87
ANSON
My grip tightened on Libby’s hand. My heart beat with such force that I felt it between our palms, rapid and hot.
An involuntary flutter—I had no doubt this man saw it in my neck, maybe my temple, maybe behind my eyes.
He didn’t so much look at me as look through me, and as he did, it seemed as if he could reach inside and tug out my darkest secrets.
Like he knew exactly where to find the ugliest ones.
I quickly took in the space. I didn’t mean to look away—Father would have told me not to, to never break eye contact with a man like that.
Doing so is a sign of weakness, but I couldn’t help myself.
Unlike the other portions of the hotel we’d seen, the penthouse was immaculate.
Marble floors polished to a sheen. Freshly painted walls adorned with several paintings.
The modern furniture appeared new. There was even a fire burning in a hearth off to our right, surrounded by several leather chairs and a matching couch.
There were a number of doors, all closed.
All painted matte black with the exception of one.
The door deepest into the room was a dark red.
Tucker had been eating before we arrived.
The remains of a steak dinner were on the table next to the couch.
A half-finished glass of brown liquor. Bourbon, maybe?
Whiskey? On the wall above the fireplace was a painting of a different sort.
It wasn’t an image; it only contained words written in careful script. A quote:
“When you are told that youth of both sexes can mingle in close embrace with bosoms and abdomens in friction and limbs intertwined, and survive the experience without mental or physical pollution, you know the teller of lies.”
- J. Louis Guyon
Guyon. The man who built this place and named it after himself. This place where lives were bought and sold. Had he known this was what it would become? Or had there once been happiness here?
This man will kill all of you, Champ. He’ll sooner kill you all than let his dinner go cold.
This is the kind of man who takes lives as easily as he breathes.
He does it regularly to ensure the people around him know how easily he can snuff them out.
This is the man your mother stole from when she ran off.
I can only imagine what he’ll do to get it back.
Before Father’s words died in my head, I released Libby’s hand and took a slow step away from her. I’d hoped Tucker didn’t see, but the prickle of little hairs on the back of my neck told me otherwise.
Vincent’s hands closed into fists. “We have close to fifty people in the lobby downstairs. If we’re not down there in”—he checked his watch—“eight minutes, they’ve been told to storm every floor and kill anyone they run into.
They won’t stop until they reach you. They’ll leave your head on a stake in front of this place on their way back out. ”
Tucker didn’t appear the least bit worried.
He rolled his hand through the air. “A bunch of children who have never fired a weapon with stolen guns against men like Carmichael here. Men who have done multiple tours in the nastiest places this planet has to offer. Men who have killed and developed a taste for it. Sounds like the potential for a bloodbath. One I don’t believe would end in your favor. ”
“We’re leaving,” Vincent said again, his voice filled with hard defiance.
Carmichael took three quick steps and jammed the barrel of his gun into Vincent’s chest. “We can’t sell this one, so why is he still breathing? Let me shoot him. We’ll send his body downstairs. Watch how fast that puts the others in line.”
Tucker smirked at this, like he found it amusing.
He stepped over to a table and retrieved a cigar from a wooden box, smelled it, then clipped the end before placing it in his mouth and lighting it.
He inhaled deeply, held the smoke for a moment, then let it out in a slow white cloud.
“That’s not true. I know a Russian gentleman who enjoys breaking boys just like him.
The more obstinate, the better. I imagine it would take less than a week. What do you think about that . . .”
“Vincent,” Hillburn said.
“Vincent,” Tucker repeated. “If our friend Ms. Pavelko has taught us anything, it’s that there is an appetite for all types. And she seems to have them all on speed dial.”
He gestured toward a table against the far wall lined with computer monitors, each playing some kind of video feed.
No sound. I hadn’t gotten a good look at them when we first came in; I’d been focused on Tucker, Hillburn, and the other men with guns.
Each video appeared to be a different room in the hotel.
In some, children were alone, sitting on the beds or pacing the rooms. In others, though, they weren’t alone—they were with men, women, some clothed, others not.
I looked away before I saw more. I didn’t want the images in my head.
Once they were there, they’d spend the remainder of my life trying to get out.
I turned from those screens only to find myself looking at another. At a face I recognized.
“Twill,” I said softly.