Last Hope, Page 2

  “There’ll be more,” Garcia says.

  I nod. There will be many more because what is being sold are secrets. Secrets big enough that the government felt compelled to kidnap and hold hostage one of my own instead of offering money.

  Would we have taken the mission if there was only money on the other end? Probably. The mercenary jobs my men and I carry out are lucrative but not to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars. That’s what Duval’s auction will command. It would take us ten years of killing high-priced targets to be able to play in Duval’s pool.

  “Ava has a visitor!” Bennito calls out.

  We all rush to the monitor bank. The left one shows her rising from her bed. She is nearly fully clothed. About the only thing she doesn’t wear to bed are her shoes. Sometimes during the day she will wear a belt and before bed will remove it.

  She slips on her shoes—another sign of her intelligence. She won’t be caught barefoot by a surprise guest. The door opens to reveal Fouquet. He speaks rapidly, backing her into the room and then slamming the door shut behind him. He has a hand around her wrist. Ava shakes her head and gestures at the ever-present purse. Fouquet raises a hand and Ava flinches back.

  A low rumble sounds in my throat and I’m halfway to the door when Garcia grabs me. “Don’t do it.”

  “I’m not going to stand here and watch her get beat by that fuckstick Fouquet,” I growl.

  “And if you go busting over there, then what? What happens to the auction? What happens to Davidson?”

  Over Garcia’s shoulder I see the men all standing and watching. Bennito looks frightened and Norse and Rodrigo resigned as if they knew the life that they were building was too good to be true for men like them. Killers. Forgotten. The refuse of humanity.

  I wipe a hand down my face. Responsibility for them all weighs heavily but it’s a burden I gladly carry. This is my family now. These men would die for me and I’m not going to put them in harm’s way for a woman—not even one as smart, clever, and beautiful as Ava Samson. Because really, what would be the use? My fantasies about Ava are just that—fantasies. No woman would touch me. No woman would have me. Especially not one as fine as her.

  And even if she did, I’d have to turn her away.

  I give Garcia an abrupt nod and turn away from the door.

  “Update?” I ask Bennito.

  “Yeah, um, Fouquet left. He didn’t hit her . . . hard. It was more like a love tap.” He tries to smile but it fades quickly when none of us laugh. No one here is on board with a woman getting struck—ever. “Okay, yeah he hit her like a fucking asshole and she’s in the kitchen putting ice on it.”

  He slumps into his chair. The tension is high in the room as Fouquet is still present. I imagine he was telling her that the sale was going to happen and what her next tasks are.

  “We need sound,” I say for the hundredth time. Ordinarily we’d get sound but there’s a low constant hum that interferes with any vocal noise. Duval has something inside the hotel room that blocks any radio frequency collectors. “Norse, you and Bennito keep track of the bids. Rodrigo and Garcia, I want you to start tailing Fouquet. He’s fresh from a two-year prison sentence. No doubt he’s fucking his way across Lima. Since he hasn’t raped Ava yet, we can only presume that his brother is keeping him away for some reason.”

  “What will you be doing?” Garcia asks.

  By his grim, unhappy tone, it’s clear he already knows but for the benefit of everyone else in the room, I answer. “I’m going to find out what’s in that bag of hers.”

  He follows me out into the hallway. “You like her.”

  “She’s beautiful. Who wouldn’t like her?” I walk down the hallway, the dingy wall sconces leaving deep shadows on the purple and green carpet. Garcia follows.

  “It is more than that.” His dark gaze is searching. I tug my ball cap lower, unwilling to confirm his suspicions. “You think she’s brave, loyal.”

  “And?” My tone is impatient, signaling he should move off this topic.

  “Just remember why we are here,” he cautions. We stop at the elevator bank and I press the down button.

  “I haven’t forgotten.” Are any of the four elevators going to stop on this floor? I jab the button again. Huffing out a sigh, I respond because Garcia and I go way back and he doesn’t deserve a shitty rebuff. “How many people would put themselves in danger for someone else? Even someone that they love? Not everyone. Most people in Ava’s situation would get the hell out of Dodge and never look back.”

