Zero Separation (15 page)

The doors were about to close when the well-dressed young man stepped through. He nodded wordless thanks, and then stood next to her, his hands holding the flower arrangement in front of him.

“What floor?” Lauren said, her fingers poised next to the row of buttons.

“Three, please.”

Lauren dropped her hand; it was the button she'd already pushed. “Nice flowers,” she said as she admired the arrangement. He smiled again but kept his eyes locked straight ahead as the elevator rose from the first floor, chimed as it passed the second floor. Lauren noticed his hands were shaking and his suit seemed too large for his slight frame.

The elevator chimed once again, and then slowed as they approached three. Without warning, the man slid next to her, and she felt a sharp jab as he pressed something hard into her side. She looked down and saw he held a pistol.

“I will kill you if you don't do exactly what I tell you.”

Lauren was stunned. His smile had vanished, replaced by an intensity that sent a shockwave of fear through her body. He was close enough that she could smell him, a mixture of sweat and fresh flowers. He still used the bouquet to hide the pistol from any casual watchers.

“Do you understand me? I will kill you if you scream.”

Lauren could only nod as the elevator doors finally parted. She had hoped that there'd be people in the hallway, but the corridor was vacant as they stepped off the elevator. Lauren stopped, not sure where the gunman wanted to take her.

“To the left! Move.” He hissed and jabbed her with the gun for emphasis.

Lauren glanced up at the signs on the wall and saw that he was guiding her in the direction of Michael's room. He propelled her forward by pressing the pistol into her left kidney.

“Turn this way,” he said, as they reached an intersecting hallway.

Lauren saw a room number as they walked by, it was marked 325. Michael was in room 315, which would be near the end of the corridor. She spotted a vacant chair in the hallway and thought of the security Donovan had arranged. Her knees felt weak—where was Buck? The chair was empty, as was the hallway. The raw fear building in her sent a river of adrenaline into her system. She couldn't get a full breath. Michael and Susan were probably in the room, defenseless. She gathered herself for one desperate effort to stop the attacker. However futile, she decided she wasn't going to die quietly.

Lauren's mind raced. The door to Michael's room was shut and her attacker had his hands full, one held the gun, the other, the flowers. Would he open the door himself, or would he order her to open it? She envisioned both scenarios and decided that would be her signal to do something—anything. She felt as if her nerve endings might explode.

“Stop here,” he whispered.

He stepped away from her—his eyes darting between her and the door. “Open it or you're dead.”

She felt powerless, he was beyond striking range. She moved toward the door and placed her hand on the cold steel lever. Her last chance would be to slam it in the attacker's face, or his gun hand. Stun him long enough to scream for help.

The door suddenly jerked open from the inside and she was yanked forcefully into the dark room while at the same time a volley of gunshots rang out. Someone had her by the hand and swung her off to the side. She went down hard, slid on the tiled floor, and crashed into the wall. The door slammed shut and a crushing weight fell on top of her.

The explosion seemed to pull all the oxygen from the room, followed by the deafening concussion. Debris peppered her exposed skin and a high-pitched ringing was all that remained as she fought to purchase a breath in the dust-choked air. She felt numb instead of scared, disoriented, as if everything were happening to someone else. The only comfort she found before she blacked out was the fact that she wasn't alone. Whoever had her was still clutching her hand.

“You ready, Roberto?” Montero called out from her bedroom.

Donovan ignored her. He'd showered and had just finished dressing. He wore black slacks, a crisp white shirt, and he hadn't bothered to shave.

He turned and found her standing in the doorway. A short, jet-black wig had transformed her blonde hair. Makeup had altered her already attractive features into what amounted to a different face altogether. Black eye shadow and reddish lipstick gave her face a sultry, dark expression, deceptively sensual. She wore a silky top, her nipples poked against the flimsy material. A black skirt ended mid-thigh and, farther down, her toned legs were wrapped in knee-high black boots. Without thinking, he muttered, “Jesus.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

An invisible trail of perfume hit Donovan as she walked by, something spicy and slightly musky. Donovan stood still until she passed, and then flicked out the bathroom light and followed.

