Hunted Page 2

  She just looked at the woman. What made her want to please the lady? She didn’t know if she wanted to rage, and risk a beating or worse, or if she sought the woman’s help in order to ease things. Anything. Nothing. Things here were like freaking rabbit holes. Up and down were sideways. One unending nightmare.

  Another song screeched and shook the floor beneath her bare soles.

  “Jezek called?” The thought greased nausea through her. What did the bastard want now?

  “You’re to wear this,” Dame muttered, tossing a silver dress across the bed, then a pair of strappy, scuffed, black fuck-me heels to complete the ensemble.

  “Why?” she asked, noting her hand already trembled. Jezek. He’d left her alone for three days now. She’d thought that maybe, just maybe, he was tired of her.

  Dame looked at her and pointed to the dress. “You’re to wear that. You do have an appointment, but it’s in Prague tonight. He’s a businessman and asked specifically to spend the night with you. Maybe he remembers you before, yes? When you were better, not here.” The woman’s English was stilted. “Though after Sparkle escaped from the other club, I’m surprised Jezek’s letting anyone out of his sight.” Dame shrugged.

  Sparkle. She knew when Sparkle had escaped. He’d been furious and he’d come to her. With his needles and cocktails and stories of horror.

  Sparkle.

  She, herself, was known as Dusk.

  A wry grin pulled her mouth. At least someone got away.

  Dame raised her penciled brow and pulled a gold cigarette case from her silk trouser pocket. The one Mikhail had given her for her loyalty just weeks before. “You find something amusing?”

  “Did they ever find her?”

  Dame jerked her bleached chic bob toward the wall. “Sparkle? Not that I know, but then I don’t know everything. We don’t speak of her. Don’t even think of her.” Dame cursed beneath her breath, something about stupid. “You have a job to do tonight.” She motioned to Dusk. “Hurry. You make this one happy.” Dame sneered. “If you fail, you’ll go below for a week. You hear? Be happy the last client merely complained to me and not to Mikhail or you’d be below right now. Clients must smile. That is motto, yes? You make trouble, you end up like that other one. You remember, yes? You’ve had two strikes against you already. Three times and you know what happens.”

  . . . that other one . . . whose screams she would forever hear. Gunshots in a quiet graveyard. She shuddered. The black monster of terror toyed with her mind and memories she begged to forget.

  The other one. Ebony. Ebony, who had been Italian, said her father would kill these men if he ever found out what they had done to her. Dusk had been here long enough to know that most girls said something along that line, at least at first. So-and-so would pay them back. Then again, not most. Only the really brave, or the incredibly stupid. Either way, there had been a look in that girl’s eyes that sent a shiver down Dusk’s spine. Ebony had told the truth. Whoever her people were, Ebony was convinced they’d avenge her.

  But the boys below had finished with Ebony before any word could be gotten to whomever she belonged.

  Below.

  Just the word greased her stomach with nausea. Below. She shuddered, remembering the smell of blood and dirt, the darkness. The screams that went on and on and on. Below was worse than a bullet in the brain, worse than the gun at the base of her skull, worse than the K trips Mikhail often sent her nightmaring through. Below. She shivered.

  Dame came forward. “Is not so bad, once you get used to it, and many of the girls think the desserts help, no?”

  Desserts, drugs, same difference. Dusk really had no idea. They only gave her ketamine that made nightmares real. Those trips were punishment. There had been the occasional hits of X so that she’d enjoy fucking her pimp, his idea. Or the rare times he wanted her complacent for a client. However, no girl was allowed to become a junkie. Drugs were used as much for punishment as anything else here. Anything else would cut into his profit. Everything here could be a punishment, she’d learned.

  Mikhail liked a bit of fight in his girls, but not too much or the girl went from his perfectly designed home to one of the brothels, and if she fought too much here, then she went below.

  “You could have had it all,” Dame muttered, shaking her head. “He wanted you for himself, but you would not listen.” She tsked. “This is test. If you do this right, Mikhail may take you back.”

  The words jerked Dusk’s eyes from the cracked window back to Dame, who reached over and grabbed up the dress.