  “Most people are smart,” he counters. “Fight or flight, most people are choosing the flight option. Those who run today, live to fight again.”

  “But not Ava,” I say quietly. The doors to an elevator slide open. I step in but turn around to face one of my oldest friends. “I know I’m cursed, but shit man, so long as I don’t touch, who the hell is going to blame me for looking?” I give him a crooked smile and as the doors slide shut, I see a reluctant grin break out in return. I don’t have any plans to lay my hands on Ava Samson but damn if I’m not going to try to get close enough to see her smile at me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AVA

  Lima. The city of contrasts. Golf courses in the middle of the city and businessmen surfing before breakfast.

  For me? It’s a crapfest city of jerks that like to hit and threaten women.

  I rub my jaw, still feeling the sting of the slap. It’s not the first hit I’ve gotten from one of Duval’s men, and it won’t be the last. I want to fight back. I want to take the small plastic knives in the kitchenette of the hotel room, sharpen one into a shiv, and stab the bastard the next time he touches me.

  I won’t, of course. But I entertain the thought all the same.

  The Louis Vuitton purse on the bed taunts me. It’s a really nice purse. Leather, with the brown and gold monogrammed LV logo. I’d have loved to own one, once upon a time. This one was gifted to me, and I wish it wasn’t here.

  Because what’s inside it is incredibly dangerous. I have to take it everywhere with me. It’s in the bathroom when I shower. It goes with me when I go down the street for snacks. I can’t let it out of my sight, or Rose is dead. That’s been hammered into my head over and over again—I must not let the purse out of my sight, or my friend is dead.

  Like I’m not already scared out of my mind.

  I clutch the purse against my breast and move to one of the windows of the hotel room. I don’t open the blinds. For all I know, Duval’s got someone watching me out there, and I hate that thought. I do lift one slat with my index finger, just enough to glimpse at the world outside.

  People walk the streets, laughing and smiling. I can see their faces even from my vantage point three floors up in the Inka Frog hotel. I see small cars squeezing past the narrow streets, and bicycles weaving between them. I see others shopping down the Calle Enrique Palacios, pausing by the vendor carts that scatter the street. There’s a beat-up taxi pulling up to the curb. It’s all very normal.

  So idyllic. So incredibly misleading.

  Maybe a month ago I’d have seen people clutching drinks and chatting on street corners. Moms herding children. Harmless people. Now? I see people lingering, watching passersby. I see men with jackets that could conceal guns. I see too many places that could hide someone waiting to kill me.

  Sometimes I think my best friend Rose is the lucky one. She’s the reason I’m so mired in this mess.

  Rose and I have been friends since childhood. It’s Rose that’s been at my side since I was a young grade-school misfit. It’s Rose that suggested I come to New York with her when I graduated from high school and didn’t know what to do with myself. It’s Rose that got me work when we both arrived in the city, fresh-faced and eager. She’s a regular model; I’m a hand model because my mismatched eyes are pronounced “too weird” and my face isn’t quite pretty enough even with contacts in. Rose is stunning, of course. Tall, thin, willowy, she’s perfect.

  She has shit taste
in men, though.

  She’s been dating some dangerous French guy called Louis Duval for the last few weeks. Every time I went home, he was there, and I don’t like the look in his eyes. Rose always laughed at my worries and said that he’s harmless for girls like us. There’s that whole implication that he’s not harmless to other people, and I should have said something about it.

  But I didn’t. I stuck my head in the sand and went on with my life. And that, it turns out, was a lie. All of Louis Duval’s words were lies.

  Being a hand (and occasionally foot) model is all about hustling and taking small and strange jobs as they come in. Can I hold this banana for six hours while someone does a time-lapse photo shoot? Sure. Can I get a pedicure on camera for an instructional video? Sure. It’s bizarre work but it’s interesting, and it pays the bills. Rose does traditional modeling—runway, print work, you name it. She parties with high-end people and lives a faster lifestyle than me.

