Текст книги "Born Bad: Collected Stories"

Автор книги: Andrew Vachss

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Cross exited the document, went back to REAL ESTATE, studied the screen for several minutes, nodding to himself. "You hear anything on the phone yet?" he asked Ace, speaking over his shoulder.

"No, man. And I be surprised behind it, to tell you the truth. Once that monster–mutant starts playing Junior G–man, there's no turning off his mouth."

"That's it!"

"What, home?"

"You just put it together for me, Ace. Locked and loaded. Let's get the hell out of here."

12

He's going to kidnap the child," Cross told his crew. They were in the basement of the Red 71 poolroom, as removed from prying eyes as if they had been on another planet.

"Ransom?" Rhino asked.

"No," Cross said. "Torture. He's got it all laid out. First he snatches the kid, probably use that stun gun he's got to take her down. He's got this cabin, way out in the sticks. Owns it outright, no mortgage. The plan is to bring her up there. And keep her, see? He's got this whole conditioning program worked out. Like he was a coach. Only it's a POW thing. Pain conditioning. He's got a library of bondage–torture books. You know how it plays…all those freaks think the same way…he's gonna train her, right? Own her the same way he owns the cabin. He's just waiting for the right time. And he's getting near critical mass."

"We got a plan too, right?" Rhino said.

Cross looked around the room. "Any ideas?" he asked.

"Get the motherfucker and turn off his lights?" Ace offered;

"I got it," Princess said, barely able to contain his excitement. "How about this? I knock on his door, tell him I'm selling high–tech surveillance equipment…like night scopes and all, see? That'll get his motor running. So he lets me into his apartment and I wait for the right moment–then I snap his neck like a fucking twig and throw him out the window. Okay' Then I write a suicide note and split. Is that slick or what?"

"What," Ace said sourly.

"Princess," Cross said patiently, "he takes one look at you and he starts screaming. Come on…."

"Hey, that's the beauty of my plan–I'll wear a disguise."

Rhino gazed at the ceiling as if it had some answers.

Buddha said, "Jesus H. Christ." Very quietly.

Cross shot the pudgy man a look.

"How about a car accident?" Buddha asked, trying to divert Princess. "You know…drunk driver, leaving the scene of the smash. I could take him out soon as it gets dark."

"How do we get paid, then?" Cross asked.

"I dunno," Rhino replied. "Isn't the woman–?"

"Yeah, she's in for a piece. But we need to score at both ends, cover our nut with this one," Cross told him. "I got an idea. Okay, you guys all have a clear sight picture, right? Just take a look at the video Princess made if you need a refresher. Keep on him like a blanket…I don't know when he's gonna blow, but it has to be soon."

13

The white telephone buzzed. Wieskoft looked up from his computer, surprised–the number was unlisted–he only used it to make outgoing calls–take–out food and 900 numbers. His favorite was 1-900–LOLITAS.

He reached for the receiver cautiously.

"Hello…?"

"Good evening, sir," a clear, distinct voice came over the line. "My name is Morgan…I'm in the private delivery business. I thought you and I could meet, maybe discuss my services."

"I don't want any deliveries. Who gave you my…?"

"Sure you want a delivery, pal. A live one, if you get my meaning. My prices are very reasonable, and I guarantee I'll deliver the package right to your door…or any place you say. Remember, it's a guarantee. And no risk to you. None whatever."

"Leave me alone!" Wieskoft screamed, slamming down the phone.

14

Cross strolled away from the pay phone and climbed into the passenger seat of the Shark Car. Buddha threw the car into gear and made the vehicle disappear into a clot of city traffic.

"That should do it for the pressure cooker. We mailed him a copy of the video Princess took, too. Maybe he'll move before he was ready to–he'd be easy then."

"What if he just lays there? What's the backup?"

"You still in touch with that researcher? Cheryl?"

"Sure," Buddha replied. "What you need?"

