The Freedom Broker, page 7
Our animosity? Right. She reminded him of that porcupine they’d run into on the mission, all quills and attitude. No thanks for saving her and Johansson’s asses, no thanks for taking extreme personal risk to find her hostage, no thanks for putting her needs above his.
“Lead the way.”
She strode toward Club 33, her long legs handling the stilettos with authority. He caught up to her in a few strides, reaching the entrance at the same time. “Please, allow me.” He stepped into the dimly lit club. White marble floors, funky lights attached to a curved ceiling, and loud music—it was one of the premier nightclubs in Firá. A lone bartender dressed in black served whiskey to two wobbly figures perched at the bar. Too early for the dancing crowd to arrive.
A blond man commandeered the rear booth as if it was his private palace. Peter Kennedy, Christos’s rising star, complete dickhead, and total ETC—empty the clip—candidate. In Kennedy’s case, Rif would empty it twice.
He’d met Peter several times at Paris Industries functions, and the kindest thing he could say about the guy was that he was Rain Man–smart with numbers. Climbing his way to the top of Paris Industries, he had left his designer-shoe imprint on countless backs. Given Christos’s disdain for Nikos, and Thea’s lack of interest in joining her father’s company, either Peter Kennedy or Ahmed Khali could be the heir apparent. And if Rif’s godfather didn’t survive the kidnapping, Peter would be one step closer to the top.
He’d call that motive.
He stepped aside to allow Thea to slide into the booth first. Peter started to stand, but she waved him off.
“Thanks for meeting us so late.” She smiled, but it was forced.
“Sorry to hear about Piers. He had a heart attack?” Peter asked.
The CFO was divorced with two kids, and Christos had confided in Rif that Peter’s speech had been slurred during a morning meeting recently. That was why Rif wasn’t surprised that his eyes were glassy now, as if he’d had one too many Rusty Nails. His gaze dropped to Thea’s cleavage, and Rif ached to punch him.
Her expression darkened. “We’ll miss him keenly. He was with our family for twenty-two years.”
“Can I assist with the funeral service or help in any other way?” Peter asked.
Sycophant.
“I appreciate your kindness, but Piers came from a small town in South Africa, and the service will be for family and close friends only. Meanwhile, Papa asked me to be a conduit between him and the business for a few days so he can put away his BlackBerry and spend time with Piers’s family. Hopefully nothing pressing is on the horizon?”
Peter’s eyes widened, perhaps skeptical that his workaholic boss was taking five minutes off work, let alone a few days. Still, he had no reason to suspect Thea. Also, she had an air of innocence that made her a skilled liar. Perfect for negotiating.
“Business is always hopping, but we can muddle through for a few days without him. I’ll handle any necessary decisions.”
Rif’s gut told him something was rotten. What about the Kanzi oil deal? Didn’t Peter think it important to mention a multibillion-dollar opportunity that would put the company at the top of their game?
“Actually, I’d like you to double-check with me before making any important decisions. Until my father comes back, you understand,” she said.
The CFO cleared his throat. “Does this mean that you’re considering your father’s offer to join Paris Industries?”
Of course Peter worried more about Peter than anything else. If Christos’s favorite child came on board, the CFO’s aquiline nose would shift out of joint, and he’d possibly be out of a future at Paris.
“Kidnapping captures my interest right now.” Her jaw tightened.
“There’s a board meeting the morning of January second. He’ll be back for that?”
“Sure hope so. I wouldn’t want to sit through that painful experience for him. That’s over and above the call of duty,” she said with a light laugh.
“Believe it or not, I find them interesting. But your job trumps everything. Any good hostage tales to share?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “We recently recovered a teenage girl in Colombia who had been taken en route to school. Turns out her chauffeur was involved. Talk about a violation of trust.”
“Terrible.” Peter’s pale face became slightly pink, a physiological response indicating potential guilt. But was it from a deceitful business move, or was the CFO involved in the kidnapping? Or could it simply be the alcohol? Give Rif five minutes with Peter in a dark alley, and he’d get the answer, but Thea always wanted to play it straight.
