The Second Betrayal (23 page)

He reached into the back, and his hand found the grip of his favorite handgun. A German-made Walther that he'd had

since the mid-1990s. A fucking great little gun.

He turned and took a step toward her, already imagining the satisfying feeling of shooting her in her belly. She'd die slower with that kind of wound. Slow enough.

A sharp knock on the metal door to his private second-floor office snapped Beeff out of his sexually brutal fixation on the girl. The knock could only mean business.
No one
would bother him in his second-floor office unless it was urgent.

Beeff shook from his head the pleasurable images of shooting the girl. The interruption had fucked up the moment. He scowled at her. "Get your clothes on."

He didn't know the name of the Russian girl he had just abused and almost killed.

From this point on, she might as well not exist as far as he was concerned. Cash. That was all she represented to him.

That and she had been a good fuck when he'd needed it.

Not a chance he'd use her body again. He preferred a different piece of ass each time he indulged.

The room now smelled of sex and the cheap perfume the girls were forced to wear for the clients. He would have this office cleaned. He preferred the scent of Pine-Sol and Windex over that shit.

He swung his gaze to the door as he set his Walther on the corner of the desk. "Who is it and what the fuck do you want?" he yelled toward the door.

"Stalder" came the cool, even voice of the big Swede, telling Beeff nothing about how urgent this interruption was.

But Stalder never disturbed him unless it was important. Beeff grabbed his T-shirt off the floor. Americans called this style a wife-beater, and Beeff s frown almost turned into a smile at the irony.

He took his time putting on the rest of the clothing, his thoughts revisiting the arrangement with Hagstedt and the merchandise that was already paid for and had just arrived. Petite, dark-haired girls with slanted eyes. His penis started to grow hard at the mental images.

Hagstedt—or whatever the asshole's real name was—of course demanded the three best girls out of the lot. The bastard always timed his visits to coincide with a new shipment of merchandise and preferred the virgins. He liked to watch them cry and beg.

"Get the fuck out of here," Beeff said to the Russian girl, who had dressed in what was left of her torn clothing. She bumped into his desk and practically fell against the edge. "Clumsy bitch," he said as he held the door open and let her run to where her handler was waiting.

After the girl dodged past Stalder, Beeff motioned to his top man to enter. "You know you'd better have a fucking good reason to bother me."

"Jorge and Mike are not missing. They are dead." Stalder came to a stop as he spoke, and Beeff narrowed his eyes.

"From what information I gathered from the police, the preliminary conclusion is that Jorge and Mike shot each other early this morning after leaving a bar on Fifth Street and Avenue B. The NYPD officers believe the men had an

argument over drugs before drawing their weapons. Officers found two grams of meth on Mike."

"Fuck." Beeff clenched his fists and his temples started to throb. "First Cherie is strangled and now these two fuckheads shoot each other?"

"A single round from each gun was discharged." Stalder's face looked impassive. "However, several witnesses only heard one shot."

Beeff frowned, digesting what Stalder said. "These witnesses—did they actually see the fuckheads pull the triggers?"

Stalder indicated no with a slight movement of his head. "One of the local newspapers came to the same conclusion I did. I believe Mike and Jorge didn't kill each other. I am certain it was a professional job. The hitman intended it to look as if Jorge and Mike had murdered each other over drugs."

Stalder continued, "The killer staged an almost perfect scenario. If it had not been for other factors, including the single shot heard by several witnesses, it certainly would have been perfect."

Beeff folded his arms across his barrel chest as he studied Stalder. "Why don't you think they fucking did each other in?"

Stalder's cold blue eyes remain fixed on Beeff. "Without telling them of Jorge's and Mike's deaths, I asked the other handlers about the men. According to our handlers, and from my own observations, Jorge and Mike were considered

friends. Neither man was known to be violent, even with the girls they handled. And neither man was known to use

drugs."

Something wasn't right. Beeff mentally tried to put the pieces together. They didn't snap into place until Stalder added,

"I believe someone is trying to get inside our operation and he created an opening. Two openings."