  “What?” Dusk asked.

  Dame unzipped the material and threw it at her, then motioned to the little bowl of water. There were no private bathrooms here. It was like a page out of history. A washstand and a bowl and pitcher of water.

  Dusk didn’t let herself think of what she used to have. The small things she’d always taken for granted, like privacy, a locked bathroom door, warm running water, or a warm safe home, or people who really cared . . .

  Perhaps conceding to Mikhail would not be so horrible. Either he fucked her in his mansion or he locked her here to have other men take her. At least with him she’d have warmth, and a freaking bath.

  No.

  Some things were better left in the black parts of memories. What was pride anyway?

  Survival. She could hold out. She could.

  The dress shook in her hand.

  Dame pulled out another leather case. Dusk knew what it contained, she’d seen it before. Her throat closed up, her muscles tightened. Sweat broke out on her forehead, cooled her bare back.

  “Wash up, and you get a treat.” The pouch opened and Dusk saw the vial, the syringe inside, the bag of white pills. Dame looked at her and asked around the cigarette, “What?”

  “Do you have to? The last . . . I don’t want . . . I’ll mess up. It’ll make him mad.” She hated the tremor and catch in her voice, the thick coat of fear as she remembered the hellish images of torture the last drugs induced.

  Dame shook her head. “It’s not a hit of K, for God’s sake.” She mumbled something in Czech, or maybe German. “You think I want Mikhail down both our necks? Well, I don’t. I just don’t want to see you screw up again. I help you, give you a treat to make you more . . . agreeable tonight. Though you shouldn’t have anything.” She tsked. “At least you’re lucky. You have any idea how many girls we lose thanks to these little punishments of his? He never should have started. Cost too much. Girls get hooked, must keep them supplied or they get sick and stupid, or you lose money.”

  . . . more agreeable tonight . . .

  She should tell Dame she didn’t want them. But a fog, not knowing what was going on . . .

  You don’t need them . . .

  Yesss . . . It would be easier . . .

  A hit of X would make her enjoy the night, make her make the client happy . . .

  That voice was dangerous, it could give her hope.

  Dusk quickly washed, using the smelling oils they were forced to use. Hopping from one customer to the next with only a pitcher of water, you did what you could. Her long black hair was beyond fixing. Besides, the girls weren’t allowed mirrors.

  “Who is the next client?” she asked, trying to control the tremors.

  She sat on the bed and fumbled with the shoes. The buckles and straps wouldn’t work. Anger started to burn, but she tamped it down.

  Anger was dangerous. It led to hope, to ideas best left forgotten.

  Would he help her? Could she get away? Sparkle had escaped. Could she? Get to the embassy? She blinked, squeezed her eyes shut, and then opened them again.

  Home, the girl inside her whispered. And like the memory of summer lemonade at twilight, hope flickered, rushing the blood through her heart.

  She shoved away from that idea. Escaping was a death sentence. She’d think of what was ahead instead. The client. The job.

  The job.

  Escape . . .

  If she ran, she died. Plain and s
imple.

  . . . escape . . . home . . .

  Home? If she ever managed to get home, she knew they’d not only kill her, but those she loved.

  “Some big dealer,” Dame said, “Mikhail wants to impress him.” She walked over and started to pull the strands of Dusk’s hair up. “This hair needs coifing, yes?” She checked her watch. “Best hurry, Mikhail wants you in Prague before his meeting so he can check you over himself. Already has the car downstairs waiting for you.”

  With guards.

  Dusk sat still while Dame twisted her hair up and stabbed some pins in the mass.

  The job. Plain and simple. One foot in front of the other.

  “Dealer?” she asked. “Drugs?”

  One penciled brow arched again as Dame stepped around and in front of Dusk, studying her work. She nodded, ran her hands along the sides of Dusk’s hair, smoothing fly-aways. The simple gesture twisted a longing inside of Dusk. She shut her eyes, then opened them as Dame blew smoke out of the side of her mouth, holding the cigarette between her lips while reaching for the bag of pills. Dame pulled two small pale blue pills out stamped with the devil’s head.

