncomfortable metal chair in a musty warehouse basement, he bided his time while his captors left him there to discuss his fate. Mistakenly believing Chayton to be a rogue private detective, the men of the trafficking ring had beat him, secured him to the chair, and were even then probably arguing over whether to shoot him in the head or dump his body into the ocean.

He snorted.

So far, his plan was working brilliantly.

The men had made a fatal error leaving him with seven victims of the human trafficking trade, all tied up as he was and huddled together on the far side of the room. Chayton made out vague facial features through the illumination of a single bulb hanging from a lopsided socket in the ceiling. The victims, ranging in age from thirteen to thirty, watched him with both pity and worry. Proof of their ill treatment was evident in their raggedy clothes, dirty skin and incessant shivering from the cold and exposure to violence. Fear and urine stank up the air, along with some unnameable smell that Chayton couldn't place.

Little did the victims know that he, along with his brethren in the Royal Elite, had set this trap and were here to save them. The Elite, a rogue group of men hailing from the very echelon of society they set out to protect, made it their business to intercede when lives were on the line. They sacrificed time, energy and resources to liberate political captives, avert attempted murders and put a stop to kidnappings before they could happen. Many times they succeeded; sometimes they failed.

With a glance at the connecting door to make sure it was closed, Chayton worked his wrists free of the rope, accomplishing the task within less than a minute. Surging up off the chair, he brought a bloodstained finger to his lips, hushing the gasps of the victims before they could cry out. On stealthy feet, Chayton approached the wary line of people and one by one, set them free. His fingers worked over the ropes with deft ease, prying free knots and throwing the remnants to the ground.

Perhaps a thousand square feet total, the space of the basement room was flat and adorned with only the chair, a light bulb and scratches on the pocked walls. Paint the color of rust had chipped away, leaving only random splotches between all the gray.

“Shh. Say nothing,” he whispered, meeting each of their eyes. “Remain as you are and pretend to be scared. Move only when I beckon you.”

Assured by their frightened nods that the victims understood, Chayton crossed the dingy room to wait on the other side of the door. His fingers twitched at his side while the feeling came back, and he flexed his hands in and out of fists to retain his mobility.

He counted on the men to be distracted when they returned, and perhaps a little lax thinking him to be secured to a chair. The men wouldn't be expecting him to lie in wait, especially not after the beatings. It should give him a few second advantage, which made all the difference in the world.

Several minutes ticked by. One of the victims coughed, another moaned.

Voices drew closer to the outside of the basement door and Chayton tensed. This was it. A key rattled in the lock and the door began to swing inward. With a fast grab, Chayton took hold of the knob from his side and yanked hard. It pulled the guard coming in off balance. Chayton cracked the door against the man's head after that, satisfied to hear a weapon clank to the floor. It all happened so fast that the men behind the leader froze in surprise. Those were precious seconds that Chayton didn't waste. Going low around the door, he picked the gun up and got into position, movements oiled and precise. A round pierced the thigh of the first man before Chayton took down another three.

The traffickers were killers, yes, but not trained assassins, which made them a little easier to pick off. Maiming instead of executing, Chayton made sure the men would be alive for interrogation later after their wounds were treated.

“Great work.” Mattias Ahtissari, Prince of Latvala, swerved into sight around the hallway corner beyond the open door. Dressed in dark clothes, like Chayton, he holstered his weapon and stepped aside so a few other men could come forward and secure the wounded traffickers. “You look like hell, though.”

“Just a bruise here or there,” Chayton said, brushing off his injuries. “Did you get the rest of them?”

“We did. Eight more on the main level. That's twelve traffickers off the streets. Not bad progress,” Mattias said.

“Ahsan will be pleased,” Chayton added. Ahsan Afshar was the man usually at the helm of busting the trafficking rings. A recent turn of events had kept Ahsan from engaging, leaving Chayton and the rest of the Royal Elite to pick up the slack. Chayton loathed the trafficking trade as much as Ahsan, and was happy to help.

“He'll be very pleased,” Mattias said. “We'll get these men into custody and question them later. See you back at the hotel?”

Chayton handed the weapon off to Mattias to be used as needed. “Yes, I'll meet you all later.”

“Call if you need anything.” Mattias turned his attention to the gathering of the traffickers.

Chayton stepped past, leaving his brethren to see to the clean up and the care of the victims. He had a little cleaning up of his own to do.

. . .

The Grand Continental Hotel towered more than fifty floors above Singapore. Shaped in an oval, the glass structure gave off an ethereal turquoise glow, visible from any part of the city. It was a business frequented by the rich and the elite of the world, offering only suites, grand suites and luxury penthouses to its exclusive customers. Every inch of the manicured grounds lured guests into the lush interior, which gleamed with glass, marble and accents of gold.

Standing in one of the upper floor service closets, Kate Fairchild straightened the dove gray maid's uniform and fixed the white apron secured around her waist. The uniform fit as well as could be expected considering it wasn't hers. Neither was the name tag attached to her chest that read:
Penelope.
But desperate times called for
desperate measures, and she braced herself for what she might find beyond the service closet in the hallway.

Like her late mother's boyfriend or his bloodhound henchmen.