For a moment Beeff didn't move as he digested the information. Then potent rage came over him, thick and hot.

"Fuck." The metal side of the desk made a crumpling metallic sound as Beeff kicked it. The vibration traveled up his leg, but he felt no pain.

Hagstedt was here. Beeff couldn't take a chance of screwing up by bringing in some kind of fucking spy. Like that

whore, Jenika. She'd be dead, soon, after she came out of the poma and after he knocked the fucking crap out of her until she told him what he needed to know.

Beeff almost shook with the desire to personally wrap a piece of wire around the neck of the man who had killed Jorge and Mike. He could practically smell the man's sweat and fear as Beeff took his life.

After a few moments, he managed to control the power of his anger. "No fucking way am I going to hire anyone until we get this fucking figured out."

"I have an idea." Stalder might as well have been a block of ice when it came to the way he spoke without inflection, a voice almost cold enough to freeze. Especially now. "We can put word out, very discreet, that we are looking for handlers. Then we see what bites."

Even if Stalder was an asshole, he was a damned good asshole.

They could handle this without the bastard getting to Hagstedt. Beeff nodded. "Do it."

"This also raises a question about Madame Cherie's death," Stalder said. "Is it possible the new madame and her assistant are plants?"

Beeff put his palm flat on the cold metal desk. "What about their backgrounds?"

"Impeccable." Stalder said. "Perhaps too much so."

"What in the fuck is going on?" Even more rage coursed through Beeff. He slammed his foot into the side of his desk again, the metallic sound ringing as he made another dent. Then another when he kicked it a third time.

Beeff tried to control his breathing. "Unless traffic is too fucked up, the fucking bitch will probably be with the boss by now with those three Chinese pieces."

"Lock Chandra in the basement," Beeff continued, his voice loud enough to hurt his own eardrums. "Take care of her."

Rage made Beeffs arms shake. "I'll make sure Alexis is eliminated."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Dasha

Eddie studied the new bruises on Dasha's body and whistled as Stalder went into Mr. G's office and closed the door

behind him. "He did a number on you."

Dasha did not wipe away the blood she felt trickling from above her eyebrow and down the side of her face. She

gripped the metal in her hand tighter and kept it hidden in a fold of her torn clothing. Over time, she'd gradually seen what happened to other girls once they were severely beaten. The abused girls never again showed up at the madame's practices. Those girls never danced again onstage. Instead they remained in their own rooms or the common room until they were called out for their next private appointment.

The girls might start out with more bruises from their following night of work. Then they might return with broken

bones from their next appointments.

Sometimes they didn't come back at all.

Eddie was surprisingly quiet as he walked her up to the top floor. She would rather endure Eddie's abuse than what she had just gone through with that other horrible man.

Maybe Eddie knew she wouldn't be alive much longer.

Unless the slightest hope existed. A feeble strand she had been reaching for since her nightmare started.

Even as she gripped the gun in her hand, in Dasha's mind the strand of hope that she might live dissolved into black fog.

Then it was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Being a smartass is great for developing enemies

The warmth of my coat and the limo's heated interior amplified the heat of my anger as Jianjun interpreted my

instructions to the three Chinese girls. Or rather, his version of what I was attempting to tell them. Jianjun and I faced the rear of the limo as we sat on a bench seat directly across from Ai, Daiju, and Ning.

The limo drove like liquid silk through holiday traffic on Broadway, as if the city weren't full of crazy, speeding, dodging, honking, aggressive New York drivers. Of course there was the occasional idiot who'd never driven in

Manhattan before, the driver sitting in bewilderment in his car, holding up traffic, as New Yorkers zipped around him.

A dark window was raised between the chauffer and the group of us in the back. Jianjun had already checked to make

sure the two-way speaker was off and secure.

They were short on handlers, so they'd hired a limo with a chauffeur rather than using their own driver. He made sure to keep the window up between us and the chauffeur so the man didn't hear what I was telling the girls via Jianjun's interpreting.

