Nightfire (15 page)

The lieutenant opened his notebook and gave her a kind look. “So, Chloe, let’s run through it just one more time, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Chloe tried to smile for him. She’d gotten to know him well in the six months since that terrible night Mike had been accused of assaulting a woman.

He was almost a member of the family, someone who dropped by unannounced to watch a ball game with Harry and Sam and Mike and stayed for dinner. He was tough, kind under his cynical cop veneer, overworked. A good guy.

It was clear to Chloe that he was interrogating her here in Harry’s apartment, and not in police headquarters, as a courtesy to her and to Mike, who’d been a colleague and was a friend. As were Harry and Sam.

“You don’t have any more information about the two men?” she asked.

“No, ma’am. The dead man—” He fixed Mike with a hard stare and Mike stared right back. If there was one thing about Mike she knew, it was that he couldn’t be intimidated. “The dead man had nothing on his person that could identify him. No wallet, no cell phone, no ID at all. The tags had been cut off his clothes. I was told informally by the coroner’s assistant that he had gold fillings that weren’t done in this country, but that’s about it. AFIS results show his fingerprints not on file anywhere in the U.S. We’re still waiting for IAEG results.”

“International fingerprint database,” Mike explained.

“But Russia’s not a party to IAEG.” The lieutenant huffed out an exasperated breath. “So if they are Russian, he won’t be in their system, either. I heard that the other guy’s cell rang. Turns out the caller is untraceable. We’re still figuring out how that can happen. So, Chloe. Starting from the beginning. How did they know where you were?”

“I don’t know,” Chloe said slowly, starting to feel woozy. Mike’s hand covered hers, warm and strong and safe. She definitely wanted to answer questions but delayed shock was catching up with her. “I was in the supply room, which not many people know about. The door they came in isn’t used much, either. Most people enter the room by the door all of you used, which opens onto a small terrace and then out onto the parking lot. You’d have to be familiar with the shelter’s layout to know to use that door.”

Bill looked up. “Are the blueprints on file anywhere?”

Chloe’s mind went blank. She had no idea.

“We can check that,” said Mike. “I’ve got a friend in the Land Registry Office. I’ll text him now.”

“So. You’re in this supply room.”

Chloe nodded. “Folding clothes.”

“Is that something you do normally?”

“Donations of clothes are made in various points in the city and are collected and brought to the shelter on Wednesday afternoons. So, yes, in answer to your question, I’m often folding and sorting clothes on Wednesday afternoons.”

“And who knows this?”

Chloe lifted her shoulders. “Almost everyone at the shelter, I should think. It’s not a secret.”

“So the men came in through the door and what? What did you think?”

“I tried to talk myself out of it, but I was instantly terrified,” Chloe confessed. “There was something about the way they moved, something in their eyes . . .” She shivered.

“Here, honey.” Mike reached behind them for a small blanket Ellen kept on the couch in case Gracie got cold. He wrapped it around her shoulders, kissed her temple.

Absolutely no one reacted. Not Harry or Sam or Ellen or Nicole. Not even Bill Kelly. It was as if Mike hugging her and kissing her had become the new norm.

“I told you they moved like soldiers.” Mike’s jaw tightened. “Possibly Russian soldiers. The Russian Federation treats its soldiers brutally and the soldiers are brutal in return.”

Bill nodded, mouth downturned. “What did they say to you, Chloe?”

She rubbed her forehead in frustration. “Well, that’s the thing. They didn’t say much at all, really. Just that I was supposed to pay attention to them. They said that over and over. And pulled out a long black knife to sort of drive that concept home. They put the knife under my eye.”

Mike turned his head slowly. His eyes met Bill’s. “Keep that guy under lock and key.” He made a noise in his throat that sounded scarily like a growl.

“Yeah. He’s not going anywhere and you’re not coming near him. We picked the knife up. It’s a Kizlyar. You pegged it, Mike.”

“Russian combat knife. Used by their Army and Special Forces. Christ.” Harry rubbed his forehead.

A Russian combat knife. Chloe tucked that away among the many terrifying and absolutely puzzling details of what had happened today.

Bill wrote something in his notebook. “So, Chloe. You were supposed to pay attention. To what?”

“They never said. They got . . . sidetracked.”

By attempted rape. The words quivered in the air. Mike’s breathing was audible, as if he were pushing some great weight.

“Is there any reason why two men, possibly soldiers, possibly Russian, would want to target you?”

