Chapter 6
Doralee
Despite my better judgment, I agreed to a modified version of Crash’s plan.
Not that we’d be man and wife, but that we’d be two individuals representing powerful buyers who fell in love over many recent shopping trips.
He convinced me that our attachment would present a unified power broker to the intermediaries while protecting us from any shady dealings.
When he said us, I know he meant me.
I mean, if these men kidnap and sell women, how much respect are they going to show me even if I’m coming with hundreds of thousands of dollars?
But he tried not to make it a ‘I’m a man and I must protect you’ moment, so I let it slide.
Walking out of the warehouse, I’m wearing a white suit with embroidered black floral embellishments and five-inch peep toe stiletto heels.
I’m supposed to be representing Bratva interests throughout Europe and feel like my outward appearance completes the part.
I have no shirt on under the jacket, but a demi-cup bra with a thin black leatherette string between the cups.
For my height and athleticism, I’m very busty, which has always been a problem that makes me stand out.
In this case, I’m going to use it to my advantage and pray the body tape and safety pins I used will keep me from popping out.
Glancing up at the assembled party, I notice Rumpert doesn’t look in my direction, and I think back on what Cricket said to him to make him scurry out of the gym like he did.
I never had time to ask him.
Crash opens the back door of the first SUV, his eyes shielded by a pair of aviators.
He represents Middle Eastern interests and speaks decent Arabic.
He also looks the part wearing a black tailored suit, black button-down, and a black tie.
Our story is that our parties converge in the Mediterranean, which is where we met.
As new players to this arena, we need a strong background of known rich and powerful families, but no specifics as to the actual buyers.
Lots of influence, but no names. Traders should have no choice but to accept our buyer's desire for anonymity and discretion.
At least that’s what we’re banking on.
“You look perfect.” Crash offers me his hand, and I glance at the second car, noting Agent Melon behind the wheel with Cricket in the passenger seat.
His eyes are glued to me, lips parted, and a small satisfaction causes me to smile and tilt my chin in his direction in greeting.
There’s something about him that has me intrigued.
Sure, he’s hot, but it’s something else.
Maybe it was the apology—which is so rare in this world, especially coming from a man to a woman—that it knocked me off-kilter.
Any other situation, I’d love to get to know him.
Of course, that’s not an option right now.
“Thank you.” I take Crash’s hand and slip across the backseat. “So do you.”
“Are you ready for this?” Crash asks as Rumpert puts the SUV in gear with Agent Castor sitting in the passenger seat.
“Of course,” I say in Russian with a thick accent.
I started learning the language when I was a teenager and perfected the central dialect by the time I graduated college, but I can pull off the southern dialect pretty well too.
I get by speaking many other Slavic languages, although a native would know I’m not fluent.
However, my backstory is I’m American, born with familial ties in Moscow, and spent much of my childhood traveling between the two countries.
“Excellent,” he replies.
We pull up to the chain hotel on Main Street, the nicest three-star establishment they have in Dunham, Wyoming.
Castor opens my door and helps me step down, like a member of my security detail would.
We survey the parking lot, assuming we’re being watched, and Crash meets me at the front of the SUV to offer me his arm.
Castor and Rumpert precede us into the hotel, while Crash stops and locks gazes with Cricket, who nods and stops between the two vehicles, his arms crossed over his chest as sentry.
While Castor, Rumpert, and Melon wear suits with bulges in their jackets, Cricket is wearing a black Under Armour shirt and a pair of black cargo pants with no visible weapons.
The long-sleeved shirt is form-fitting, showing off his impressive lean build packed with competition-worthy muscle.
Pressing my lips together, I tilt my head in his direction again and his mouth twitches to suppress a smile.
“Let’s go,” Crash says, guiding me into the lobby.
I quickly glance over the random people sitting around working on their computers or chatting with beers in their hands. Security, security, security, maid who might also be security, clueless teenage desk attendant working on her homework.
One civilian and three or four hired hands.
We walk down a hallway and exit through an open door that leads into a courtyard with a pool.
They have a traveling bar set up next to where our hosts sit, the two of them standing upon our arrival.
Two men, one with brown hair, blue eyes, and a round, pasty face—a gold cross and American flag on the lapel of his suit coat.
He looks like the stereotypical evangelical leader embroiled in a gay-sex scandal that rocked his church but barely impacted the donation dollars.
The other has dark hair and brown eyes with pockmarked tan skin and a deep scar down the left side of his face.
That shouldn’t be too hard to search the databases for.
“Ms. Kuznetsov, Mr. Parks. Can we get you something to drink?” They shake our hands and motion to the bar cart manned by another security guy—all of whom have a military veneer to them.
Wouldn’t that be the icing on the cake? Billionaires and corrupt politicians hiring combat hardened, ex-military as their private security while selling Americans to the highest bidders.
If they’re retired Special Forces, is there a chance they’ll recognize Crash?
“Mr. Vantz and Mr. Sethegh. Thank you for meeting us.” I take a seat and shake my head when Crash arches his brow to the drink offer, like a doting lover would.
“No, thank you for coming.” Sethegh’s eyes go straight to my breasts.