“Where's your phone?” she asked.

“It's with my things in the other bedroom.”

“Good. Leave it there.”

Donovan slipped on a sport coat and pulled the sleeves of his shirt into position.

“You look nice,” Montero said, as she stepped closer and brushed away some imaginary lint from his shoulders. She reached up and fussed with his hair so some of it fell over his forehead.

“Where's your gun?” Donovan asked.

“None of your business,” Montero replied and then handed him her keys. “You drive.”

Twenty minutes later, with Donovan behind the wheel of the BMW, Montero had directed him turn for turn as they'd traveled south on I-95, past Pompano Beach, until they were in Fort Lauderdale. They got off on Cypress and headed east. He'd watched as she'd carefully kept track of what cars were behind them, issuing abrupt lane changes that would expose a tail. Montero was completely absorbed studying the traffic from the passenger side mirror.

“So, who exactly would be following us?” Donovan asked. “Bad guys, the FBI, or both?”

She shrugged without taking her eyes from the mirror. “Take your pick.”

When she was satisfied they weren't being followed, they worked their way back down Commercial Boulevard.

Donovan calculated they'd done nothing but drive in a big circle when she motioned him to pull into the parking lot of a modern, two-story building.

The structure was lit up with garish indirect red and purple spotlights. The driveway arced up to the grand entrance where the front walk wound through tropical landscaping illuminated by a dozen torches. Tucked up near the front door was a neon sign that read: A
RENA
.

“Skip the valet guys.” Montero pointed to an empty space about fifty yards away from the main door. “Park over there, in fact, back the car in so we can make a quick exit if needed.”

Donovan did as instructed. Montero pulled down her visor for the mirror and applied one last round of lipstick before she nodded that she was ready. As they walked together toward the entrance, Montero moved closer. She slipped her arm inside Donovan's and pressed herself into him.

“Just remember what I told you. I'll talk. You try and look menacing.” Montero squeezed him affectionately, as if completely enraptured by her escort.

Donovan held his fake smile as a tank of a man dressed in a tuxedo and sporting a stub of a ponytail welcomed them to the
club. Donovan threw a hundred dollar bill at the girl collecting cover charges and didn't wait for his change. They were handed off to another muscled guy dressed just as stylishly as the first.

“VIP section,” Donovan said, and peeled another hundred dollar bill from his roll, pressing it into the guy's hand.

With Montero close, they followed their host into the main room. As they walked together down the narrow carpeted hallway, the music grew louder. Donovan was surprised, the interior was far larger than he'd expected and the décor decidedly upscale. The main room was two stories high with clusters of spotlights aimed at the main stage. Mirrors adorned most of the walls and music poured from dozens of speakers. Above them, a railing stretched around three sides of the room, suggesting a separate, more private area above the noise of the main floor.

They snaked their way through the tables and overstuffed chairs. A dancer, bathed in alternating red-and-white light, performed on the main stage, but Donovan was far more interested in the patrons than the entertainment. The row of seats immediately around the stage seemed to be filled with mostly young men. One group in particular stood out from the rest. Animated gestures and immature catcalls suggested college boys, or perhaps a bachelor party well underway. Other groups of two to four men sat at tables away from the stage. Donovan guessed they were businessmen, still dressed in suits and talking amongst themselves, mostly ignoring the stage. A small bar across the room was crowded with dancers. They, too, were watching the crowd. It struck Donovan as to how a pride of lions might eye a herd of grazing gazelles.

They climbed the stairs and entered the VIP section. Montero selected a table next to the railing for its view of the floor below. The host signaled a waitress who hurried to meet them at their table.

“This'll be fine,” Donovan said as the man pulled out a chair for Montero.

“Very well, sir. This is Lindsay, she'll be your server this evening, please let her know if there is anything we can do for you.”

Donovan nodded as the man politely backed away, and then he turned his attention to Lindsay. She was young, cute, and radiated cleavage and legs. “Bring us champagne. The best you have.”

