Stealing Simone Page 8

  He'd mentioned a club. Could she check them all? There would be dozens. In the end, though, she knew she would have to follow his instructions. Out of love and trust and obedience.

  Grabbing her purse, she hit the lights and headed for the parking garage. Two hours to quitting time, but close enough in her book. Next stop, home, she thought gloomily. Home to my flannels and ice cream. And a nice full box of tissues to cry over.

  * * * *

  Martin dialed Charlie frantically on the cell, praying he'd answer.

  "Yea?” Rasped Jenkins.

  "She's on the way out. Repeat, the chicken has flown the coop."

  "Fuck,” said Charlie. “It's not even three thirty."

  "I know, why do you think I'm calling you? Are Lucien and Uchenko in position?"

  "They're still on the way."

  "On the way? But she'll be out there in five minutes."

  "I'm aware of that, Martin. I can fucking tell time."

  "Well, you better do more than tell it, you better stop it."

  "You're going to have to stall her, Samuel, that's the only option."

  Martin's heart seized in his chest. “You want me to do what? But I've never even talked to her ... except to check on her computer."

  Charlie swore at him. “Jeezus H. Criminy, Samuel, you are going to be screwing her in another hour; I think you can stand to chat with her for a freaking minute in the elevator."

  Samuel flipped the phone shut. Simone Leary had just walked past the alcove he was hiding in. “Simone, hold on."

  He caught up to her at the elevator.

  She looked at him, barely registering his existence. “Yes?"

  "I'm heading down.” He cleared his throat. “I thought we could talk about the new anti-virus software."

  "The what?"

  "Antivirus software. It's going on all the computers. And I'd like to do yours over the weekend."

  "I don't care,” she said as the doors slid open. “Do what you want."

  He hopped in after her. “If you'd like to stop downstairs, I can show you how it works."

  "No. Thank you."

  "But it's important. I really think—"

  "Look, I told you I don't care,” she snapped, not at all like herself. “Now please leave me be."

  He pushed the emergency stop button. “I can see this is distressing you."

  Her face was filled with utter disbelief. “What is your problem? Are you insane? Turn this elevator back on at once or I will."

  "I can't let you do that,” he said, having no idea where this strength of will was coming from. “I'm sorry."

  She was trying to push past him to get to the controls. He had to grab her arm, keeping her at bay. This wasn't going well, not at all. “Simone, please don't make this any more difficult."

  "Fuck you,” she clawed at him and this time he ended up wrestling with her.

  By the time he got out the cell to call Charlie on the speed dial again, he was down to one hand, the other cupping her mouth to keep her from screaming. “Charlie,” he replied as calmly as possible in response to the man's voice. “We have a problem."

  * * * *

  Charlie tried to hold his temper. Martin had been given one little job; keep the woman in the building, and instead he'd managed to start World War III with her in an elevator. Now they were going to have to get her to the van the hard way.

  "Martin, I need you to hold on till I get to you. What floor are you on?"

  He'd have to use the stairs from the parking garage up to where the elevator had stopped. Martin would have to let him on at that point so he could take care of business.

  "I think we're between floors ... three and four, yes, that's it."

  Simone's muffled cries could be heard in the background. This was getting worse by the minute.

  "Okay, when I get to the third floor, I'll give the all clear. Turn the elevator back on and I'll meet you there."

  No one was waiting for the elevator on three, so he was able to call Martin right off. The doors were just opening for him when he saw a security guard coming around the corner.

  "Close the door,” he dove inside. “Hurry it up."

  Martin punched the button, sealing them in. Simone was still struggling, though she was seemed to be losing her strength. His heart beat more rapidly at the sight of her, in her suede skirt and green blouse, the outline of her body clearly evident underneath. She was so helpless already, he wanted to fuck her now, but they had to get her out of here first.

  Charlie ordered Martin to let go. As soon as the computer expert backed off, he gave her a hard backhand knocking her to the floor at his feet. It was a brutal act, but necessary under the circumstances. “We're not fucking around, Simone. Get up and stand nice and quiet and still for us, like a good girl."