I ignore him, and try not to breathe in his spicy aftershave of which he wears too much.
It’s so bad that my eyes water, and I pray for a gust of wind to take the stench away.
“We like to meet new buyers in person before inviting them to our auctions.”
“Understandable. I presume the information we provided was adequate?” Crossing my legs, I fight a wave of nausea as his gaze unapologetically takes me in.
This is the number one reason I wore pants tonight.
“Absolutely. Our management is thrilled to have them join our community.”
Community? Fucking piece of shit. I fight the urge to roll my eyes, and instead smile adoringly at Crash when he sits next to me, a bourbon in his hand.
“Our clients are eager to get the ball rolling considering the current disruption in the government. Now is the time to move as much product as possible, as quickly as possible,” Crash says while placing his free hand on top of my knee.
“Yes. And we have many marketplaces for you to peruse. Labor, entertainment, hardware,” Vantz says to Crash as he sits down with a can of Diet Coke in his hand.
Humans, drugs, weapons. Check.
DEA and ATF will be thrilled.
“We have an extensive shopping list and money to spend.” I ignore Vantz’s veiled dismissal of me. Pretty sure he doesn’t enjoy working with women and probably thinks we should all be pregnant and cooking dinner.
If I’m lucky, I’ll be there when he is arrested.
“What is on your shopping list?” Sethegh asks.
Crash inclines his head to me and lets me go first. “I’m looking for strong males between sixteen and thirty that can be put to work. Young, pretty women, and children under the age of six.”
He continues with his list of requirements. “We’re looking for women of childbearing years and adolescents between eight and fourteen. We are also interested in convicted criminals with violent records.”
We created our lists to have as much overlap as possible, ensuring we’d see everyone they had available at auction. As the words spill out of our mouths, my stomach churns with bile, but I sit in my chair emotionless like the heartless bitch I’m portraying.
“Does race matter?” Sethegh asks.
“No,” Crash answers for both of us.
Vantz clasps his hands. “Great. We have more than enough inventory to fulfill your needs.”
“And if we don’t see what we’re looking for?” I prompt.
“There are other auctions.” Sethegh grins. “There are always more auctions.”
Crash chuckles. “Of course. As far as the current inventory is concerned, have they been scrubbed from all databases?”
“Our transactions are traceless. Whether someone is looking for them doesn’t matter. Their cases are cold or they never existed in the first place.” Vantz smiles smugly. “We have access to whatever we need to execute clean transfers of our inventory to your customers.”
“Fantastic.” Crash sets down his untouched bourbon. “When do we start?”
Vantz exchanges a look with Sethegh and pulls an envelope from his inside pocket. “Two days from now. Six pm. Here’s a phone number to call. There will be a recording with an address no earlier than ninety minutes before the auction starts. You’re staying local?”
Crash nods. “Close enough.”
Sethegh licks his lips. “Then you’ll have no problem getting from location A to location B with time to spare.”
Ninety minutes in the middle of nowhere could easily be a hundred miles from Dunham. Suddenly, I’m glad Cricket stayed outside. If they track our vehicles, they’ll know we’re going home to an abandoned logistics facility and not some million-dollar house on the fringe of Yellowstone National Park.
“Well, gentlemen.” Crash stands and offers me his hand. “Thank you for your time. We’ll see you in two days.”
“It was nice to meet you.” Vantz nods but slides his hands into his pockets as his eyes gloss over our security—Agents Castor, Rumpert, and Melon—who have said nothing since we’ve arrived.
Sethegh takes my free hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing a sloppy kiss to my flesh. It takes everything within me not to curl my lips in disgust while pulling my hand away. “It was very nice to meet you, Ms. Kuznetsov.”
Crash slides his hand to the small of my back and maneuvers me away, putting himself between Sethegh and me. “Let’s keep things civil, Mr. Sethegh.”
“Of course, Mr. Parks.”
We walk back through the lobby to find all the patrons missing, as expected.
“Are you okay?” Crash whispers near my ear.
“I’m fine.”
Cricket stands like a sentry in the dimming light, his feet shoulder width apart, his hands clasped in front of him.
His gaze travels over my face and there must be something he doesn’t like because his eyes narrow before flicking to Crash.
Castor opens the backdoor as Crash steps away.
He and Cricket stare at each other without speaking a word.
Cricket’s eyes go across the parking lot to a minivan parked next to two other SUVs.
Crash climbs into the seat next to me and waits until Rumpert is behind the wheel with Castor beside him and the doors are closed.
“They’ll be tailing us since they could not throw trackers on our vehicles.
Clock the three vehicles at ten o’clock, but keep your eyes peeled, anyway.
Evasive driving, if need be. Cricket is taking over the second car.
We’re going to head west toward the mountains. I’ll provide navigation.”
“Where are we going?” Rumpert asks.
“You’ll see if we have to go there. For now, just follow my direction.” Crash looks at me. “Sorry, Agent Baker. I’m hijacking your op for a few minutes, but I promise I’ll give it back as soon as we’re on base.”
I sigh and nod. “Understood. Keep us alive.”
“That’s what we do.”