After returning from a late dinner to find her suite compromised, she'd departed the room immediately, diverting into the service closet simply because it was close and the door had been left open by an errant employee. She had no idea if the people who had ransacked her suite were still on this floor or had moved on to another. The maid disguise, such as it was, should buy her enough time to descend to the main floor and escape into the night.

She glanced back, looking for anything else she might need. The service closet was hardly just a 'closet'. Twelve feet long by ten feet wide, it boasted walls of shelves stacked high with all manner of supplies: shampoos, conditioners, soaps, bath rugs, robes, first-aid kits and boxes of thin mints to leave on pillows. Baskets of oils, lotions, loofahs and pumice stones sat next to more austere boxes lined with miniature alcoholic drinks.

Stepping closer, Kate pulled two of the little bottles out. Whiskey, and vodka. Black labels, generic white font. Without thinking more about it, she whisked the cap off the whiskey and tipped it back. Although there were only three swallows per bottle, Kate coughed and gasped at the sting. Hissing, she pressed the back of her hand against her lips to stifle the sound. Good grief, the drinks were strong. A pleasant heat spread through her body, and before she could talk herself out of it, she opened the vodka and drank it next. A violent shudder wracked her shoulders. Tossing the empties in a tall trash can, she grabbed two more bottles and stuffed them into one of the pockets on the uniform. She might need them later.

“This is madness,” she whispered to herself. Exhaling, she smoothed her hair away from her face and fixed it up into a loose knot. Too bad she didn't have a wig. Would the henchmen recognize her in this get up? Kate imagined their attention skimming right over her, never thinking to look too hard at a woman in a maid's uniform.

Opening the door, she stepped into the hallway with purpose, setting a brisk pace for the elevator bank at the far end of the corridor. So far, so good. No one stood between her and her goal. No henchmen, no guests, no employees to cry foul when they realized she wasn't Penelope. As she walked, she made alternate, emergency plans in the back of her mind. Escape routes should one of Anton's men suddenly appear out of nowhere.

The ding of the elevator, coupled with the illuminated Up arrow, sent Kate into a panic. Someone was coming. On this floor, in this exclusive of a hotel, with its expensive suites and luxury accommodations, there could only be two choices of who might step out of the elevator: a guest, of which there weren't that many thanks to the size of the suites, or a henchman. This hotel did not cater to thousands at once, but a hundred or so select individuals. Combined with the knowledge that someone had been actively ransacking her hotel room minutes before, Kate convinced herself the doors would open on a skulking, frightening man who had no business on the premises.

Diverting to the first door on her left, she used the key card from Penelope's pocket—one that would open any guest door in the hotel—and let herself in. Greeted by a gloomy room, Kate closed the door and held her breath, waiting for any signs of an occupant. Smells, movement, talking. Protest at someone barging in unannounced. The suite appeared to be empty.

Empty, but perhaps still rented out. As with her suite down the hall, this one had a sitting area, large bed, balcony doors and a master bathroom spanning more than five hundred square feet. She could just make out the elegant décor, sturdy but lush furniture, and the expensive, cream colored bedding.

Moving through the familiarly laid out space, she checked the bathroom and closet for luggage or other personal items. A navy blue suitcase stood against the wall in the bathroom and a few clothes—all masculine—hung on hangers. Crisp button downs, ironed slacks, suit coats. Polished dress shoes sat next to leather boots on a provided shoe shelf. The occupant, clearly male, was probably at one of the downstairs bars imbibing in drink and a little flirtation. Maybe he would meet another guest and go back to her room for the night.

If only.

“What's the worst that could happen?” she whispered to herself. “He comes back and finds me here, and all I have to say is that I was told to restock the bathroom. Right? I can make some excuse and leave.”

In the meantime, this was a perfect place to hide until she felt safe enough to venture into the hallway again.

. . .

To avoid unnecessary drama, Chayton used his key card on one of the private back entrances of the Grand Continental rather than stroll through the posh lobby bloodied and bruised. Although he'd cleaned up as much as he could between the trafficking bust and the hotel, he knew he still looked rough.

Taking the hallway to a bank of elevators, he rode up to the forty-fourth floor, neatly avoiding other guests and hotel employees alike. He doubted anyone would have mentioned his wounds, but Chayton liked to fly under the radar whenever he could. A bloody man was a man remembered, and he preferred to be a ghost, thank you very much.

Rolling his shoulder to work out a kink, he grunted under his breath. He would be sore tomorrow from the beating he'd taken. His muscles protested every time he did anything more strenuous than walk. The cut straddling his forehead into his hairline refused to stop bleeding, indicating it could likely use a few stitches.

Following the corridor, he flipped the key card over and over in his fingers, much like a gambler fiddled with chips at a poker table. Striding up to his suite, he let himself inside, intent on a change of clothes and a shower before meeting his brethren.

He stopped after two steps and scanned the gloomy room. Enough moonlight spilled through the window to make out the shape of the furniture, but there were clingy shadows everywhere and plenty of places for someone to hide. The vague scent of a woman's perfume—a smell that hadn't been there when he'd left—hung in the air. He thought he detected a whiff of alcohol, too. Senses on high alert, Chayton closed the door with a quiet click and pushed the key card into his front pocket.