  Martin wanted to help her up, but Charlie warned her away. There could be no coddling of the prisoner, especially not at this crucial juncture. Simone struggled a bit, but she got back up as she'd been told.

  "Here's how it's going to work,” Jenkins lifted her chin with his fingers. “You're going to get out of this elevator with us and you're going to go nice and quiet to your car. You're going to get inside in the driver's seat, Martin in the passenger seat, and then you're going to start kissing him like your pussy's just been poisoned and you need his dick for the antidote. You'll keep on kissing till we tell you to stop. Mess with the horn or lights and Martin is going to kill you. Any questions?"

  Martin turned pale as a ghost, but Charlie gave him the eye, telling him to keep him mouth shut.

  "W-why?” She asked surprising him with her boldness. “Why are you doing this?"

  Charlie smiled grimly. It was a fair question and it deserved an answer. “Because,” he ran his hand over her suede covered hip, getting the feel of her. “We can."

  Simone was fighting the urge to fight or scream. Her eyes were a potent mix of fear and hate and indignation. Jenkins’ cock was ready to explode.

  "Charlie, what's the plan?” Martin was sounding like a nervous schoolboy again.

  "Your gonna make it look like you're a couple of lovers sitting there in the car till the van gets here. Jeezus, Martin, start using your brain will you?"

  Charlie prayed they would meet no one on the way or rouse any suspicion. If Simone wanted, she could still cause them a huge headache and maybe even get away. Hopefully she was not privy to the first rule of abduction: Never get in a vehicle with anyone, because your chances of escape decrease dramatically the moment you do. Better to risk injury or even death with an early struggle, right in the first couple of minutes than face an unknown fate down the line.

  "Make it look smooth, you two,” Charlie whispered, hanging back as they approached her red, two-door import. “Remember, I'm back here watching the whole thing."

  It was mostly bluff at this point, on account of the fact that he didn't have a gun. Obviously in hindsight that was a mistake, but the plan had been for Lucien and Uchenko to do the actual pick up in the van, hence the reasoning for having Uchenko keep hold of the one pistol they'd obtained for the operation.

  Charlie would give anything to have it now. Or else the ability to make that fucking van drive here faster. “Where the hell are you?” He demanded of them over the cell phone.

  Lucien quoted the name of the nearest cross street, indicating a location still twenty minutes away.

  Fuck.

  "There's too much traffic,” the man complained.

  "Don't speed,” said Charlie. “Whatever you do."

  That's the last thing they needed. To have the two foreigners picked up with an illegal firearm, in a stolen van on their way to a kidnapping.

  "Can you hold the woman till we get there?” Lucien wanted to know.

  Something in his tone rubbed Charlie the wrong way. “Just do your fucking job, and I'll do mine."

  Clicking off, he went back to scoping the area. The two ‘lovers’ seemed well enmeshed in what they were doing. A man in a b
lack suit was walking by, meanwhile, someone he'd never seen before.

  He refocused on Simone and Martin. They were convincing all right.

  Almost too convincing. Charlie stored the information in the back of his brain, for future reference. Trust no one, that was his motive, least of all the people he knew best.

  * * * *

  Martin apologized before kissing their abductee in the front seat of her car. He'd been doing a lot of this already, feeling sorry for the kind of behavior he was being forced to engage in step by step.

  "I'm not usually this way,” he grappled her squirming form. “This forward, I mean. I respect you too much; not that I don't desire you, it's just I don't want us to get off on such a bad footing."

  "What footing? You're a psycho, that's all I know.” Simone was reaching for the door.

  He resorted to brute male strength, forcing her lips to his. After an indignant little mewling, the muscles in her face relaxed. His hands slid to her back. He sensed she would be giving in very quickly.

  "Please,” she breathed. “I can't ... I don't..."

  "You are so totally, absolutely gorgeous, Simone.” He slid a palm to her naked thigh. “I never imagined it could be so good."

