Trapped in Bangkok, page 1
Trapped in Bangkok
By J. W. McKenna
Other books by J.W. McKenna:
Ellora’s Cave romance novels:
The Hunted with Jade Black
Darkest Hour
Slave Planet
Lord of Avalon
The Cameo
Wanted: Kept Woman
Naughty Girl
My Pet
Erotic Romance:
Out of Control 1 & 2 (anthologies)
Office Slave, Office Slave II: El Exposed
Stripped & Abused
Controlled!
Sold Into Slavery
Boarding School Slave
Tied & Branded
The Politician’s Wife
My Husband’s Daddy
My Wife’s Master
Torn Between Two Masters
Darkest Hour
Corruption of an Innocent Girl
The Sex Slave Protocols
Secretary’s Punishment
The Abduction of Isobelle
Starlet’s Fall
Joanna’s Surrender
Slave to the Firm
She Couldn’t Say No
Lara’s Submission
Remedial Sybian Training
Trailer Park Tramp
Her Personal Assistant
Kyla’s Basic Training
The Cheater
Training Bra
Two Girls in Trouble
Punish the Slaves
Landlord Ladies
Trained in Two Weeks
Nude in New Zombieville
Eighteeen & Desperate
The Tutor’s Dilemma
Be Careful What You Wish For: A Cuckold’s Story
The Advantages of Marrying a Cuckold
Black Neighbor, White Wife
Oh No, Mom – Not With My Best Friend!
Copyright 2003 & 2015, J.W. McKenna Publishing. All rights reserved. May not be reprinted without written permission from the author.
CHAPTER 1
BEN
Ben Hapgood sat at the bar, nursing a beer and ruminating on his life. He was happy to have his last assignment behind him, but less than a week later, he was getting the itch to tackle something new. Something different.
Ben was a freelance journalist, and a good one. He’d cut his teeth on dangerous assignments in his twenties and thirties, traveling to every hot spot he could to cover wars, scandals and crime. He’d worked for a succession of top-notch papers in the country.
Tall and athletic, with a shock of unruly brown hair, he even looked the part of the intense and driven foreign correspondent. He had his share of near misses and had been wounded twice, though neither time seriously.
In his forties, he grew weary of the danger – and office politics – and decided to try his hand at freelancing, covering only those stories that appealed to him. Thanks to his reputation, he soon had newspapers and magazines calling him with potential assignments, or, better yet, asking him if there was something he would be interested in writing for them. Carte blanche. It was a reporter’s wet dream.
Now older and wiser, he usually chose safer assignments – he told editors “he didn’t run quite as fast as he did when he was twenty-five.” But the urge to report on explosive topics never quite left him, especially now. His last assignment had been a yawner, done for a fashion magazine, of all things. He thought it would be fun to hang out with top models and report the “inside story” of a high-priced, fast-paced photographer. Unfortunately, Hans Berger turned out to be a difficult interview and nasty jerk, a real Nazi. He yelled at the models, his assistants, even hotel employees. Ben had hated him within an hour of meeting him. That he finished the piece only showed his professionalism in the face of difficult circumstances.
To rid himself of the memory of that last assignment, Ben came to the One Note Bar, a writer’s hangout not far from the office of the New York Times in midtown Manhattan. He hoped by spending some time with his peers, he could regain some of the dignity he’d lost by writing for Elle magazine.
What happened next he’d have to thank Bernie Swartz for. It had all been his idea.
Bernie, a freelancer like Ben, was among a crowd of half-gassed journalists sitting around a large table at the One Note. When they spotted Ben at the bar, they immediately called him over like a long-lost friend. Ben had been flattered. He knew many of the writers, by reputation as well as by sight. There was John Hardin, the writer for Newsday; Al Richter, an overweight copy editor for the New York Post; Richter’s pal, Roger Alder, a columnist for the Post; Steve Cellars, sportswriter for the Times – the only true hack in the bunch – and, of course, Bernie.
