Ash Storm (Chimera Force Book 2), page 6
Afsan walked over to a sideboard and opened a small drawer. “Your devotion deserves a reward,” he said. When he turned around, there was a small jeweled gun in his hand. Thick Mustache barely had a chance to blink before the shot was fired.
Reka stared as a small hole appeared in the middle of Thick Mustache’s forehead. He fell down heavily, like a fallen tree. A thin strip of blood poured out of the hole and dripped down the side of his face.
Chloe gasped.
The English man chuckled lightly.
Afsan lowered the gun and rang a little bell. Within a matter of seconds, two attendants ran in.
“Clean this up,” he said, in the same irritated tone of voice another man might use after dropping a cup of tea on a fine rug.
Inside her head, Reka started screaming.
She stepped closer to Chloe, whose slight frame shook like a leaf.
“Fool,” Afsan said. “I spent all day yesterday smoothing things out with the police, reassuring them I had nothing to do with this. Apparently, your red-headed friend was kicking up quite a fuss.” He sighed, looking behind them at the remaining man, who stood with his arms crossed across his thick chest. “It would have been lovely to have all three of you, though.”
“I reached out to several contacts, Ahmed,” the Englishman said.
The Englishman’s use of the man’s first name struck her.
They’re friends.
“There were people asking questions at the US embassy at first, but they stopped shortly after. I think our police did their job and convinced them to look elsewhere. Their inquiries should be headed towards Bucharest.”
Reka’s heart dropped.
No.
Please, no.
Nobody would find them in Bucharest.
“Excellent. That’s excellent,” Afsan said. “You think it’s safe to keep them, then?” Again, there was no inflection in his voice. It was as if he were discussing a horse or a dog, rather than a human being.
“Nobody knows they’re here, Ahmed. You might as well enjoy them.”
Afsan sighed, his attention turning back to the women. “I should kill the two of you.”
He reached out to touch Chloe’s hair. Reka tensed. Before she could move, the Englishman stepped forward and pulled her arms painfully behind her back.
“Stand down, tiger,” he whispered in her ear. She could hear the smile in his voice.
Reka struggled until his grip tightened further, threatening to crush her wrists.
He could.
He could crush my bones.
She stopped struggling. The hold loosened slightly, until it was merely uncomfortable rather than painful.
“See? You are learning already,” the Englishman whispered, sounding satisfied.
“You like that one, Alistair?”
Alistair.
One more name for my list.
For if we survive.
No.
When we survive.
“They are both yours, Ahmed, to do with as you please,” Alistair replied smoothly, after an infinitesimally short pause.
They might be friends, but Afsan’s the one who calls the shots.
“I would like to set the two of them aside, like two ripe peaches. But this is a business and I have a responsibility to my customers. I cannot simply reserve the best fruits for myself.”
“You are very wise, Ahmed, as always.”
“Put them back with the others. And give them some food and water. I don’t wish for them to die onstage,” he said, moving back towards the large desk and effectively dismissing them.
Onstage?
Once again, Reka was glad there was nothing inside her stomach.
“Of course. It will be done,” the Englishman—Alistair—said. “Come on, girls. Don’t make me bring out the cattle prod.”
Afsan’s eyes shone with something like amusement. “One day, we’re going to need to talk about the cattle prod, Alistair. Such a crass device, when there are so many other ways to subdue a woman …”
Alistair shrugged. “The men like using it, Ahmed. This is something we can give them.”
Afsan stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps it is you who are wise, my friend.”
Reka shivered at the exchange between the two men. Instants later, Alistair pushed her and Chloe back out into the large hallway.
She looked left and right. Though she didn’t know where the closest exit was, something told her this might be her best chance at fighting back. Alistair was alone, and there were two of them.
That hope died as Junior turned the corner towards them. If he knew what had happened to Yusuf, he didn’t say anything.
Alistair’s warm breath fell close to her ear. “Come on, luv. Give me a reason to hurt you.”
Reka lowered her head and walked forward.
12
Ash
After his shower, Ash went back out to the courtyard. He sprawled on one of the heavy stone benches, pretending to look at the other fighters.
In reality, he was more interested in the guards walking around.
He was pretty sure all their clothes had been thoroughly searched while they were in the shower, but he wasn’t worried. He hadn’t been carrying anything of interest, just his fake passport and a few wrinkled notes.
A flurry of white caught his attention—a group of women being led single-file through one side of the courtyard, flanked by four guards.
Sixteen women.
His heart skipped a beat as he recognized Reka and Chloe near the back. Like the others, they were dressed in vaporous gowns with a plunging V-shaped neckline and long, semi-translucent skirts that opened up as they walked.
They all looked down at their feet, as if they’d been instructed not to raise their eyes.
“I wouldn’t stare at them like that, if I were you,” his new Turkish friend said. Ash hadn’t even seen him approach. Either he was losing his touch, or the fighter was stealthier than Ash had given him credit for.
“Why?” Ash asked, grinning. “I like women. I enjoy looking at them.”