"Tell her everything she can get on the President's kid. The daughter, what's her name, Chelsea or something?"

"Yeah, that's right. What you want to deal with that draft–dodging weasel for?"

"What difference would that make, brother?"

"Hey, come on, Cross. We was both in the Nam–how you feel about guys that slicked their way out of it?"

"I wish I had," Cross said, looking out the window.

15

Two days later, the cellular phone rang in the basement of Red 71. Cross looked up from a stack of clippings on a door laid across a pair of sawhorses he was using as a desk.

"What?"

"He's in a rental car, parked right across the street." Rhino's voice, even squeakier than usual, lowered to a whisper.

"You got him tight?"

"In a box. He tries it today, he's going down."

"Stay on him," Cross said, breaking the connection.

"What's with all this stuff" Princess asked, indicating the pile of clippings.

"We're making a bomb," Cross told him. "Want to tell Ace to come downstairs?"

16

The delicate–featured black man's hands matched his face. His fingers were long, tapered, the nails immaculately manicured and covered with clear polish. He sat at the makeshift desk under a powerful lamp, working with a straight razor, his hands covered with membrane–thin surgeon's gloves.

"Got it," he finally said, carefully applying a last drop of paste to the back of a piece of newsprint.

Cross laid the artwork out in long row, nodding his head. "You got the touch, brother," he said admiringly. "This'll do it."

17

McNamara stood in one corner of the boxing ring, wearing a loose pair of pants and no shirt, modified boxing gloves on his hands, with footguards that left the soles of his feet bare…kick–boxing gear. His handler dipped a black rubber mouthpiece in the bucket, started to place it in McNamara's mouth, but the cop shook it off, took one step forward, shaking a fist.

"I'm warning you, Princess. You try and head–butt me this time, I'm gonna stop your goddamned heart!"

Princess stood in the other corner, devoid of makeup and earring, his grotesque torso rippling under a sheen of oil. He shrugged his shoulders in a "Who, me?" gesture, grinning, as Cross kneaded the back of his shoulders, waiting for the bell.

"Fucking fag," one of the watching spectators mumbled.

Buddha nudged the spectator with his shoulder. "Say what?"

"What's it to you?" the spectator challenged.

"That's my brother," Buddha said, an ugly grin on his pudgy

face.

"Fags can't fight," the spectator snarled, holding his ground.

"Never stopped me," Rhino squeaked, shoving his massive bulk against the spectator from the other side.

The spectator looked up at Rhino, then rapidly decided he had better things to do.

The bell rang. McNamara glided forward into a cat–stance, one leg pawing the air a foot or so off the ground. Princess stepped to him, firing a jet–stream left hook at the smaller man's midsection. McNamara spun inside the hook so his back was against Princess's chest, whipping an elbow at the bodybuilder's face. Princess locked McNamara's arm, holding him close. He leaned down, whispered urgently into the cop's ear, "Cross says he needs your RI. Tonight, at ten."

McNamara broke the hold, spun away gracefully. They sparred three full rounds, Princess never seeming to fully connect with any of his punches…McNamara landing blow after blow without apparent effect.

Cross wrapped a robe around his tired fighter as McNamara bowed to close the match.

18

McNamara was at his desk at ten when the call came in on his private line.

"Detective Bureau, McNamara."

"You know who this is," a muffled voice said. "Listen good–I'm not gonna say this again, okay?"

"Go," McNamara said, flicking on a cheap tape recorder he had connected to the phone.

"There's a guy who's gonna do a snatch. He's been stalking, waiting. This ain't no job for you, McNamara, I give you the dope, you better call the federales, okay? Now listen up…"

The voice went on for a couple of minutes, uninterrupted. Then the line went dead.

McNamara sat for a few minutes, staring at the cigarette–discolored acoustic tile ceiling of his cubicle. Then he stepped away from his desk and shouted down the hall. "Hey, Trikowski, you still got the number of the Secret Service?"

