I make eye contact with the man who is emceeing tonight’s humanitarian crisis, giving him my very best smirk-smile, the one that has a near-perfect open rate at a bar. He’s trim, to the point of gaunt, wearing a sharkskin suit with his thick silver hair slicked back, and his jewelry is expensive and ugly. His eyes greedily roam my finely honed body, and I decide my suit is going to need to be dry-cleaned after tonight.
“Well, hello there. I don’t think we’ve met before.”
I hide my disgust and push down the bile that threatens to rise in my throat. “What a shame. I’m Anders. This is my husband, Omar.”
Omar shifts uncomfortably, like he’s done the seventeen times I’ve introduced him as my husband tonight, and it gives me this little shot of happiness every time. Never let it be said that petty pleasures aren’t valid.
He bites his lip, looking at the two of us like he’d like to be the meat in our sandwich. “You can talk to anyone for free out here in the lobby, but it’s five thousand to take them into the penthouse for an hour. There’s a twenty percent upcharge for threesomes.”
DB’s voice filters through the comms. “Approval to use the dummy account. Jake will be able to trace it back to the original account along with everybody there who paid for their time.”
I give the man my biggest grin. “Where do I sign up?”
He produces a phone with one of those little square card readers. “This will show as an interior decorating charge.”
I reach into my pocket and hand over the card. “Those two at the bar will do nicely.”
His smile is greasy as he runs the charge. The notification ding chills my insides because it’s the sound we’ve been hearing repeated across the room throughout the evening.
I reach out my hand, and he takes it, making my job so much easier. I pull him to me, skimming a distracting hand along his flank as I count the seconds. Feathering my lips along his jaw, I growl into his ear, “Wanna join us?”
He runs his tongue along his teeth and grins. “Sure, baby. I have a room downstair—”
His face goes slack, and I quickly cap and palm the needle he didn’t feel.
“Are you okay?” I ask, layering sincerity into my voice.
He opens his mouth, a small movement as the paralytic continues to race through his veins. He crumples in on himself like a marionette with its strings cut. I could have caught him, but he was holding a full glass of wine, and I’ve already mentioned how much I like this suit.
Also, the dull thunk of his body hitting the polished granite floor is very satisfying.
The sound draws minimal attention because these people don’t give a shit about anyone or anything. There are two people who appear minimally concerned, so I paste a competent look on my face. “I’m a doctor.”
They nod and go back to their cocktails.
Omar clenches his fists as I use the flashlight on my phone to make it look like I give a shit about whether this asshole’s pupils are blown. Spoiler alert: they’re not. His eyes track mine perfectly, and I allow him to see the venom.
His mouth opens the tiniest bit as his lungs seize and stop doing the things that lungs do.
“He’s had too much to drink, just needs some fresh air,” I say to no one. He’s already done his job by supplying the bodies, so at this point, he’s superfluous to these fine, upstanding citizens.
The move is to sweep him out of the room, down the elevator, and then call the cops. We don’t want any retaliation against the victims, so Rafi’s job is to stay behind and lead them down the stairs to wait for the cops when shit starts to go down.
We know nothing will come of the arrests because, frankly, we’ve done this before. That’s where Jake comes in: he’ll send out a list of names and compromising pictures to the relevant gossip rags because tabloids and social media are capable of far more damage than our current justice system.
Honestly, we’re just calling the cops so the underage victims can be connected to counselors and hopefully find a path back to a life of their own making.
So, yeah, spotting an undercover cop blocking the elevator and talking into his wrist like a fucking amateur isn’t exactly in the plans.
Just as I’m about to call up Jake and let him know about this new wrinkle, his soft voice comes through on the earpiece. “Change of plans. We’ve got company. Got a team from local PD at the elevators and another heading up the southwest stairwell. Advise taking the northeast stairwell.”
Omar and I give each other a brief look, then head in that direction. “No shit. Just spotted an undercover trying to act like James Bond up here. We’ve got the target.”
We make our way across the room, laughing, but not too loud, both of us holding up the human piece of excrement like he’s our best bud. Omar grabs the door for me, and we pile onto the small landing to figure out our next move. One thing’s for sure—we hadn’t planned on carrying a deadweight trafficker down fifteen flights of stairs.
If I leave him here, he’ll most likely die of asphyxiation, but it’s not a guarantee. The meds metabolize quickly and could wear off before he does.
“Boss, do we care how this one dies? He’s been approved for elimination and is getting awfully heavy.”