  Simone quivered at the touch of skin on skin. Their eyes met in shock and at that second he knew just how far he would go and just how incapable she would be of stopping him, given the depth of his passions.

  Maybe Charlie was right about a woman's deeper needs. But Martin did not want mere sex, he wanted love, he had to get to that place in her heart which could not live without him, him in particular and not any other man or any other cock.

  The kiss was long and searching and he hesitated at first to breach the outer barrier of her lips. But there was no holding him back, no resistance in the end as his tongue moved in, eliciting a sharp jerk up and down her spine, an undulating, without any form of genuine rebellion.

  What is to stop me, he wondered, from just commandeering this vehicle now and having her drive off, or else taking the wheel himself and making good their escape? The others certainly weren't in a position to hunt him down. If he could not outrun them, he would simply go to the police. In that case, he could have her ... like this, forever.

  "Simone,” he gasped, catching his breath. “I can help you. Will you trust me?"

  She retreated to the driver's door. “I-I want to,” she said. “But I'm just not sure ... who to trust."

  "Look in my eyes, Simone. Would I lie to you? Have I ever lied?"

  "I don't know you. I don't know,” she shook her head. “If I could just have my purse. For a tissue."

  Martin didn't hesitate. “This could be a trick on your part, but I want you to see my faith in you, my trust. I am giving you this purse. Hurt me as you will, but know I have dealt honorably with you.

  Simone didn't say a word as she produced the tiny canister. Too late, Martin reached for her hand. The spray was like pure fire eating into his eyes. He cried out, as she opened her door and ran away. Against all odds he managed to operate the cell phone.

  Pepper spray. She'd dosed him with pepper spray.

  "May Day,” he shouted to Charlie. “May Day."

  * * * *

  Jenkins didn't need any phone call from the useless Martin to know the girl had escaped. Having kicked off her heels, she was now running flat out past his sedan, towards the exit and the waiting security booth. Charlie started his engine, ready to give chase.

  Just then he heard the van pull in, tires screeching, Uchenko behind the wheel. Talk about subtle, Charlie watched them overtake the girl, nearly running her down in the process. The Haitian jumped out of the passenger side, grabbing her as soon as they stopped. Dragging her, hand over mouth, he opened the back door of the panel truck the two men had stolen off the lot of a used car dealer. By morning they would put it back, hopefully with no way to trace it to their activities. They had taken it from a row of a dozen identical white vans and they'd put a license plate on it temporarily, an out of state one.

  Charlie still didn't see any witnesses yet, which was a miracle given how wrong things were going. The Haitian was hardly an imposing figure, but he was a lot stronger than he appeared. The chloroform rag was already in his hand and he put it firmly over her mouth. She was still kicking and struggling as he maneuvered her to the open doorway.

  Jenkins had caught up by now and was able to hop up into the truck to help hoist her up. Without waiting till they were all the way in, Uchenko floored it. The Haitian had to take a flying leap to catch the bumper. Jenkins grabbed his arm, pulling him up.

  Lucien landed with a thud on the metal floor. Charlie managed to grab the doors and pull them shut just as they rounded the last turn to the manned security booth. Luckily, the guard was dozing and didn't see a thing.

  "You're bleeding,” Charlie noted the cut on the Haitian's lip.

  The former general tasted the blood, hungrily. “It's nothing, my friend. Nothing at all."

  Jenkins felt a chill down his spine as he regarded the look on the man's face. Maybe he should have done a little better screening for partners? Too late now, he thought, calling Martin on the cell.

  "Samuel, get the hell out of there. Now. What? No, don't take her car. Are you nuts? Just follow your normal routine. Meet up with us at my house. No, we won't start without you."

  Charlie clicked off, getting more exasperated by the minute. If only he could have managed to do this alone. If they didn't all end up behind bars at this rate, it would be a miracle.

