The Second Betrayal (9 page)

Kerrison glanced at me, and I shrugged. "Go for it."

She went to a medium-size denim backpack that had been tossed on the living room's love seat. When she returned,

she was carrying a pocketknife and a handcuff key. It took her a couple of seconds to slice the plastic cuffs off the madame's ankles then unlock the metal cuffs on her wrists. Kerrison shoved the folded knife in one of her front

pockets and the cuffs in her back pocket.

The madame shook out her arms as she looked from me to Kerrison. She rubbed her red, chafed wrists as she studied

us. "Want to tell me why the fuck you kidnapped me and what you want?" Her voice was harsh and angry. Not that I could blame her.

"Not really." I started toward the master bathroom to hurry and take my shower. "I'd rather let you sit there and wonder."

Behind me, Kerrison said, "She's the boss."

It took me ten minutes to take my shower and change into the clean crop-top T-shirt and a pair of workout shorts I'd grabbed before heading into the bathroom. I like to wear crop tops so that my dragon tatt symbol shows along with my diamond navel piercing. The apartment was nice and warm from the central heating.

"Breakfast is going to get cold," Kerrison shouted from the living room and down the short hall. "Hurry. I'm starving and I need some sleep."

Well, she sure wasn't a shy one. Yeah, I definitely liked her.

When I reached the dining nook, I dropped into one of the six straight-backed chairs.

The madame, totally disheveled but alert, was sitting next to Donovan. "Tell me—"

"Shut up and eat, Cherie." I took one of the thick Belgian waffles from the plate Donovan handed me then passed the plate to Kerrison. "It might be your last meal."

She glared but didn't pull the I'm-not-eating-anything-you-bastards-give-me routine. She loaded her waffle with

strawberries and whipped cream and took her first bite. I held back a grin when I saw her expression—it was like she could barely keep her eyes from rolling back in her head from ecstasy.

I did laugh when she finished her first mouthful. "Anything you want," she said with an almost orgasmic groan. "I'll kill for you after getting a taste of one of these."

"What did I tell you?" I smiled at the woman, who seemed intent on eating the rest of her waffle in world-record speed. "We know the best torture techniques in the trade."

She swallowed and did come up for air. "What trade is this?"

I finished stuffing my face. Let her stew.

It wasn't long before all of us had cleaned our plates. I wanted to lick mine. Kerrison had eaten two of the thick, giant waffles like me, and the skinny madame had put away three to rival Donovan.

He gave me an amused glance as he got up and started clearing the plates. "Why don't you two start?" Donovan said to me.

"A man who cooks and cleans." I looked at Kerrison. "Along with kicking major ass. What more could a woman ask for in a partner?"

Kerrison smiled before folding her forearms on the tabletop. "Ready when you are, boss."

I faced the madame. "We need to know everything, absolutely
everything
about the Elite Gentleman's Club." I kicked back in my chair, one elbow on an armrest, my hands clasped over my happy stomach.

"From the girls who have sex with the clientele for money to whatever you can tell us about the owner, Beeff Giger."

Red crept into the madame's cheeks, and she didn't look quite as composed anymore. "It's not that kind of club. We don't allow the girls to have sex with our patrons—"

"Cut the shit." Kerrison leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. "Don't push me."

Madame Cherie raised her chin. "It's the truth."

Kerrison scooted her chair back like she was about to get up, but she stayed in her seat.

I rubbed my forehead. "Listen, Madame. According to our intel, I don't think you know just how deep the shit is that you're wading in."

"How well do you know the girls you've been prostituting?" An angry gleam was in Kerrison's eyes as she dug into her front pocket.

"We don't—" The woman stopped and her eyes widened as soon as she saw Kerrison opening and closing the

pocketknife she'd just taken out.

It was probably the hard expression on Kerrison's face that made a believer out of the madame. Along with the

pocketknife and the
click-click-click
of Kerrison's steady opening and closing of the blade.

"Yes, the girls have sex for money and drugs." The woman's face was bright red. "Of course it's their choice."

"Choice ...," Kerrison repeated slowly.