She’d barely thought of anything else on the ride to the hospital and the ride back home. “I’ve thought and thought, but I pull a complete blank.”

“No enemies?”

“No. I sometimes help RBK with—um—some special projects.” Chloe looked at Mike and Harry and Sam, not knowing how much she could say.

“He knows,” Mike interjected. “Several cops know what we do.”

“Could this be revenge? From some bozo whose wife you helped get away?” Bill asked.

Chloe thought about it carefully. “In theory. But the last woman who came to us at RBK, her husband killed himself a week after she escaped. The kind of man you’re talking about has impulse-control issues. He’s going to want his revenge right away. He’s not going to wait and coolly plan it.”

Bill nodded his agreement. “And in the shelter? Those women come from volatile situations. Violent situations. The shelter offers them protection. Surely you’ve made some enemies?”

Chloe sighed. “I’m just a volunteer. I don’t have any administrative responsibilities. I’m not in any way the official face of the shelter and my name isn’t anywhere as a staff member. I just give a hand three times a week. Lately, we’ve started a very mild form of group therapy. Quite a few women come by occasionally, drop-ins from the street, we talk, and it seems to help them. But the women living there, almost by definition, have made a decision to leave their spouses. I didn’t convince anyone to run away, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“And the Russian connection, if there is one?” He looked at Mike, then Sam and Harry. “Do you have any Russian connections? Any reason why Russians, or men who’d trained in Eastern Europe, might be after you? Have you protected any Russian women lately?”

“No.” Chloe opened her hands helplessly. “I have no idea why Russian men would attack me.”

She shuddered, something deep inside her icy cold and scared. The attack had plunged her straight into nightmares she thought were behind her, straight into a hell beyond her conscious memories. The world she’d trod so lightly on, afraid to leave any kind of imprint, had suddenly cracked beneath her feet. An abyss had opened up, inside a yawning, cruel darkness.

Mike looked at her narrow-eyed, perceiving something. It was reassuring and also frightening that he saw her so clearly. Reassuring because she was no longer invisible. Frightening because a curtain had been pulled back on a world in which she had no defenses at all.

Chloe shrugged helplessly. “Sorry I can’t be of more assistance.”

Bill looked down at his notebook, flipped it closed, heaved a huge sigh and rose. He was almost as tall as Sam. Chloe had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. “Okay then. Well, we’ll try to interrogate this guy as soon as he can talk some, or at least write down info.” He shot Mike a hard-eyed look, which Mike shot right back. “But I told you I’m not holding out hope. If we’re talking Russian Mafiya, he’ll be as hard as nails. He’ll never talk because whatever we do to him will be less terrifying than what his bosses will do to him. In the meantime, keep an eye on Chloe.”

“On it.” Mike squeezed her shoulders again as Harry and Sam muttered, “Oh yeah.”

“And Chloe, keep your eyes peeled and if you remember anything, anything at all, call me. We don’t know whether they wanted to intimidate you, kidnap you or, eventually, kill you. So be careful. And be careful who you’re with.”

It occurred to Chloe for the first time that though she wasn’t alone in facing the danger, she was dragging not only Harry and Sam into her problems, but Ellen and Nicole. And, worse,
Gracie and Merry
.

She loved those two little girls with all her heart. If anything happened to them because of her . . .

“We’ll see you out, Bill,” Ellen said, with a nod to Nicole. Nicole stood up a little awkwardly, with the help of her husband’s huge hand. They were walking Bill out, but they were also leaving the men to make their arrangements.

“She’s with me,” Mike said in a hard voice to his two brothers. “I hope I made that clear. And I’ll be on it 24/7.”

“You have to work, Mike,” Chloe said gently. She was touched to the core by his willingness to put his life completely on the line. Whatever those two men—Russian or not—were, whatever they wanted, they represented a nebulous threat that had no ending in sight. “You can’t put your whole life on hold.”

“I can,” he said fiercely. “And I will. If you have to go out and I absolutely can’t be with you, I’m seconding Barney. He’s good. No one’s going to get past him.”

Barney had Harry and Sam’s approval. They both nodded. Then they got into a long, involved discussion of shifts and vehicle inspection rotations, carjacking deterrents . . . Chloe tuned out. She was exhausted. Her arm hurt and she had bruises all over.

Nothing to be hospitalized over, but the pain that had been like a background noise suddenly pinged to life.