  “Please, no. I—I don’t need it. I promise I’ll be good.”

  “It would matter to you? If this man dealt drugs?” Her red-painted lips curved in a smile before a rusted laugh danced out. “Like you should care. No, and client said he likes coherent partners. So no real floats for you. Just enough to take the edge off. It’s just a hit of X. He might give you more tonight, yes? What’s with the questions?”

  Her hands shook and she fisted them. “Please, I promise, I won’t fuck it up, like you think. I’ll do whatever the client wants.” Please. “Please, Dame, I swear.”

  Dame studied her and then shrugged. “I don’t care.” She leaned down, her sharp eyes pinpricks along Dusk’s skin. “You screw up tonight and I won’t cover your ass this time.”

  Dusk swallowed and nodded. Dame straightened and dumped the pills back into the bag and shoved it back into its slot in her feel-good trove. Dusk sighed.

  Good, the client wanted coherent and lucid. Maybe she could get his help. But would she dare?

  Did he have guards? Was he a decent man? Did this man have her for the entire night or just a couple of hours? Maybe the client wanted lucid and coherent because like Mikhail he loved to know the women felt whatever pain he inflicted to its fullest extent. Was tonight’s client as sadistic as her jailer?

  Questions danced evilly in her mind, taunting as if they could call her hopes then laughingly shatter them with a vicious swipe of fear.

  “He deals, that’s all I know. Diamonds, I think. Maybe you get a pretty bauble out of tonight, yes?” Dame’s eyes, some color between gold and green, shone with greed.

  No girl was allowed to keep anything. Any bauble would go to Dame or Mikhail. Dusk took a breath, glad she didn’t have to watch Dame slide the needle into her vein. Tonight was just another job. She wouldn’t think, she’d just do it. Then it’d be over and . . .

  And what?

  Hope was for fools and idiots; she was afraid she was both.

  Chapter 2

  Prague, Czech Republic; 10:28 p.m.

  Mikhail Jezek took a deep drag from his cigar, the expensive smoke filling his mouth and mixing with the fruity taste of Charbay vodka he and Reyer were sharing. The heavy oak flavor complementing the skopová kýta na smetane. He’d always liked the mutton with sour cream sauce. The dishes of vegetables, and finally the dessert had been cleared. Now the table only sported the frosted bottle of vodka, their glasses and the gems.

  He and his companion smoked in relative silence. The club, seen through the two-way-mirrored, soundproof wall, raved tonight. Bodies clothed in spandex, skin-tight leather, whimsical flowing skirts, all strobed a rainbow to the occupants sober enough to watch.

  Mikhail watched. He watched and smiled. Tonight should see a good take, not only of those inside there to party, but off those wanting a shot of more than the booze, and again off those who sought a bit more skin for entertainment. The boss would be happy.

  Mikhail’s dinner companion cleared his throat. The man, a South African Dutchman, leaned back gracefully in his chair as if not a care in the world. He didn’t really care for the prick. Excitement trickled through him as he looked again at the glittering tray between them. Diamonds. Five million dollars’ worth of sparkling gems lay cold and brilliant on the black velvet.

  Mikhail turned his attention back to the dealer.

  One blond brow arched in silent question.

  There was something about this man that did not sit right with Mikhail, but the man had his uses. Something about the dealer warned Mikhail the man was not to be taken lightly. Perhaps it was the eyes. Those eyes were black, not dark brown, or blue. Just black.

  Mikhail took a deep breath and reached for one of the diamonds. “Sierra Leone, you say? Out of which mine? The diamond mines are regulated.” He rolled the sparkling gemstone between his thumb and forefinger. He snapped his fingers and one of his men handed him his loupe. This one was almost clear, with just a slight blue tint. The clarity was wonderful. He wished he could have seen them in the raw, but this would work. There was an allure to cut gems, shooting off prisms as light hit them this way and that. Mikhail wanted these. All of them. Even at this price. Setting the loupe aside, he studied the dealer.

  John Reyer smiled, his black eyes narrowing. The smile could not be termed amused. The man’s features were as carved as marble statues in the old town’s architecture. His deep voice held a warning, like the sound of a bullet sliding into the chamber. “There are ways to obtain anything if one can meet the proper price.”