“Hey, if it isn’t God’s gift to supermodels!” Al Richter shouted over the din, waving Ben over. Ben grinned sheepishly. The edition hadn’t even come out yet and he was already getting razzed. Of course, you can’t keep any secrets from journalists. He knew he deserved it, so he strolled over to take his punishment like a man.
“How’dya hear about that?” he asked. “The damn story doesn’t hit print for a month!”
Al touched the side of his nose with a thick forefinger. “You can’t keep anything from the Post. You should know that, Ben.”
“Hey, I hear there’s an opening for a fashion writer at Cosmo,” cackled John Hardin, to laughter all around.
The ribbing was good-natured and Ben went along with it. To show he was a good sport, he bought the next round, telling them as they raised their glasses, “Don’t forget, these drinks are being paid for by Elle magazine!”
“So what’s up next for you, Ben? An exposé on women’s underwear?” Ben looked over at the drunken face of Steve, the sportswriter.
Not to be outdone, Ben kidded him right back. “This from the guy who was all over the assault on the Sausage Lady at Wrigley Field?”
The group erupted in derision, and Steve hung his head. He’d written a half dozen stories about how a ballplayer in jest had whacked a woman in a sausage costume, causing her to fall during a seventh inning race. From the moral outrage, you’d have thought the ballplayer had shot someone. “All right, all right! I shoulda known I’d never live that down.” He raised his glass. “I guess we’ve all got some stories we’re not proud of.”
“Yeah, but Ben here picks his own assignments, don’t ya?” John said with some envy in his voice. Then came the punchline: “So the question is, Ben, What were you thinkin’!”
After the laughter died down, Ben shook his head. “You got me there. It seemed like a good idea at the time, going to Cancun and chasing models around on the magazine’s dime.” He tipped his head. “I thought I might even get lucky.”
“Ohh! Another writer brought down by the mansnake!” Roger shouted, slapping the table for emphasis. “I shoulda known!”
“I’ll tell you this, my next assignment is going to be something completely different. I’d rather cover another war than women’s fashions again!” Ben raised his glass. “Here’s my pledge, Roger, the next time you see my byline, you’re actually going to want to read the damn story instead of just beating off to the pictures!” Everyone laughed again.
Bernie had been awfully quiet during the discussion. He looked up when Ben made his pledge, but he didn’t say anything. He sipped his beer and gave him a tight smile.
The party broke up after another hour and everyone began to stagger out. Ben, who had arrived late, still felt a little feisty and thought he’d have a nightcap at the bar before leaving. He was surprised when Bernie sidled up at his elbow.
“Hey, Bern, what’s going on? Aren’t you going home yet?”
“No, actually, I’d like to talk to you about something.”
“Yeah? What’s up?” Ben turned his attentions to the smaller man. Bernie reminded Ben of the Ratso Rizzo character in “Midnight Cowboy,” only healthier. He was small, with black fuzzy hair and intense eyes behind black-framed glasses. He was also a crackerjack writer. Ben sometimes shook his head in envy at his clever phrasings and made sure he told him about it. This might explain why Ben and Bernie had become friends, for otherwise Bernie was a bit of a loner.
Bernie looked at the bartender, polishing a glass a few feet away. “Can we go over a booth?” He tipped his head toward a deserted corner.
Now Ben was intrigued. He felt the thrill of the hunt. He took his glass and followed Bernie to a quiet table, far from prying ears.
They sat. Bernie seemed nervous. Of course, Bernie always seemed nervous, so that wasn’t unusual. Ben waited him out.
“I, um, I may have a story for you.”
“For me? Why not do it yourself?”
“Well, uh, you know, this isn’t quite my area. It could be, um, difficult...” He stopped. “No, the fact is, this one scares the hell out of me. But it’s one that I think should be done.”