19

The next morning, McNamara was in the chambers of Judge Byron Blake, arguing his own case.

"Your Honor, I know this is an extraordinary application, but…"

Judge Blake was a large black man with an even larger head of graying curls. His intelligent eyes were a deep, rich chocolate, unwavering. "I know, I know….You have this Reliable Informant, right?"

"He's never been wrong before, Your Honor. And this gentleman–"

"Agent Cooper, Your Honor," the slim man with the blond crewcut introduced himself. "United States Secret Service. We realize this is a federal matter, and we're prepared to execute the warrant ourselves. But we asked Detective McNamara to make the application personally rather than rely on pieces of paper…as a matter of respect."

"I'll bet," the judge sighed. "Well, on the facts you've sworn to in this affidavit, detective, I don't see where I have much choice," he said, signing the papers on his desk with a flourish.

20

Wieskoft stepped out the door of his building, video camera in one hand. He walked past a brightly colored florist's van when he heard a voice yell "Hey you!" He turned to see what was going on and walked smack into a homeless man stumbling along, half drunk. He raised one hand to protect his camera when he felt a circle of steel close around the back of his neck. Wieskoft cried out in pain as the bum pushed the button on an aerosol can, discharging a mini–cloud of greenish gas into the dangling man's face.

Wieskoft woke up in the back of the van, bound, gagged and blindfolded. Terror drove him back into unconsciousness.

21

I

t was a long ride. If Wieskoft could have looked out the windows, he would have recognized the route.

They carried the terror–stiffened man inside. When the blindfold came off, he saw two things: three men, each wearing a red ski mask with a white pentagram symbol on the forehead, gloves on their hands…and that he was inside his remote rural cabin.

One of them pulled off the gag, a piece of duct tape. Wieskoft shrieked in pain. He knew nobody would hear–that had been part of his own plan.

"Your Lincoln is outside," one of the men told him. "Keys in the ignition. When we're done, you just drive yourself back home."

"Why did you–?"

"Shut up, weasel," another of the men said. "We're just soldiers, doing a job. What we promised, see, is that you wouldn't bother that girl anymore."

"What…girl?"

"You know what girl. Angel. Now there's two ways to do this, okay' One is we kill you and leave you here. That ain't no big thing…probably nobody'd even find the body for months. The other thing is, you disappear. Got it? Get in the wind. Get yourself gone. That way, we still get paid. What do you say?"

"I'll go! I'll go tonight!"

"Yeah, we kind of figured that. But, see, we got this problem. You know what our problem is, buddy? Our problem is…what's in it for us? See, we got paid, and we always keep our word. That's our stock–in–trade. Now we didn't promise to snuff you, but it is easier…you understand?"

"I have money!"

"Do you now? Okay, two questions. How much' And where is it?"

"It's mostly in mutual funds. I could–"

"There's the phone," the man told him. "And here's your list," another man said, handing Wieskoft a computer printout of all his financial holdings.

22

It was late afternoon by the time Wieskoft's Lincoln steamed up to the curb in front of his building. He slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the car and charged for the stairs. "Maybe there's still time…stop payment on the currency transfer orders, pack some bags, take Angel, get out of…"

"Freeze!" several voices yelled simultaneously. Wieskoft looked around, seeing only a river of handguns pointing at various parts of his body.

23

Let me get this straight," McNamara was saying. "We find a stalker's journal in your apartment, okay? Detailed plans for kidnapping and torturing a little girl. All kinds of equipment to do the job. Piles and piles of newspaper clippings about the President's daughter. Magazine articles, photographs…even her school records, the name of her cat…everything. We know you own this cabin out in the sticks. Nice of you to set the trip odometer before you made the last run…the round–trip mileage is just perfect. And pasted over every picture of this little girl, you got the word 'Angel' too. I'll bet when we search the cabin, we find her name all over that place too.