  Mikhail again studied this man. They’d done business previously, though before it had been tanzanite from Tanzania and sapphires straight out of Sri Lanka.

  “I will need to think about it,” Mikhail said.

  Reyer shifted, leaning onto his elbow and motioning with his index finger to his own guard. The muscular man, skin the color of midnight, strode forward without a word and waited, holding the case. The dim lights in the black and red modern room did nothing to soften the guard’s bald features.

  Mikhail sighed, disappointed, and released the gem, watching as it fell back onto jet velvet before the guard snapped the case shut.

  “How much time will you give me?” Mikhail wanted those diamonds, but he’d not be seen as easy. Mikhail Jezek was never, ever easy. Everyone knew that. The gems were beautiful and several would be worth millions themselves once set in rings or necklaces. He liked to have jewelry made, special jewelry. It was a . . . hobby of his.

  Reyer’s dark eyes didn’t blink. The man didn’t move. That was what was wrong with him. Most fidgeted in Mikhail’s presence.

  Mikhail wasn’t known as Devil’s Advocate for kicks. Everyone knew he held the power. The bosses looked to him to keep things tight. The girls in the clubs cowered. Even his guards were on edge around him, but then they’d learned to be when he killed one of them for trying to help that Italian bitch escape.

  This man, Reyer, didn’t move, didn’t twitch. Hell, he acted as if he were doing Mikhail a favor. Arrogant prick. Mikhail poured another shot of vodka and downed it in one gulp. He motioned to the bottle and Reyer ignored him.

  Reyer tilted his head to the side, the rotating lights from the club slashing across his unforgiving features.

  “Tomorrow. I’ll return with the girl and the diamonds and you decide,” Reyer said, watching him.

  Irritation rippled under his skin.

  “You did obtain the girl I requested?” Reyer asked, dropping the end of his cigar in the ashtray between them.

  Mikhail nodded, the irritation bubbling into something more.

  At that moment, the other door to the room opened. Two guards entered, their black jackets doing little to hide their submachine guns—Czech Scorpions with laser mounts—in the shoulder holsters. Not that anyone would mistake them for anything but guards. One ma
n held a gold chain. The other end was attached to a jeweled dog collar. The collar was around the neck of a woman.

  There she was.

  Dusk. His Dusk.

  Mikhail felt the same instant awareness he always did when he saw her. And the anger that she’d had the courage to refuse him and all he had to offer her rushed through him anew. Just as it had half an hour before when he’d seen her arrive and checked her appearance. He was in the position to have any woman he wanted and the one he wanted looked at him with disdain.

  Still.

  Dusk should have already come round. Proud little American bitch. He’d give her tonight. If she behaved herself, he might take her back to his place tomorrow, or the next day. For now, he’d simply remind her of her place. She was almost broken. He could see it, sense it, practically smell her tension and shattered pride. Nothing was sweeter than shattered pride, and he loved wielding the weapon that destroyed it. Yet even defeated as she was, the class was still there, a slow elegant grace not often found in women he knew. He wanted that. He wanted her, wanted to master her and all she was.

  She wore her dark hair coiffed. The cheap silver dress caressed her curves like liquid mercury.

  Reyer chuckled. “You certainly live up to expectations, Jezek.” He stood and straightened his jacket, waiting on the woman to be brought to him.

  Mikhail motioned toward Reyer with his head. “She is yours for the night, my friend. I must, however, insist one of my men accompany you.”

  Reyer speared him again with those damn eyes. “I like to watch as much as the next man, but I find I like privacy for my own fucks, thank you.”

  Mikhail held his hand up to the guards. “I never let any of my girls leave.” He crossed his arms and smiled. “The streets are much too dangerous for them.”

  Reyer looked as if he might argue, but then shrugged. “I will allow one man, and only one, but he will not be allowed to guard the girl all night. I have my own plans.” Reyer motioned to the guard holding the chain, who looked to Mikhail before gaining permission to proceed. Mikhail’s guard, Peter, jerked the chain and Dusk toward Reyer.