Right in the middle of the discussions, Mike rose, went into Harry’s kitchen and came back out with a glass of water and two pills in his huge hand.

“Here, honey.”

He continued where he’d left off with his brothers.

Chloe gratefully took the pills. Fifteen minutes later, the pain had eased off and she was in a mild haze that felt just great. The men’s deep voices were a far-off hum.

“Okay.” Mike clapped his hands and her eyes popped open. An hour had passed. “We’re clear. Harry’s going to brief Barney. Bill’s going to continue trying to trace the vehicle the two men left and will keep us in the loop. Chloe, honey? Time to go.”

Mike took her hand, stood and helped her up.

Chloe stood, too, and looked at her brother and at Sam. Sam kept his face expressionless. Harry looked at her with love and worry in his eyes. “Chloe? Sweetheart?”

Mike was steamrolling her, no doubt about that. His stance was aggressive as he faced his two brothers, arm around her shoulders, holding her tightly to him.

He was clearly perfectly prepared to fight to be the one who was her prime protector. Harry and Sam were there, willing and able, but Mike was right. They had other responsibilities, to their wives, to their children. Sam’s wife was going to give birth any day now. Her previous delivery had been hard and she’d bled a lot. He wouldn’t want to leave her side.

Quite right.

Chloe shook a little. However it had happened, she’d re-entered the dark world of male violence once again.

She had no doubt that she needed a protector. Pretending otherwise was foolish beyond words. She had no tools and no weapons against men like those who had come after her.

Mike was right when he said he didn’t have divided loyalties. But there was something else. He’d defended her without hesitation, without any sense of danger to himself. He’d faced two deadly men head-on. He’d risked his life for her.

In the most primordial way possible, he’d fought for her, and in the most primitive way possible, she was his. There was also one more factor in this, one she kept close to her heart.

She loved him.

Chloe reached up to squeeze Mike’s hand and looked at her brother Harry and at Sam. “I’m with Mike,” she said.

Chapter 12

The Meteor Club

T
he man grunted heavily, fingers digging painfully into her hips, and slumped on top of her. Consuelo didn’t dare push at his shoulders to get him off her—he’d paid for it, after all—trying to pull in breath even though her lungs were compressed.

Please, God, don’t let him fall asleep
.

After a few minutes, when Consuelo started seeing spots in front of her eyes, the man groaned, pulled out of her and rolled away onto his back, forearms across his eyes.

From this moment on, she was invisible. As they said, this was what prostitutes were paid to do. Leave.

She got out of bed quietly, breathing shallowly. He’d imprinted her skin with the smell of his rancid sweat with an overlay of Armani for Men. Her groin smelled of his semen. Sex without a condom paid much better, and under the new Russian management, whatever paid better was definitely preferred.

Some of the older women were given to men who liked to hurt. There were special soundproofed rooms in the other wing for that. The Russian made it clear that there was no limits to what could be done, as long as the men paid enough.

Two women had disappeared in the last month.

Consuelo looked down at the man who’d hurt her, trying to push away the spurt of red-hot rage that raced through her.

“John,” he’d said his name was, and she refrained from smiling at the name that was also a description. Yeah. John.

His real name was Larry Cameron and he ran a huge used car dealership in Chula Vista. His face was all over late-night TV.

Consuelo didn’t care. She didn’t care about much, actually. More and more lately, while the men grunted over her, using her body, she’d fly right out of it. She’d come reluctantly back in the middle of it this time because “John” had been hurting her so much it had been impossible to ignore. Ramming into her, digging his fingers hard into her hips, biting her breasts.

Before, Franklin would have had a quiet word with him. Between gentlemen, of course. Care for the merchandise and all. But since the arrival of the Russians, many of the customers had sniffed the new regime, like animals scenting freedom, and become violent, out of control. The girls started sporting bruises that took more and more makeup to cover up. A couple had needed medical care.

It was as if a new, evil spirit roamed the club. The Russians had come and somehow their rough presence had unleashed something. Something bad.

In Consuelo’s opinion, men were very close to the animal kingdom. Like horses could sense the appearance of a lion among them and grow agitated, so the customers had sensed the appearance of a crueler race of man among them, a presence that lifted inhibitions, gave the men silent permission to let themselves give in to their darker impulses.

Because, after all, they’d paid for it and who was going to complain?