"And your story is you were kidnapped by a gang of devil–worshipers who made you clean out your bank accounts, is that it?"

"I…"

"You're a sick bastard, aren't you? Well, you're going down for this one. Down deep. Maybe if you get lucky, you'll end up playing cards with John Hinckley."

"You don't…understand," Wieskoft muttered. "I don't even know that girl. I never…"

"So who's this 'Angel,' then?" McNamara asked.

"I…I…"

"He's all yours," McNamara told the waiting feds.

Epilogue

"I can't believe it," Reba told Cross, sitting at her kitchen table." All this time, he was after the President's daughter…God!"

"His lawyer is pleading him NGI?"

"NGI?"

"Not Guilty by reason of Insanity. He's going with a public defender…looks like he's broke, too."

"Will he go to prison?"

"A mental hospital, most likely. But, those places, the thing is, they don't let you go until you admit what you did…so they can 'cure' you, right? This Wieskoft character, he keeps telling this crazy story…they're never gonna buy that one."

"I can't buy it myself."

"That's not what you bought," Cross said, holding out his hand.

Value Received

I waited for him in the warehouse, standing back in the shadows.

The midnight–blue Mercedes sedan purred through the open door. He climbed out, adjusted his shirt cuffs so they showed just past the sleeves of his suit coat, patted his hair. Tapped his fingers on the sleek fender.

I stepped out of the shadows.

"I see you're on time."

"Like I said."

"I don't have much time for this. I have a lot to do."

I didn't say anything. The phone in his car chirped. He nodded in its direction, making no move to answer.

"They think I'm already on my way to the Bahamas."

I watched his hands. Waiting.

"I have the money. Right here," tapping his breast pocket. "All in fifties, no sequential serial numbers."

I watched his eyes.

"I know the way you guys work. We have a deal. I'm paying good money for this. It's still a lot cheaper than a divorce, but I still expect value received."

I nodded.

"It has to happen before midnight tonight."

"It will."

"Make it happen slow, okay? I want that fucking little cunt

to hurt first."

"I don't do that."

"I'm paying you…"

"You're paying me for a body. You'll get a body. On time."

His face played with a sneer. "You're supposed to be the best. Like my car. Like my clothes. I pay for the best."

I watched him.

"You're a machine, right? A death machine. And you work for whoever pays you."

"Whoever pays me first."

Head Case

1

The woman was so impossibly beautiful it hurt to look at her. The old man did it anyway–it was his job.

"Nobody named Cross here, lady," he said, glancing up from behind the counter at the entrance to the basement poolroom.

"Is that right?" the woman challenged. "Then maybe I'll just play some pool."

"There's no tables available," the old man said.

The woman shot a glorious hip, her orange silk sheath rippling in appreciation. She swiveled on spike heels, taking in the scene behind her. Most of the room was in shadow, broken up by low–hanging shaded bulbs over the tables. Only a few of the bulbs were lit, and even those were shrouded in a thick haze of yellowing smoke.

"I see plenty of empties," she said, her voice fiat.

"Those ones are broken, lady."

"I guess I'll just wait, then," she said, walking away from the counter to an old–fashioned red–and–white Coke machine. She perched on a nearby stool, crossed her marriage–wrecker legs, and took out a cigarette.

A wooden match flared just past her cheek. She leaned forward, caught the light. She leaned back, took a deep drag, her breasts threatening the silk. She looked up at the man holding the match, veiling her eyes under butterfly lashes. His head was shaved, sitting on a thick, corded neck. The earring in his right ear was a long chain attached to a ball, like a convict's shackles. His upper body was grotesque: so outrageously ripped and heavily veined it looked artificial. The flesh sculpture was barely covered with a pale purple tank top.

"Thank you," the woman whispered, photographing his face with her turquoise eyes, recording the mascara and eyeliner, the thin coating of lip gloss.

"Can I help you with something?" the massive creature asked her.