“And you think I could do it?” Ben actually thought he could, for he knew the types of stories that Bernie covered. Bernie liked “quickies” – stories that could be covered in a weekend. Fly in, interview several people, take some pictures, fly home again. He’d write the story on the plane on the way home. None of the stories could be considered dangerous, unless you call covering the annual motorcycle rally in Sioux Falls dangerous, or writing about the best fly-fishing stream in Canada dangerous.
Bernie’s best talent, Ben knew, was research. So when he said he had a possible story, Ben was convinced, if nothing else, it would be well vetted.
“Yeah, I actually think you could,” he replied, leveling his g
Ben raised an eyebrow. Now he really wanted to hear what Bernie was onto. Yet he felt compelled to give his standard disclaimer. “You’ve got my attention, Bern, but you must know, I’m not the adrenaline-junky I once was. If you’re going to tell me you’ve got an Iraqi freedom fighter in Baghdad you want me to interview, I’m probably not interested.”
“Yeah, I figured as much. But after your last assignment, I thought you’d want something more … meaty to dig into.” Ben shrugged. “Yeah, that’s true. But I don’t want to get killed,
either.” He paused. “Why don’t you stop beating around the bush and just tell me what you’ve got?”
“Yeah, okay.” Bernie moved the beer bottle absently around in the ring on the table, watching it smear the condensation. “About three months ago, a friend of mine was traveling in Italy,” he began, and Ben knew better than to ask him to cut to the chase.
“He was on his honeymoon. He was walking with his new wife in the Plaza il Whatever and he spots this women he swears he knew from high school. She was walking alongside another woman behind this well-dressed businessman. Both women were dressed like call girls – you know, short skirts and tops. So he shouts, “Hey, Jill?” not really thinking, and the girl turns and looks at him blankly, then with a flash of recognition. Before my friend could say anything else, the man gets angry, tells him he’s mistaken, that she’s someone else and he and the other woman both hustle her away.”
Bernie stops moving the bottle and looks up. “So my friend lets her go. I mean, he wasn’t completely positive, although he was pretty damn sure. Plus, he had his wife there, and she might not appreciate him chasing after a good-looking classmate from eight years ago.”
Bernie paused and Ben just sat there. He felt there was a kicker coming.
“The thing is, Ben, the reason he shouted out like that, is that this girl he knew from high school vanished during her senior year, never to be heard from again. Everyone assumed she’d been killed and her body never found.”
Ben’s heart began to pound. “Maybe she ran away because of family problems,” he offered.
“Yeah, I thought of that. So I did some research. Turns out this Jill had a good family life, no problems. She was doing well in school, and planned to go to college. She’d just been accepted to Michigan State and was thrilled. You don’t vanish with all that in front of you.”
“Okay, so she was kidnapped and murdered by a serial killer. Happens all the time, unfortunately. That woman your friend saw wasn’t really her.”
“I know, I know. They say everyone has a double somewhere. But my friend says the look in her eyes gave her away. She recognized him, yet she had this haunted look in her eyes. He said that look will stay with him the rest of his life.”
Ben let the silence hang for a moment. “So what’s the story here? Are you suggesting that I go to Italy and try to find this girl again? That doesn’t sound like something I’d be interested in.” It sounded like a wild goose chase with little chance for a payoff.
Bernie shook his head. “No, you aren’t seeing the big picture. You said maybe Jill had been taken by a serial killer and she’s long dead and buried somewhere. That’s what everyone assumes. I checked it out. Every year, approximately five hundred young women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five are kidnapped by strangers in the U.S.”
The figure startled Ben. “That many?”
“Yes. It surprised me too. Of those, approximately two-thirds are found within a few days or weeks, usually dead, unfortunately. Some come back alive, like that Smart girl. That leaves about one hundred sixty women who just … vanish, never to be heard from again. About half of those are white.”