A text message alert from her father’s phone emanated from her purse.
“I need to take this; it could be work,” she said. “Please excuse me.”
“Sure, sure. I’ll keep you posted on any developments.”
Rif stood, letting her slip out of the booth. A slight tremor in her knees was the only sign of her tension, and he only noticed because he knew her so well. She strode toward the door. He leaned down inches from Peter’s face and looked him in the eye. “You’re hiding something, and I’m going to find out what it is.”
Peter’s skin darkened to deep pink.
Chapter Eleven
Thea stepped outside the club into the cool night, desperate for fresh air. Rif stood beside her, surveying the deserted street and the shadowed overhangs. Diligent, as always. Good thing, as her brain was wrapped in layers of fog.
“Let’s go.” He had his hand on her back, guiding her down the alley.
A war raged inside her. She ached to know the kidnappers’ next move but dreaded potential bad news. Whoever was behind this had already left a trail of corpses. She couldn’t bear the thought of Papa being one of them. No way could she wait to read the message. She fumbled in her purse for her father’s cell.
Before she could pull it out of her purse, Rif’s fingers dug into her arm. She looked up. Four figures dressed in black had encircled them. Two held knives, one had a crowbar, and the fourth brandished a chain.
She dropped the phone back into her purse and slung the strap across her body to free her hands. Instinctively she and Rif positioned themselves back-to-back. She slipped off her Louboutins and kicked them aside.
Two men charged her while the other two pounced on Rif. Her sensei’s voice filled her thoughts. Unless they are highly trained, people don’t work well in packs. Use their disorganization against them.
She moved to the left, forcing them into the nearby alcove. The first attacker approached. A flash of steel drew her attention. She stepped aside, hooked her wrist around his forearm, and stepped into the hold. Crack. She broke his arm and shoved him into the other man. The knife clattered to the ground. She spun around.
The second attacker pushed the first aside and came straight for her. She turned to avoid the chain. Too late. The heavy links lashed her back, battering her right kidney. Pain shot through her body.
She was reeling when a solid weight tackled her onto the ground, followed by a punch that rattled her teeth. She rolled away, coiled her legs, and unleashed the bottom of her right foot into the man’s solar plexus. He collapsed, a loud wheezing sound escaping his throat. She scrambled to stand, the rough cobblestones scraping the bottom of her feet.
Movement registered in her peripheral vision. Rif fighting his assailants. Grunts, blood, the sound of a crowbar meeting flesh.
A metallic taste flooded her mouth. Before she could recover, the second attacker came for her again. The chain swung around. She tried to scramble out of the way, but the heavy links crashed into her shoulder, slamming her to the ground again. Her head collided with the cobblestones, leaving her in a haze. She tried to shake it off. The man stood over her, chain in hand.
She blinked, trying to clear her double vision. Her sensei’s advice again flashed in her mind. Chained weapons have a downside, leaving their users unbalanced. She protected her head with her arms as the metal links crashed into her.
After absorbing the blow, she grabbed the chain with both hands and used a quick shift of her body weight to pull him off balance. The attacker stumbled forward. A beefy, barrel-chested man, he could easily overpower her in close quarters.
She needed the knife. On all fours she scrambled for the weapon, but his meaty fingers grabbed her left leg and pulled her toward him before she could reach it.
He flipped her onto her back and straddled her torso, forcing the air out of her lungs. His hands closed around her throat, tightened. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision swam.
No, she had to fight. For Papa, Aegis, Nikos.
Her hand felt along the ground and found one of her shoes. She tightened her grip on the stiletto and swung hard, driving the heel into her attacker’s neck. He grunted, mouth slackening. His fingers loosened around her throat and went to his own. He slumped on top of her. Dark blood spurted onto the cobblestones.
Seconds later, Rif ripped the massive man off her. She gasped for air. Sirens sounded in the distance. Three of the attackers limped into the darkness. The man with the stiletto lodged in his neck lay still.