  * * * *

  Mick was greeted at the door of The Silver Angel by two silk suited linebacker types, with faces that looked like they'd been hit one too many times with a Soviet hockey puck. The fact that they patted him down for weapons did not speak well for the caliber of the clientele, either. Even more bizarre was when they asked for his belt and shoes. Did they think he would try and hang himself or bang his heel on the table like Nikita Khrushchev at the UN?

  "Inside,” one of the men finally pushed him through the darkened anteroom into a swirling, disco lit cavern three stories high.

  The first thing to catch his eye were the strippers, two of them on the stage, narrow beams of white light lasering their sweaty, mostly naked skin. The first had dark hair on her head and pubis both. She was wearing a thick belt around her waist, with little metal hoops stitched in. Her neck was collared and from each of her ample breasts, attached at the nipple, hung a chain and weight.

  Upon closer inspection he saw that belt was actually a restraining device, holding her cuffed wrists at her side. She wore high black leather boots, an excellent compliment to her long legs, with a silver cuff over each ankle. There was chain running between them, effectively shackling her.

  The dancer, in short was an elegant, leather accessorized prisoner. Full lipped, raven haired and bright eyed. No doubt a slave of the Kharkov's. If he had any doubts about the status first gyrating girl, the second left nothing to the imagination. She was completely naked except for gleaming steel bracelets and anklets, a matching collar and nipple rings.

  Her eyes were closed as she writhed, hands lifted together over her head. With every few beats, came the snap of a leather flogger, a many-stranded device that was turning her ass a bright crimson color. The man beating her was grinning, clearly indicating how his work was a labor of love.

  "Sir, champagne?"

  Mick turned to the soft purring voice. A dark haired kitten of a woman, with a short bob and a blue ribbon atop her head was standing dutifully with a tray of sparkling glasses. It was her breasts that interested him more, however. They were tanned and bare, full and supple. Each nipple was clamped, like those of the girl on stage, though in this case they were plain, old-fashioned clothespins.

  Seeing his curiosity, she said, “Would you like to add more, sir?"

  Mick swallowed. “More?"

  "Yes, sir, my breasts are available for that function, or for any other form of abuse."

  The gi
rl seemed quite young, with a picture perfect face and body. Why she was standing here blithely wearing nothing but a tiny skirt happily talking about having her breasts clamped was beyond him.

  "How old are you?” He wanted to know.

  "Twenty one, sir. If you would like to use me, I am available after ten. My name is softsighs."

  "Soft what?"

  "Sighs, sir. The girls here are all named by the masters, based on their particular attributes."

  "I don't ... understand,” said Mick.

  "It's really quite simple,” said a new voice, belonging to Nikolai Karkhov. “Isn't it, my dear?"

  The girl dropped her head and eyes to her feet. “Yes, Master Nikolai."

  "Don't mumble, girl. Address our visitor. Tell him why you have your name."

  "I make certain little noises, when I am climaxing,” she explained, her cheeks less hot from embarrassment than Mick would have expected.

  "You like her, don't you?” Asked the gaunt, toupeed gangster, whose hair never looked real no matter how rich he got. With his squat, muscle bound brother, the tall, egghead made quite a combination.

  "She's beautiful,” Gargone answered cautiously and diplomatically.

  Karkhov laughed. “Come, come, my good friend, she's a slut, a little piece of gutter trash. Isn't that right, girl?"

  "Yes, master."

  Nikolai smacked her on the ass, crisply, nearly causing her to upend her small, silver tray. “Tell him, then."

  "I'm a slut, sir."

  "And you belong on your knees, sucking his dick."

  "Yes ... I do, master.” She was breathing heavily as she dropped to the floor, tray and all. “Please, sir, may I?” She begged Mick.

  Before he could answer the bottom of a large leather shoe toppled her onto her side, spilling the champagne. It wasn't Nikolai, but Gregor, the other Karkhov who'd assaulted her.

  "Clumsy cunt,” growled the man in broken English. “Look what you've done. Who will pay for mess? Will come from salary."

  "We don't pay her,” reminded the brother, whose accent was much less pronounced.