Consuelo could see in their eyes if they’d been infected with this new plague. Sometimes she flew out of her body the instant the door closed behind them and she was ordered to strip, because she could sense that they’d been infected. Even the many blue-eyes—their eyes grew cold and dark. She was sweaty and smelly and bruised.

Each luxurious room had its own bathroom, but she couldn’t stand the thought of showering naked while the man was passed out on the bed. She had her own room in a separate annex with the other girls and longed for the quiet of her room, longed to take an hour-long shower under the hottest spray she could stand, knowing it wouldn’t wash away anything.

Consuelo picked up her clothes, noting without interest the ripped panties and torn bra. “John” was one of those who got very excited for sex two seconds after the door closed behind them and they were alone in the room.

The panties and bra had been pretty, she mused. Pale lavender silk with lace around the edges. They were ruined now.

Consuelo-outside-Consuelo looked down from the ceiling as the young woman below her slid the silky, torn underwear through her hands. The young woman let the panties drift lightly to the floor and fisted her hands in the ends of the bra and pulled tight.

The silk was delicate but strong, like a soft rope.

Consuelo looked down at the naked young woman, flexing the rope-bra, pulling it over and over, testing its strength. Consuelo on the ceiling felt absolutely nothing. She watched with the very faintest of interest as the young naked woman walked slowly over to the bed and looked down at the man making a huge dent in the mattress.

He was big, heavy, hairy. His gleaming penis was slick with semen and K-Y jelly. The young woman down below had surreptitiously coated herself with it because she was so dry. Even with the jelly, it had hurt.

His penis lay spent along his thigh.

The labored breathing turned to snoring, great heavy snorts like a hibernating bear. So ugly. So useless.

Consuelo watched the young woman put a knee to the mattress, bend down toward the man, the silky rope-bra stretched between her fists, bringing the silk closer to the man’s throat . . .

A sudden spurt of alarm and Consuelo shot down, back into the young woman’s body just as the man’s eyes opened wide, light blue and bloodshot.

“What—what are you doing?” he slurred, seeing her bending down, voice rising in alarm. “What the fuck?
What the hell are you doing?
”

Killing you
. The words filled her head, together with a rage that came from nowhere like an immense wind rising in the desert. Where before Consuelo had felt nothing, now she felt too much. Rage pulsed in her like blood, washing over her in waves. A fury so total and complete it shook her bones.

The man tried to lift himself up on his elbows but slipped. Too drunk on whiskey and sex to keep himself upright. But the clouds were disappearing from his blue eyes, awareness seeping in.

Consuelo looked with longing at his throat. She could see where the rope-bra would go, right over the Adam’s apple. She’d twist it around the back of his neck, twist it tight, hold it there . . .

She’d hold fast as he thrashed on the bed, all his beefy strength useless. She’d watch as he turned dark red, as his eyes bulged, as his hairy legs kicked.

In the orphanage, many years ago, she’d seen someone strangled to death and she’d never forgotten it.

She’d tighten and tighten until the man stilled, black tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“Get away from me!” Eyes fixed on hers, his legs scrabbled awkwardly as he tried to scramble away, and Consuelo hated every cell in his huge, puffy body and knew her rage was visible on her face.

Careful, Consuelo. Be careful not to let your anger overwhelm you. Because you are very very angry, and you don’t know it yet.

The voice in her head was soft and reasonable. Chloe. Her lifeline. A woman who somehow understood her, utterly and completely, without judging her. Chloe, elegant and cultivated and rich, who nonetheless treated her as a complete equal and a friend.

It was Chloe in her head now, Chloe who smoothed out her features, turned her into the sex kitten that was her mask. Chloe who made her lower her voice into a husky growl when what she really wanted to do was scream.

“Ah, John,” Consuelo purred, laying the rope-bra across his shoulders, slowly sliding it down his chest. She stopped at his nipples and flicked them with her fingernails, smiling narrow-eyed at his jolt of pleasure.

Chloe-in-her-head was saving her life. Consuelo realized she wouldn’t have had the strength to strangle this man. He’d have overpowered her easily, called in security—
real
security, the Russian monsters—and her life would be over.

The girls of the club whispered about what happened to those who rebelled. They were given to men who loved the darkest of dark pleasures and were never seen again.

Chloe’s voice in her head had stopped her.

“It was so wonderful before,” she whispered, wondering at herself, at how she could lie so easily. She opened her thighs wide, knowing he could see her sex, lips puffy from where he’d plowed her for an hour. “
So
wonderful. I want more. More, more, more.”