“You okay?” Rif helped her to a sitting position.
She nodded. “I had it covered.”
“Killer heels.” Rif removed the man’s ski mask, revealing his bullish nose and olive skin, and snapped a few photos with his cell.
The wailing of the sirens intensified.
“Let’s get out of here.” He yanked the stiletto from the man’s neck. Blood had soaked through the delicate fabric.
“Ugh. It’s not like I’m going to wear them again.”
“Yep, but we don’t want the local cops to come looking for Cinderella.” His sharp features were marred by streaks of blood.
He helped her stand. Her head throbbed from its pounding against the cobblestones, so she leaned against him as they hurried down the street.
The squeal of nearby tires startled them. Hakan pulled up in his rented Renault and thrust open the door. His dark eyes widened at the sight of her and Rif. “I heard about a disturbance on the police scanner and knew you were headed in this direction to meet Kennedy. What the hell happened?”
She’d never been so relieved to see her boss. Sliding into the backseat beside Rif, she slammed the door, and Hakan tore away.
“Looks like Christos isn’t the only one the kidnappers are after.” Rif wiped blood off his forehead.
“Should I take you both to a clinic? You don’t look so good.” Hakan’s eyebrows knitted together.
“The hotel, please.” She sucked in a breath.
“I’ll get one of the local docs to come to your room.” Hakan weaved around the corners at warp speed.
“We can’t waste time being questioned by the police. First thing tomorrow, I’ll head for Athens, where we can set up a temporary base of operations.” Her stomach lurched. The message. She searched for Papa’s cell with its flashing red light, indicating a text.
Her hand trembled as she read out loud: “Corruptio optimi pessima. The corruption of the best is the worst.”
“Another riddle—and no fucking ransom demand.” Rif’s voice was tight, clipped.
Hakan swerved into the parking area in front of the hotel, barely missing a stationary taxi. In kidnappings, the hostage takers were in charge, and they knew it. The family was at their mercy. That was why it was so important to understand whom you were dealing with, deciphering what they wanted—but it was challenging when they refused to be identified. “By the way, Nikos is at the party.”
Thea struggled to swallow, not sure if her difficulty was due to the aftermath of being choked or the thought of the turmoil in her family.
Rif squeezed her hand. She pressed back, her way of saying thanks. If she’d been alone tonight, it would have gone very differently.
Chapter Twelve
Ares slipped through the rear gate of the Sphinx restaurant and climbed the stairs two at a time. The din of music, laughter, and clinking champagne glasses filled the night air. He had an invitation to the party via his other persona, but that didn’t mean he was welcome. Not that that had ever stopped him before. He reached into his pocket and felt the reassuring presence of the music box. Almost time.
He paused in the shadows and surveyed the crowd he’d been around most of his life. Socialites flirted with Arabian princes, a female rock star gyrated against a business mogul, models with hungry stares waved away waiters carrying trays of food. Spotlights glittered off rock-size jewels, creating a strobelike effect. He inhaled, breathing in a mixture of expensive perfumes and colognes. Quite a party. But tonight he had no desire to play social games.
On the surface, he fit in well, his Italian tuxedo cut from the finest cloth, his dark hair fashionably styled just below his collar. However, unlike the spoiled people here, his hands were rough. Calluses covered his palms, and a scar from a knife fight slashed across his thumb. Unlike him, no one in this pampered crowd would survive five minutes in the desert without food or water, surrounded by scorpions and other predators—and that included Christos Paris. Ares scanned the room again. As suspected, no sign of the host or his new wife, Helena. Had he really been kidnapped? His men were on full alert, scouring for any clue to Christos’s whereabouts.
A lithe Asian woman in the far corner of the room captured his attention. Quan Xi-Ping. The first time he’d seen her name, he’d had no idea how to pronounce it, but then he’d learned that “Xi” sounded like “she,” and from then on, he’d thought of her as She-Wolf. She lived up to the nickname.