“You’re looking at another’s man's property.”
“Property?” Ash asked, feigning ignorance.
“They belong to our host, Ahmet Afsan.”
“Shit.” Ash huffed. He struggled to look impressed rather than disgusted. “He owns them?”
“Let me tell you a secret. Impress our host tomorrow, and you might get to spend a few hours with one of them. Of course, whether you’re in any shape to do anything with her remains to be seen.” He smiled, showing lots of teeth. “Depends if you’ve had to fight me already.”
Ash ignored the jab. “You seem to know a lot about this place.”
The man’s smile died a little. “I fought last year. Got slammed hard on the head in my second fight. By the time I woke up, I was outside the gates with one of those fucking little coins in my pocket.”
“So you’re trying again. I like that. I’m also a get-up-and-try-again kind of guy,” Ash said, offering the man his hand. “Andrea Romano.”
“Gezi,” the man said, wrapping his enormous hand around Ash’s palm.
Ash nodded. He had no idea if that was a first or last name, but he wasn’t here to make friends.
He looked back at Reka and Chloe. They were both on their feet and walking, so that was good. When it came to it, he was going to need them to be able to run.
But he didn’t miss the way the blond woman’s shoulders slumped forward. He’d seen that before. She was close to her breaking point. Behind her, Reka’s shoulders and back were straight. She looked strong, for someone who’d been through what she had in the last few days, though her skin, which had shone like warm bronze in the pictures he’d seen of her, was now a dull shade.
“Do you know what they’re doing here?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Romano. Those women are no different from us. They’re part of the entertainment.”
“Some of them are looking rather peaked, actually. I’m not sure they’d last a round with the Roman Stallion, if you see what I mean,” Ash drawled. “But there’s a few I wouldn’t mind tasting.”
“Well, then, make sure you fight hard tomorrow, my friend,” Gezi said, clapping Ash hard on the back.
Ash took a last look at Reka before the line of women disappeared from view. It was torture to sit here and let her go.
You have no idea how hard I’m going to fight.
13
Reka
It would have been incredibly easy to feel grateful for the weak tea and the single bowl of rice they’d each been given.
Reka steeled herself against the feeling.
She was an expert on emotions management, and she wasn’t going to feel a moment of gratitude towards these monsters, who’d only given them the bare minimum amount to eat and drink to avoid them fainting before they were sold.
Sold.
She’d repeated the word so often inside her head, at times it stopped making sense. She’d heard of human trafficking as a concept, of course, but she came from a different world. A world where this kind of thing didn’t happen. And yet, there was no doubt in her mind anymore, that was exactly what awaited her and Chloe and the other fourteen women trapped in here with them. They were going to be put on stage and sold, like chattel.
Worse than chattel. They were going to be sold as slaves.
The water had helped Reka feel more like herself again. It’d fanned her anger, her hatred, and her desire to get away. Somehow—and she had no idea how—she was going to escape with Chloe.
She looked around her. It had to happen soon, because Chloe was fading fast. Already, it was becoming harder to engage her in conversation. It was as if a part of her had given up already.
And most of the women in the room were the same. Most of them stared down at their feet, or into the distance, their eyes unseeing. Reka wasn’t even sure how many of them spoke or understood English.
So far, only one of the women had spoken to her. It was the same tall woman who’d tried to comfort her when they were being cleaned. Her name was Anara, and she came from Azerbaijan. Her parents had taught her English and French, hoping it would lead to more opportunities for her. The entire family had saved up for two years to buy Anara a ticket to France. She’d been promised a job taking care of an older couple. Eventually, a passport, and then the chance to bring her family over with her. It was an opportunity they couldn’t pass up. Instead, Anara had ended up in this hell-hole, tortured by the knowledge that her family would never know what had happened to her.
“I’m sorry,” Reka said. And there was shame in her words, as well, because until a few days ago she’d lived in a different world. An easier world, where the biggest decision she’d ever had to make was which university to choose, or what subject to major in.
She’d never spared much of a thought for people going through what Anara had gone through, even before she’d been taken—and certainly not for human trafficking victims. It wasn’t that she hadn’t cared. It was that she’d never heard about the problem except in passing on the news, and never in enough detail to understand the true magnitude of the problem.
And it was clearly a big fucking problem.
There were sixteen women here right now, fourteen if she didn’t count herself and Chloe. After meeting Afsan, she realized she and Chloe were here by luck—bad luck, the worst luck. She spared a thought for Yusuf.
I hope he’s rotting in hell.
But, excluding the two of them, Reka assumed most of the other women had stories like Anara. And it was clear they weren’t the first or the last. This room. The guards. The way the old women had cleaned them up. Everyone was playing their part in a well-oiled process.
The previous night, while she’d lain there awake, Reka had promised herself two things: that she would get Chloe out of here, and that she would never, ever, turn her back on this problem again.
That morning, the toothless old women had come again, this time to do their hair in fanciful knots. They’d had trouble with Reka’s thick hair, in the end opting to oil the springy coils instead. They’d tied Chloe’s hair in a series of cascading bows, making her look like a Disney princess.