Ben had an inkling where Bernie was going. “So you think this Jill person was among those eighty who vanished, but didn’t die? That they’ve been taken out of the country somehow? But if that’s true, why didn’t Jill run into your friend’s arms or call for the police?”
“Because I think they’ve been … trained. Conditioned. Perhaps over several months or even years.” His eyes bored into Ben’s. “I think there are still people in this world who practice sex slavery – and they’re using Americans.”
CHAPTER 2
ALICE
Alice Johannson left the library with her friend, Becky Tanner, and together they began to walk toward the Ohio State dorms. Though it was only eight o’clock, darkness had already fallen on the crisp October night in Columbus.
Alice was a tall, blond, confident girl of nineteen. She’d lived a sheltered life before leaving home and was just now beginning to experience the eye-opening events that make up college life. She had attended her first frat party in September, and watched as drunken boys plied the girls with alcohol in order to get them to do things that they shouldn’t be doing. She’d been shocked and swore she’d never lose control like that.
Her friend, Becky, shorter and plainer, had dark brown hair she usually kept in a ponytail. She was bright, funny and witty and the two girls had quickly become friends.
“Are you going to the party Friday?” Becky asked her as they crossed the quad.
“No, I don’t think so. All those guys do is drink and try to get you drunk so they can fool around with you.”
“Well, don’t get drunk then.”
“Yeah, that’s what Wendy said before the party last week. I heard they posted pictures of her topless on the Internet!”
Becky made a face. “Wendy talks a good game, but she has no self-control. I can’t see you doing that.”
“Darn right.” She paused. “What about you, are you going?”
Becky sighed. “Yeah, I guess I am. I don’t have as much to worry about from the boys – they don’t pay much attention to the plain Janes.”
“Oh, stop! You’re very pretty, and what’s more important, you’re smarter than any boy here. You’re going to be a powerful woman some day, probably a judge or a D.A. Don’t let those Neanderthals get you down.”
They came to Becky’s dorm. “Thanks, Alice. I can always count on you to cheer me up. What do you say we go together and keep each other from harm? You never know – you might actually meet a nice guy there.”
Alice almost said, “At a frat party?” but wisely kept her mouth shut. Instead, she nodded and said, “Sure.” She didn’t really want to go, but she didn’t want to spend every Friday and Saturday night in the dorms, either.
Becky waved and told Alice she’d see her in chem lab the next day, then disappeared inside. Alice strolled on to her dorm, just a hundred yards away. As she neared the entrance, she noticed a middle-aged man standing under a street light, looking a bit lost. She ignored him and began to walk past when he called out to her.
“Um, miss? Excuse me?”
She turned. He had an honest, open face and he seemed to be in some difficulty. He seemed embarrassed to be bothering her.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Er, the dorm resident said I might find you out here.” He looked at a piece of paper in his hands. “Are you Alice Johannson?”
Alarmed, Alice told him she was. “What’s wrong? How do you know my name?”
“Oh, don’t worry – it’s not anything serious. I’m Bob Andrews, from Indianapolis? Well, I was here dropping off my son, he’s a freshman, you see, and I’m afraid I scraped the side of a car in the lot. I contacted campus police right away and they ran the plates and told me it was
your car. I am so sorry! I wondered if you’d like to check it out? The police are still there, I think. I need to exchange insurance information with you.”
Alice’s fears about this man vanished. That he would stick around after a fender-bender to make sure she got everything taken care of was quite nice of him. At the same time, she worried just how much damage had occurred. Though used, the car had been her father’s gift to her upon her high school graduation.
“Really? How badly is it damaged?”
“Oh, not much really. There’s a dent, some scraped paint. But I know how important a car is to you students and I wasn’t about to drive home without making it right! I just felt so awful!”
She followed him to the lot, which was immediately behind the dorms. He chatted about his son all the way. Alice didn’t recognize the name. Normally well lit, Alice noticed there seemed to be a light missing near where she’d parked her car. She looked around, but saw no officers.