'You're not femme," the woman said. It wasn't a question. "Why all the makeup?"

"It helps get me into fights," the man said.

The woman nodded like she'd just heard common sense. "I want to see Cross."

"Not here," the bodybuilder said, leaning forward as his voice dropped. The woman cocked her head, listening. Finally, she nodded.

The ivory balls seemed to click along with the rhythm of her hips as she walked out.

2

The woman on the street corner was all in black, a deeper, darker shade than the surrounding night. A big sedan slid to a stop–it was gunmetal gray with darkened windows, generic and anonymous. The front door opened and the bodybuilder stepped out, nodded to her, opened the back door like an usher. She climbed inside. The door closed behind her. Another door slammed, and the car was in motion.

"You wanted to talk to me?" A voice from the far recesses of the back seat.

"What I want to do is hire you," the woman said, aiming her voice at a pool of blackness.

"Tell me," the voice said, as the car turned a corner.

3

The top floor of the luxury apartment building looked more greenhouse than penthouse–the exterior walls were all glass. Past the glass, a railed balcony ran the length of the apartment, wide enough to accommodate a substantial outdoor garden. Three men sat in the living room, widely separated, on different points of a white horseshoe–shaped sofa. Another occupied a black leather lounger. The fifth man was standing, talking. A computer sat in one corner, its double–width screen a mass of paper–white emptiness. Against the windows, a matched pair of high–power telescopes on tripods, one fitted with a 35mm camera instead of a conventional eyepiece.

In the alley behind the building, a man carefully shaped a claylike substance around the edges of a door marked SERVICE ENTRANCE. When he was done, a string dangled from the lower edge of the substance.

Around the front of the building, a razor–thin black man walked soundlessly across the carpet runner toward the security guard on duty behind a marble–topped desk. The black man was wearing a Zorro hat and a calf–length black leather coat, black gloves on his pianist's hands. The security guard, a burly black man with a round, friendly face, looked up from the bank of video monitors behind him.

"Can I…?' But before he could finish his challenge, the intruder was two feet from his face, the gap bridged by a sawed–off shotgun.

"What's the haps, home?" the slim black man whispered, holding the scattergun as casually as a cigarette.

"Ace…"

"You remember me from the 'hood? Good. Let's you and me talk, okay?" The slim black man slid behind the front desk and sat down, slouching so that he was invisible from the front. "Just be calm, brother. Don't be reaching for the piece, okay? You know me, you know what I do. Good news is…it ain't you. Understand?"

"I got it."

"Here's the deal. Real simple. Lady's gonna come in. With another guy. You don't know her. You don't say nothing to her. Just watch the little TVs here, do your job, all right? Some time's gonna pass. You and me, we gonna pass it together, see? Talk about old times. When the lady leaves, I'll be right behind her. That's all she wrote. Nothing's gonna happen. Not to you, not to nobody. Unless you gotta be stupid. You gonna be stupid, brother?"

"No."

"Good. We got a contract. Now grab hold of this." The slim black man handed over a thick white envelope. "It was 303 today. Remember it, bro'…that's your lucky number from now on. You had a dime on it, straight up. With Spanish Phil's bank, South side, do or die. This here's your payoff, case anybody asks you where it come from. Six grand, ain't that sweet?"

"Sure is."

"Okay. Let's chill, now. Nothing more to do. Ain't gonna be no po–leece in this. No reports, no phone calls, no nothing. But listen up, homey: I got a contract of my own. Contract says you don't do nothing. You try it, I got to leave you here, right?"

"I'm not…"

"Right?"

"Right."

"Righteous. Now, which one of these little TV things covers the front door?"

4

The woman walked in, the bodybuilder at her side, carrying an attaché case. The man behind the desk didn't look up. They strolled leisurely over to the elevator bank, Their image didn't register on the TV screens, two of which were dark.