And though Reka knew neither the guards nor the old women were the ones to blame, but rather Afsan, she hated them as well, for being complicit in this.
A bird flew by outside the window, catching Reka’s attention.
At least this morning they’d been moved to a higher floor. They were still locked in, all together, and closely guarded by at least two armed men, but they could look outside and see the sky, the trees in the courtyard …
A group of men came out of the smaller building at the opposite end of the courtyard. They were a mismatched lot, not just because they differed in terms of age, size and appearance, but also because they didn’t even seem to know how to walk together.
One man in particular caught her attention. She’d noticed him the previous evening, as well, when she and the other women had been led outside, single-file, for a forced walk. He’d been sprawled on a seat, pretending not to look at her, but she’d felt his dark stare burn into her. For a moment, it’d been as if he could see straight into her heart. Then he’d looked away, and she’d realized she was kidding herself. He wasn’t her savior.
She looked at him now. He wasn’t the biggest man in the group, but he stood out because he looked … she sought in her mind for the right word.
Hard.
Intense.
A warrior.
She couldn’t help noticing the way the black T-shirt and worn jeans he was wearing seemed to cling to each and every one of this thick muscles. An awareness—of him as a male—zapped through her, catching her by surprise.
You’re losing your mind.
You cannot be attracted to him.
You’re just feeling … off … because of everything that’s going on.
That’s what it was. She forced herself to breathe, then looked back into the room. Chloe’s hair sparkled in the sunlight. The women must have put something on it.
“I like the style,” Reka said, looking to lighten the mood. “It suits you.”
Chloe’s eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t want to be bought,” she cried out, her voice really soft, so only Reka could hear. “They’ll separate us, Reka.”
“Shhh … We’re not going to let that happen,” Reka whispered back. She prayed she was telling the truth.
Her eyes were drawn back to the window, where her mystery man now had a knife in his hand. His body executed smooth thrusting and slashing movements against an invisible opponent. He moved with unexpected grace for someone so large.
“Those are the fighters,” Anara said.
“Fighters?”
“They will fight until only one remains standing.”
Her thoughts flew to the man in the black T-shirt.
That means he’s here voluntarily.
He’s one of them.
“How do you know all this, Anara?” she asked.
“I overheard the guards talking about it.” She shrugged and started pacing the room. Most of the girls did that. To stop from going crazy, Reka assumed.
She couldn’t help sneaking another look at the man outside. At that same exact moment, he looked up at their window. Their eyes met, and Reka felt the electric current that flowed between them. And though she knew it was crazy—knew this could only be the product of her overwrought, exhausted mind—it was a connection that would not be ignored.
He gave a brief nod, then turned away from her.
Reka staggered back.
Did he just nod at me?
Why?
An hour later, they got more lukewarm tea. Reka promised herself, if she got out of here, she’d never drink another cup of tea for as long as she lived.
14
Ash
His fist connected solidly with his opponent’s jaw at the point where the jaw connected to the ear.
The fool’s not even clenching his jaw.
Ash held on to the top of the Irishman’s hair with his other hand, stopping the man’s neck from turning. He wanted to disable the man, rather than to cause him permanent harm.
When the kinetic energy was spent, Ash released him. His opponent fell to the ground, howling. He scuttled away from Ash in a crab-like fashion, trying to escape the black mat that’d been set up for the fight.
Ash made no attempt to go after him. The man was going to be drinking through a straw and unable to yawn for a while, but a dislocated jaw was much easier to correct than a skull fracture.
The fight master ripped the bracelet around the man’s upper arm—in his case with the number four—and handed it to Ash.
Ash put the bracelet in his pocket and raised his arms, roaring his victory.
Around them, men laughed, seemingly entertained by the fight. The courtyard had been filling up steadily, even though Ash knew the fights competed as entertainment with the dancing, the drinking, and the riddles going on inside the main palace.
Afsan had gone all out to recreate the world of One Thousand and One Nights.
Unfortunately, he and the other fighters weren’t allowed in the main palace. If that was where the women were kept, he was going to have to find his way inside at some point.
He forced himself back to the business at hand.
One fight down.
Two to go.
As fights went, this one hadn’t been too strenuous. The Irishman had been strong, but uneducated in the ways of real close quarter combat fighting. Even though he could have easily ended the fight in the first thirty seconds, Ash had made it last a while, knowing the objective was to entertain the assholes watching.
Now that this fight was done, the audience moved to another mat, where his Turkish friend was fighting a stoic-looking Norseman.
Ash walked over to the bucket and dipped his cup inside, watching the fight with interest. The Norseman was a professional. He knew how to take a hit. But he was also a slugger—the kind of fighter always looking to land that one, brutal punch. And his opponent, in this case, was too fast and too skilled, simply not providing him with the opportunity. Soon, the Norseman was bleeding heavily out of one eye, his side vision shot. He now had to turn his head completely to see what was going on to his right.