All the better. I only had one of Giger's men to deal with if this went down the way I hoped it would.

As I spoke to the girls in English, I gripped a cold glass of rum and Coke that Jianjun had poured for me after we were settled in the limo. What I really wanted to drink was a six-pack of Guinness. All at once.

Didn't matter, though, because I only pretended to sip the rum and Coke, just in case Jianjun had been instructed to drug me, for God knows what reason. But the heater in the limo was up high, and my throat was dry enough to make

me want to take the chance.

Despite the heat and perspiration on my skin, my fingers grew colder as I held the glass and told the girls erotic things they would need to do to please the client we would be meeting soon.

My features were a mask, not showing my anger and my hurt for these girls. Tears trickled down their faces like the condensation rolling down the sides of my glass and dripping onto my bare thigh. I tried to keep my instructions tame, but there was no way of keeping my cover without telling the three poor girls things that would horrify them.

But I had no intention of letting "the client" actually get his hands on these girls.

What if he's not Hagstedt?
pounded on the inside of my head.
You can't break cover.

Breathe.
It was him. It had to be him.

While the limo made its way through Manhattan and the thousands of holiday decorations and miniature white lights, I continued to keep an eye on where we were headed without looking like that's what I was doing. We were closing in

on Central Park West.

As Jianjun translated what I said, he inserted his own additions, but in Mandarin. Of course he didn't know I was

nearly fluent in Mandarin. I say
nearly
because speaking and reading Mandarin Chinese is one of the most difficult disciplines to learn. But I do a pretty damned good job of speaking the language.

I tried not to clench my hands around my glass or clench my jaws as Jianjun added something crude to what I said

every time he interpreted one of my instructions. I think he was really getting off as he told the girls vulgar acts that they would be expected to perform.

The three cried harder and I wanted to kill Jianjun all the faster.

Breathe, Steele. Almost.

Two sharp beeps came from inside Jianjun's blazer pocket. He drew it out and opened the phone, then pressed a button and read a text message. He nodded, then snapped the phone shut and put it back into his blazer pocket.

Flashing emergency lights caught my attention as they approached from behind. An FDNY response unit was working

its way up to and then past us through what was now a congested intersection. The huge truck's emergency lights

flashed through the window and across the girls' faces. I glanced over my shoulder to look ahead of the limo and see what the holdup was.

Damn. An accident right on Columbus Circle. Looked like a carpet company truck had broadsided a white limo. I

scanned the area and guessed where we were heading. I'd lay money the client was staying at Trump Tower.

Our black limo came to a stop. Jianjun looked in front of us and in back, then shouted several foul things in Chinese that I wouldn't say in any language.

The girls huddled together, as if somehow that would make them stronger. Invincible, even.

Yes, together you are stronger. But not invincible.

"We'll be late," Jianjun said, spittle flying from his mouth.

"Are you paid for punctuality?" I wanted to get this show on the road, too, but getting a dig in here in there wasn't going to hurt anything. Relieves the stress a little. "Or are you paid for getting the 'merchandise' to your client intact?"

Jianjun's face twisted into a snarl. "Shut up, bitch."

Being a smartass helps develop enemies.

I'm good at that.

And I planned to put it to good use with Jianjun.

I pressed a recessed button and one of the limo's beverage holders appeared. I set my rum-and-Coke glass into it and looked Jianjun in the eyes and smiled sweetly. "What were you saying?"

And then in Mandarin I proceeded to tell him a few unflattering things relating to his masculinity, or lack thereof, including the size of his genitalia—if he had any at all.

For a brief moment, the three girls' expressions showed that they didn't know whether to laugh at the blatant and

embarrassing insults, or if they should continue crying from what they were about to face.

Jianjun, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to kill me. His face was a nice shade of reddish purple, like a Chinese plum blossom. His tendons stood out on his neck, drawing the muscles of his throat tight. His features seemed to bloat, his eyes difficult to see.