The couple got on the elevator. The man took out a small plastic box about the size of a cigarette pack. He pressed a button on the side of the box and a tiny red light glowed next to his finger.

The man in the alley was holding a similar transmitter. When his own red light blinked, he struck a match and held it to the string dangling from the door. There was a brief spark, then a flash followed by a muffled whoompf! as the door popped off its hinges, swinging free.

The man stepped through the door. As he did so, the shadow cast by an enormous dumpster moved with him. The shadow was human. Three hundred and fifty pounds of human, moving with a delicacy and grace that belied its bulk.

Both men huddled in the darkness. "Princess is inside with her now, Rhino. I figure we got a clean shot up on the service elevator. If they open the door, that'll mean I got in from the balcony. You roll in behind Princess. If the door doesn't open from the inside, it means I couldn't reach it like we planned. Let the woman ring the bell, then. The people inside, they'll probably crack the door on the chain. Just take it down, then come get me. Got it?"

"Yeah. If Princess don't jump the gun."

"He's not that stupid, Rhino."

"Yeah he is."

The two men boarded the Service Elevator, pushed the button marked 44. The car engaged smoothly, silently.

"Cross?"

"What?"

"You really think the broad's going through with it?" "We already got paid." Cross shrugged.

5

Inside the passenger car, Princess inserted a plastic card into a slot next to PH on the wall of the elevator. The letters lit up in recognition.

The service car stopped on 44. Both men got off. A seamless window was at the end of the corridor. Working quickly, Cross duct–taped the glass, working in an X pattern until it was completely covered. He stepped back. Rhino placed his gigantic hand against the glass, moving it delicately like he was feeling for a pulse. The tip of one finger was missing. The huge man nodded, then he slapped the fiat of his hand against the glass. Again and again. Cross peeled the duct tape toward him, pulling the glass along for the ride. He brushed away shards from the window sill and perched, facing Rhino, who held him around the waist.

Cross took a grappling hook from his coat. The hook was heavily taped except for the very tip, attached to a length of black Perlon climbing line.

"I think we got a shot," he said. "Ready?"

"Go," Rhino said.

Cross leaned completely out the window so his back was parallel to the ground below and heaved the grappling hook in an overhand motion. It caught. Cross pulled on it.

"That'll hold," he said. "I must have snagged it right."

Rhino took the line from Cross. "Let me see," he said, giving a mighty pull. "Yeah," he said.

Cross swung out the window, soles of his boots against the building, pulling himself toward the balcony. Rhino watched, looking up.

6

Cross levered himself over the balcony railing carefully, watching the activity inside. He crouched behind a potted tree, watching. The men were animated, focusing on their conversation. Cross slipped the black ski mask over his face, unslung the Uzi from inside his jumpsuit, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Then he quietly slid back the glass door to the balcony and stepped into the living room.

"One man screams, everybody dies!" he spat out, sweeping the Uzi in short, menacing circles.

The five men were frozen, mouths open.

"You!" Cross barked, pointing a black gloved finger at the chubby blond man closest to the front door. "Open the door! Now!"

The chubby man got up on shaky legs and did it.

The woman walked in. A sharp intake of breath from the dark–haired man who had been standing when Cross came in. Princess followed, his mask in place, a chrome .44 magnum in his fist. Then Rhino, also masked, turning sideways to get in the door. His hands were empty. He shut the door behind him, gently.

"Everybody on the couch," Cross said, gesturing with the Uzi. The men sat together, hunched, trembling. Cross pointed, and Rhino stepped behind the couch, looming over the seated figures. Princess stood to the left, his feet braced in a shooter's posture. Cross held his place on the right.

The woman stepped into the middle of the v. "You," she whispered, pointing a long, lacquered nail at the man who had been standing. "Look at me. You've been doing it for months–do it now." The man blanched.