Consuelo straddled him, wrapped the silk cup of the bra around his penis and pulled. He could feel the soft silk and her hand milking him around it.

“Ah, baby,” he groaned, head flopping back on the pillow, “why didn’t you say so?” He grinned, waving his hand at his stiffening member. “It’s all yours, baby. Get to work.”

Afterwards, wiping her mouth with a shaking hand, Consuelo got dressed and quietly closed the door of the room behind her, wondering what to do, where to go. Her next session was in an hour but the threads of self-control were fraying dangerously.

Her legs were shaking, she could hardly breathe. Her body felt battered. She hated her body, hated herself.

Hated
the johns, all of them.

No. No more, no more today. She’d come dangerously close to trying to kill a man today, and ending her own life. She’d lock herself in her room in the dark and plead a massive headache. A migraine. Say she couldn’t perform because she’d get dizzy and vomit all over the client.

That had worked before.

And then tomorrow she’d go back and talk to Chloe. Calm, understanding Chloe. Chloe, who’d talk her down from her murderous thoughts. Chloe, who’d teach her how to stay in her own body.

Her best friend, Elena, was coming down the hall. Elena was the first person to talk to Chloe, happening on the shelter in a moment of desperation. She’d been locked in a dark, soundproofed room for four days without food or water after biting a client. She’d been released only because Franklin had interceded with the Russian. Everyone thought the Russian would simply keep her there until she died. Elena had thought that, too.

Though Chloe never gave advice, never passed judgment, just listened, Elena always said she felt better afterwards. So Consuelo had dropped by, too. Once a month, at first. Like a compelling sweet, dangerous to consume. Then twice a month and now once a week.

Consuelo was thinking of running away and just living in the shelter, forever.

Except the Russian would find her. Drag her back.

Consuelo frowned. Elena was weaving, looking shocked.

“Consuelo,” Elena whispered, grabbing her arm, looking left and right. Since the Russians, they’d taken to talking in whispers. “Did you hear what happened?”

“No.” What could have happened? It would take a lot to shock Elena, who’d seen it all. Did someone die? It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Chloe. The Russians attacked Chloe. For talking to us.”

Consuelo’s heart stopped in her chest.
Chloe
. Chloe, hurt for trying to help them. For trying to help
her.

Chloe, who helped her to live.

This time the rage was black, strong and bitter and overwhelming.

And there was no Chloe in her head to make it go away.

“Y
ou’re worried about Chloe,” Ellen said gently, watching her husband pace up and down the bedroom, love and concern in her eyes. Her wonderful husband, with that supermacho tough-guy exterior masking such a tender heart. “I’m worried, too. But you and Mike and Sam will figure out what’s going on and all of you will protect her. And Mike . . . well, he’s crazy about her. That’s pretty clear. I can’t imagine anyone getting past Mike.”

“Yeah.” Harry ran a big hand through his dark blond hair, a gesture she’d seen him do a thousand times. It meant stress and frustration and she understood them both. His sister was in danger and it was driving him crazy.

No one knew better than her the immense pain Harry had carried all his life thinking he hadn’t been able to protect his baby sister.

And no one knew better than Ellen how ecstatic Harry had been on finding his baby sister again, and how much he loved her.

Ellen loved Chloe, too. It was so easy to love Chloe, it didn’t take any effort at all. She was gentle and smart and kind. The girls, Gracie and Merry, adored her. Chloe was a blessing in all their lives.

But Mike . . . Mike loved her in an entirely different way.

“I could never figure out why Mike backed away from Chloe all this time when he’s so crazy about her. A blind man could see that he was smitten and yet he just followed her around without making his move, the dork. And this is
Mike,
the man-slut
.
Mike, the man who’d nail anything that moved. Though, mind you, it’s hard to think of him that way watching him follow Chloe around like an adopted mongrel for six months. He’s even willing to watch princess videos forever with the girls as long as Chloe’s there. What he feels is right out there for everyone to see. That’s what’s so strange. He backed away from Chloe but stuck so close. Nicole and I can’t figure it out. Chloe, too. Drove her insane. If nothing else, this mess has forced Mike to make a move. He spent all these months practically stalking her and never touching her. How weird is . . .
Harry
?” Ellen shot up in bed. “Harry Bolt. What do you know about this? If you know something, spit it out right now, because it’s been driving us crazy.”