A slight pursing of her full lips told him she was aware of his presence. Smart, tough, confident—good qualities for his main arms supplier. She chatted with three men vying for her attention, her slender fingers clutching a champagne glass. Her pale gown clung to her curves like a second skin. Lady Godiva holding court.
His gaze connected with hers. He glanced toward the stairs. She squeezed the arm of the man closest to her and smiled. Seconds later, she headed in Ares’s direction. He turned away, helping himself to a canapé from a passing waiter. The scent of jasmine flooded his nostrils as she brushed by him and sashayed down the stairs.
He waited for a few minutes, then descended the steps two at a time. The secluded bathrooms of the Sphinx were nestled on the lower level of the restaurant beside a private dining room. Inconvenient for most guests but ideal for his purposes.
A dim light glowed from underneath one of the bathroom doors. He twisted the knob and entered, locking the door behind him. “No sign of Christos. You didn’t mess with our timing, did you?” Xi-Ping pushed at his chest with open palms, pinning him against the wall.
“Handle your end, and I’ll handle mine.” He pulled off her hair clasp so her long, dark tresses covered her bare shoulders. He kissed her hard. Goose bumps rippled down her sleek arms.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said. “I’m the boss now.” She dropped to her knees and unzipped his tuxedo pants.
Hardly. But he played along with the game. He ensnared a handful of hair and pulled her close. Her silky mouth enveloped him, her tongue snaking down his shaft. Heat pulsated through his capillaries. A fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead.
But the call he’d received earlier kept running through his mind.
Had he been foiled so close to the endgame? He’d planned so carefully, considering every possibility—except one.
Xi-Ping licked hungrily, devouring him with her full lips. Still, he felt a slight softening.
Whatever had happened, he’d find a way to exact his revenge. He was Ares, and Ares was unstoppable.
He ground her face into his pelvis. Thrusting into her mouth, he hardened again. She grabbed his glutes, sinking her nails through his pants, digging into his flesh. He flexed as he stabbed faster and faster, blocking out everything but the euphoria of the moment.
He ripped her head away and yanked her to her feet. Excitement mounted inside him.
She slapped him. He grabbed her wrist, slamming her body against the door. Her fingers clawed at his shirt. He pushed her away, spun her around to face the sink, hiking the long skirt above her waist. He ripped off her lace thong and plunged inside her.
His muscular arms wrapped around her body, and his fingers twisted her nipples hard. He lost himself in her intoxicating scent. A loud moan escaped her lips. He pounded harder, starting to crest the wave.
She bit his arm, hard. Bitch. He tightened his hold and clamped a hand over her nose and mouth. Sounds in the bathroom next door distracted him. He couldn’t afford to be caught with her.
He pinned her against him. Unable to breathe, she squirmed and bucked beneath him. White light flashed in his vision as he reached a crescendo. He remained silent, controlled, like a sniper in his hide. The waves of pleasure slowly rippled away, bringing him back to awareness.
The toilet flushed in the other bathroom, and the occupant departed. Ares removed his hand from Xi-Ping’s face. Her desperate inhalation made a loud, rasping sound. She sank to the floor, chest heaving. Her hair was a tangled mess, her makeup smeared, but the corners of her full lips turned upward in a smile.
He rinsed off in the sink, zipped up his pants, and straightened his bow tie.
“Where’s Christos? I thought we were securing him at the negotiations in Zimbabwe.”
He assessed her face, trying to determine if she’d had anything to do with the premature grab, but her unfathomable gaze held no answers. “Everything is fine.” Then she looked at him intently and sighed. “That was the best yet. It’s never been like this with anyone else, Nikos.”
Xi-Ping was one of only a handful of people who knew about his two personas: Nikos, son of the great Christos Paris; and his alter ego, Ares, an arms dealer and kidnapper who was on a first-name basis with revolutionaries from war-torn countries on three continents. A calculated risk, as she had more to lose than he did by divulging his secrets.
Chapter Thirteen