"Do you know any of the girls personally?" I asked. "Have you spent any one-on-one time with them?"

"No time, really. The girls are usually only at the club for three months or so." She shrugged. "And their handlers always deal with them."

"Handlers?"
Kerrison left the blade open, and the woman stared at the knife. "Since when do prostitutes need
handlers?”

"It's just the way Mr. G likes to run the club." The madame seemed unable to look away from the knife. "All I do is schedule time slots for each girl whenever a man wants a little extracurricular time with her."

"That's what you call it?" Kerrison's knuckles whitened as she clenched the pocketknife's grip and stared at the woman. "Extracurricular time?"

I frowned as I worked over the madame's words in my mind. Jenika Rublev. We couldn't let our cooperative disappear

to God knew where if they took the girls somewhere else—we weren't sure we knew where all the clubs were or even

how many. No, I wasn't going to lose another person I'd put into danger, like Agent Randolph who'd been murdered

earlier in the year.

"Why are the girls only there for such a short time?" I asked. "When is he moving them again?"

"I think he's planning this exchange soon." Madame Cherie cleared her throat. "He thinks it's good to get in fresh meat by rotating the girls out and putting them into other clubs."

Fuck. Rublev.

Kerrison looked even angrier, nearly baring her teeth before she spoke.
"Fresh meat?"

I cut in before she could say anything else. "Who calls the shots on this?"

"Mr. G." Clearing her throat again didn't do a damned thing for the madame's voice. Her words came out hard, scratchy. 'Tm pretty sure he makes decisions for all the local clubs. I think he owns the lot of them, but I've never asked."

"Do you think she knows the truth and is just bullshitting us?" I asked Kerrison and Donovan as he walked into the room, pulled out his chair, and sat.

"Our cooperative communicated that she doesn't think the madame knows everything." Donovan crossed his arms over his broad chest and gave the woman a look so dark and dangerous that it probably made her just about pee her panties.

In a fast movement, Kerrison had the point of her pocketknife pressed against the madame's throat. "But The

cooperative believes the madame suspects the truth about these girls and why they're in the club to begin with."

Madame Cherie's throat worked. Her face was no longer red. Instead the color had slowly drained away until she was

so pale, her skin stood in stark contrast with her black hair. We all stared at her until she started to speak.

"I..." She swallowed again. "I don't think the girls are having sex with men out of choice. They're always drugged out of their minds and they're not happy. They act like they're only trying to learn pole-dancing and attracting men because they have to."

"And you haven't done anything about it?" Kerrison's southern accent ratcheted up. She sounded so angry, I thought she was going to slit the woman's throat. "You just let Giger and his men prostitute those girls?"

The madame looked at me as if I was the most reasonable out of the three of us. If she only had a clue, I'd have been the one she'd be most frightened of.

"Ever hear of human trafficking?" I managed to keep my tone even, letting her have her illusions that I was the rational one of the bunch. "Those young women are sex slaves. Trafficked directly from Moscow to New York City."

An expression of horror started to creep across the madame's face. "It's true?"

"You start telling us every detail you can think of and answer every fucking question we have." Kerri-son leaned closer to the madame, who winced as a single tear of blood formed at the point of the knife that was still against her throat.

Kerrison's voice came out low, deadly as she spoke. "I am not nice enough to let you keep those waffles down."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Giger

"Where is that fucking bitch?" Beeff slammed his meaty fist on his glass-topped desk as he shouted at Jacques. The vibrations caused pens and pencils to rattle in their holder, which was shaped like a pair of woman's tits. "Bring her to me and I will make sure she is never late again."

Beeff leaned forward, his square-cut three-carat diamond ring reflecting the orange glow from the Jagermeister wall lamp. He glared at Jacques, who had flinched at his tone. The goddamned Frenchman was one of the tallest and most

bulked-up handlers who worked for Beeff, but also the biggest pussy. "You fucking find Cherie," Beeff said. "Go to her apartment."

"Immediately, Mr. G." Jacques's French accent was stronger when Beeff shoved shit down his throat. "Madame Cherie is never late like this—two hours now, almost showtime." He started to turn toward the door but stopped. "Do you think it possible that she learned the truth about the girls and went to the local law enforcement?"