Cross nodded at Rhino. The huge man walked out from behind the couch to the other side of the room. He picked up a marble coffee table like it was a book, carried it to a place in front of the couch. Then he picked up a straight–backed chair in each hand, fussily arranged them so that one was on either side of the coffee table. He took his place behind the couch again. The woman took one of the chairs. "Sit," she said to the dark–haired man, pointing at the other. He did.

The woman nodded at Cross.

"Here it is," Cross told the men. "We got paid to do a job. The job is, you all sit quiet. The lady wants to play a game. We got paid to make sure she gets to play it. We were going to kill you, we wouldn't be wearing the masks. You let the lady play her game, then we all leave. That's it. No violence, no robbery. You do something real wrong, you're going to get dead."

The woman took a deep, harsh breath. It was the only sound in the room.

"So this is the Stalkers' Club," she said. "How long have you been doing it?"

Nobody answered.

"Take the one on the end and break his arm," Cross said to Rhino.

"Two years." the one on the end squeaked. "Two years, this June."

"Don't you talk again," the woman said. "You"–pointing at the dark–haired man–"you do all the talking, understand?"

"Yes," the man said.

"You take pictures?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Video too?"

"Yes."

"You use the computers? Get information from the data banks on the women you stalk?"

"Yes."

"It's all in fun, right?"

"It is. We never…"

"You're a rapist, aren't you?"

"No!"

"You have me, don't you? All of you? Captured on your dirty little pictures. It's no fun after a while…unless they know, yes? I could feel you on me after a while. You like that, don't you?"

"It doesn't hurt…"

"Yes it does. And you know it. And you like it."

"I never…"

"Sex, it's all in the mind, isn't it? You have me in your minds."

"No!"

"Yes. I can prove it. Here's the game we're going to play. I bet I can make you come. In ten minutes. Without touching you. Just touching your mind. I'll bet a hundred thousand dollars I can do that. You want to bet?"

"What if I don't?" A trace of sulkiness in his reedy voice.

"Then these men take off their masks, understand?"

"Yes."

"You want to bet?"

"Yes."

The woman nodded at Princess. He walked over to the coffee table, opened the attaché case. It was full of money, banded bills, clean and new. He carefully stacked the cash on a corner of the table, stepped back.

"There's my stake. One hundred thousand. You ready to play?"

"I don't have that kind of money…."

"You want to put up something else' Like your right hand–the one you use on me when you're alone with your dirty pictures?"

"Are you crazy! I won't…"

"Stop lying," the woman said. "I don't have time. You have a safe here. Go and get it."

The dark–haired man got to his feet. Cross stepped next to him, the Uzi between them. They left the room.

They were back in two minutes. Cross dropped a double handful of wealth on the coffee table. Unmounted jewels, cash, gold coins, bearer certificates.

"There's more than a hundred…" the man said.

"Shut up, liar. What's there is what you're playing for. You ready?"

Princess shifted his weight. "Yes," the man said.

The woman stood up. Took off her coat. Under it she wore black fishnet stockings anchored by thick bands around the top of each perfect thigh. Her long legs ended in black spike heels. She turned slowly. A black silk thong divided her buttocks. She was nude from the waist up. The woman turned again, one full turn. Then she sat down on the straight–backed chair, nodded to Princess again. The bodybuilder holstered his huge pistol, took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket, and cuffed the woman's hands behind her. Then he wrapped a pair of thin black leather straps across her chest, separating her breasts bandolier style. He pulled the straps under the chair and around her thighs, securing her in place. Princess knelt, quickly wrapping two more straps around the woman's ankles. She squirmed against the bonds, unable to move.

"Ten minutes," the woman said. "Start counting."

Princess held another leather strap. The woman licked her lips, opened her mouth. Princess fitted the gag, tied it at the back of her head. The woman's eyes bored into the man facing her. Then Princess fitted the black blindfold in place.

Breathing was the only sound. The woman writhed under the bonds, an oily sheen popping out across her ivory–cream skin.