As Lindsay hurried off, Donovan turned toward Montero. “Do you have any idea what this girl looks like?”

“If she's here, Lindsay will go get her for us.” Montero leaned in close. “You do know how to play the rich guy. But then, I guess you already knew that.”

Donovan checked out the room. Besides the two of them, there was a female bartender chatting with a white-haired man whose back was turned to him. In a corner booth were two more men with at least three girls curled up close while another danced on the small VIP stage. Donovan watched long enough to verify that all eyes were on the girl. Then he shifted his attention to the scene below. The song ended and the girl who'd been on the main stage was collecting her cash and clothes.

Lindsay arrived with a bottle of Cristal, two glasses, and a bucket of ice. She expertly opened the bottle, carefully poured two glasses, and then twisted the bottle deep into the waiting ice.

“Would you like to start a tab?”

Donovan knew that would require a credit card. Instead, he pulled his roll from his pocket and peeled off several bills and handed them to Lindsay. “Keep the change.”

“Can I bring you anything else?”

“There's a girl I'd like to meet. Her name is—” Donovan glanced over at Montero as if he couldn't remember. “Sasha! Yes, Sasha should join us.”

“I'm not sure she's here yet. I'll go find out,” Lindsay said, and hurried off.

Montero picked up both glasses of champagne and handed one to Donovan. She leaned over and gently tipped her glass to his. “To justice.”

“Said the vigilante.” Donovan replied. He took a small sip of his champagne and set the glass on the table.

In the crowd below, Donovan spotted Lindsay. She was leading
a slender, dark-haired dancer up the stairs. “We might be in business.”

“We're going to have to play this kind of fast and loose.” Montero grinned. “Let's be nice and see if we can get her to talk.”

“If she won't?”

“Then we won't be nearly as nice.”

As the two approached, Donovan rolled his chair sideways, away from Montero's. The dancer took her cue. She spun a chair from an adjoining table and pushed it in between Donovan and Montero and sat down. She was wearing a tiny black dress that did very little to cover her body. She crossed her legs, tugged at her hem smartly, and then smiled as she leaned in toward Donovan.

“I'm Sasha.” She held out a slender hand. “Your name is?”

Donovan hadn't expected her to be quite so young—or attractive. He caught her Eastern European accent. Her oval face framed large brown eyes that seemed to radiate both innocence and sexuality. She smiled, a knowing expression glimmered on her face, as if she knew her power and wasn't afraid to use it. Donovan caught a sprinkling of glitter on her razor-sharp cheekbones and her suggestive smile accentuated perfect red lips and white teeth. A widow's peak jutted up and split her thick black hair that cascaded down to her shoulders and spilled out onto her flawless white skin.

“I'm Roberto. This is my friend Veronica.” Donovan more than enjoyed the angry expression that flashed across Montero's face.

“Hello, Roberto.” Sasha smiled, and then turned and greeted Montero. “Nice to meet you.”

Donovan flipped several hundred dollar bills onto the table, just out of Sasha's reach, a little incentive for her to stick around.

“Do you come in here often?” Sasha asked as she eyed the money.

“No. This is our first time. Where are you from? I can't quite place the accent. The Ukraine?”

“Very good. Most Americans are very bad with accents. I'm from Kiev. Are you familiar with my country?”

“Yes.” Donovan smiled. “I've spent time in Kiev as well as Odessa. I like the Ukraine.”

“We're a very friendly people,” Sasha purred. “Would you like me to dance for you?”

“Maybe a little later.” Donovan stretched out and plucked one of the bills from the table and placed it gently in Sasha's palm. “But, please stay. Would you like something to drink?”

“Champagne is nice.”

Donovan caught Lindsay's eye, pointed to his glass, then to Sasha. She nodded and moments later came to the table with another flute and poured champagne for Sasha. Over Lindsay's shoulder, Donovan noticed that a tuxedoed hulk of a man near the end of the bar was looking in their direction and he wore an ear-piece, evidence that the club's security staff was wired and communicating. Donovan knew he hadn't been there earlier. Had someone grown suspicious, or was this guy simply making the rounds?