"Fuck no." Beeff clenched his fists on his desktop, the thick gold metal of his ring cutting into his index finger, his face hot. "She's fucking oblivious."

"You are right, of course." Jacques nodded as he spoke in clear English despite the depth of his French accent. "I will find Madame Cherie."

Of course he would. Jacques wouldn't dare wipe his ass without Beeff telling him when and how to do it.

Pussy.

A hard rap echoed in the room from a knock at the door to Beeff s office.
Better be that bitch,
he thought, yet at the same time knew the knock was too loud, too harsh for the madame.

Jacques opened the door, and Stalder rammed into him as he strode into Beeff s office. Jacques stumbled back a few

steps.

"She's a corpse." Stalder was a big, blond Swede, but spoke English without any hint of an accent. "Cherie."

Beeff stared at Stalder, slow prickles of heat running up his body. "What the fuck?"

"It was on the news on the bar's TV." Stalder gave a nod in the direction of the bar, which was on the other side of the wall. As usual, Stalder had an expression that Beeff couldn't read. It pissed him off how the man always controlled his emotions and expressions, even if everything was going to hell.

"Cherie's been ID'd by her sister who lives in the Bronx," Stalder continued. "Someone slit her throat and raped her.

I'm not sure what order."

"Who gives a fuck what order?" Beeff slammed his fist again on the desk so hard that this time he felt pain shoot all the way to his wrist. "All I give a shit about is that we're down a madame at Elite and I have a club that had better run smooth as shit even without the dead slut."

With a surprised look, Jacques snapped his attention from Stalder to Beeff, but said nothing. What, did the idiot

Frenchman expect Beeff to have any remorse over a cadaver? With thirty-two years in the business of prostitution,

Beeff didn't think one woman's life was worth shit, especially if she wasn't one of the girls being fucked every night and raking in the cash.

It had only been nine years since he'd hooked up with Hagstedt and really started making money. Sex slaves didn't

make a fucking dime. They were just merchandise that he used until they were worthless to him.

Stalder's expression hadn't changed when Beeff failed to show any concern over Cherie's death. He almost casually

waited for Beeff s next instructions.

Beeff clenched his fists on the cool glass top of his desk. He stared at the two men and felt his wire-rimmed glasses digging into his cheeks as he narrowed his eyes. "I want someone to replace Cherie immediately. You get the goods on every one of the madames you interview," he said to Stalder. "I want clean histories with a shitload of experience in the business."

Stalder said, "Of course, Mr. G"

Jacques kept his pussy mouth shut.

"Stalder, you hired Cherie, and you will be the one to get someone in here." Beeff leaned back in his chair, his striped button-up shirt tightening across his chest. "Same salary. Experience scheduling whores for the back rooms and teaching them to hump those fucking poles."

Stalder gave a short nod.

"I want to meet the final candidates this time." Fury that his club was fucked until they found a new madame made Beeff s head feel like it was burning at the roots of his short gray hair, as if the top of his head was going to explode. "I had better start seeing fucking madames in here by tomorrow night."

Beeff wanted to smirk when he saw Stalder's eyebrows lift a fraction before he schooled his expression again. "Get the fuck out of here," Beeff said.

Jacques started to leave, too.

"Jacques." The name shot out of Beeff s mouth like a punch. Jacques came to a halt. Stalder left the door open as he walked through it and into the hall leading to the main floor of the club and the bar. "For tonight, pick one of the more experienced girls, one you know will keep her mouth shut and has half a fucking brain. Have her schedule the whores and put the cash in the box, and don't move your ass an inch from her side."

The muscle-bound man practically gave a bow. The pussy. "I will take care of it now and make sure she is trained for tonight, Mr. G." Jacques sounded like a goddamned robot as he responded.

"Get the fuck out of here." Beeff took off his glasses and resisted flinging them across the room. "Lock the door."

The French bastard damned near ran for Beeff s open office door, set the lock, then shut the door behind him with a firm click of the locking mechanism.