  I just hold a banana for six hours and try not to twitch.

  The truth is I’m in this gig because of Rose. It’s not like banana holding was my dream career. I do it because it pays money and Rose lines up jobs for me with ease. Rose is always there to make stuff easier for me, and I do my part to make life easier for her. Since I’m not a runway model, I’m the unofficial “den mother” to all these models who are, for the most part, focused on their next job and forget to eat (although that may be on purpose), sleep, and live on cigarettes and rice cakes. Someone needs to buy them tampons, keep track of their schedules, and make sure the apartment’s stocked up on coffee and salad.

  I enjoy doing that—almost more than I enjoy holding a piece of fruit or rubbing lotion on my hands for five hours.

  So Rose and I, we’re a matched set, friends despite our differences. Polar opposites, yes, but we get along great. Always have, always will. It doesn’t matter that Rose is glamorous and I’m a shut-in. We work, we go to clubs together, we share shoes, accessories, and nail polish. We’re closer than sisters. Closer than family.

  A week ago, though, Rose’s lifestyle caught up with her. I came home to find that Rose wasn’t in the apartment. In fact, she wasn’t anywhere. Her boyfriend Duval was waiting for me, and he’d taken Rose away.

  Turns out he’s not a businessman, or at least not a legitimate one, because what legitimate businessman makes a girl courier information? His smooth-talking ways are a lie, and he’s a drug runner who’s hit a rough patch . . . and he needs help.

  Because this time? He’s not running drugs, and it seems he’s in way over his head.

  This is where I come in, he tells me.

  My task unfolds. I’m to arrive in Lima at a small, unassuming hotel in the Miraflores District. There, I’m going to meet men. Several men.

  My job? Well, I’m going to be a hand model of sorts. I’m going to Vanna White it up around the city. I’ll be given a purse full of information that I’m to show the buyers. I’m to chat with them and show them samples of the goods that Duval has for sale. We’re going to meet in coffee shops and have a drink like it’s no big deal, and then I’m going to walk away, head back to my hotel, and wait for the next buyer.

  Once the sale is completed, Rose will be released. We’ll be free.

  And if I don’t do what he says, he’s going to kill Rose.

  I don’t believe him at first. Who would? He’s bluffing. Rose is his girlfriend. He wouldn’t hurt her.

  He must have anticipated my disbelief, because he holds his phone out to me. Puzzled, I take it and swipe my finger over the screen, unlocking it. A photo of Rose, bound and gagged and blindfolded and tied to a bed meets my gaze. I swipe over, horrified, and there are more pictures of her. Her body’s covered in bruises, her hands cuffed behind her back.

  “She thinks it’s love play,” he murmurs. “It can change so quickly. You should ask my last girlfriend.”

  And he nods at the phone again.

  A sick roiling in my stomach, I go to the photo albums. I notice the one with Rose is flagged as “yesterday,” which makes me sick. Yesterday, I was holding a shoe for a photo shoot and Rose didn’t come home. I’d thought she was out partying with some of her runway companions after her last shoot.

  I’m a horrible friend.

  In a photo album from last month, there are pictures of another girl. Bound. Gagged. Pretty and blond, like Rose.

  Then, there are more pictures . . . of her death. Of her sucking on the barrel of a gun and licking a knife. Then, of men doing things to her with the weapons. I suck in a breath, fighting the urge to vomit, and hand the phone back.

  I don’t want to see any more.

  “What do you need me to do?” I tell him, and I’m in. Just like that.

  He tells me not to worry. That if we’re both “good girls,” we’ll be set free.

  It’s bullshit.

  I know it’s all bullshit and they’re probably going to kill both of us, but I don’t have options. No one will tell me where Rose is. Louis has her and he won’t release her until he’s sold that information.

  It doesn’t matter that Rose has been dating him for the last month. It’s just business, he says. He’d hate to do something to her, so I’d better keep in line and do as he asks.

  I do ask why me. I don’t know anything about information smuggling, or Lima, or heck, I don’t even know Louis Duval that well.

  That’s precisely why he wants me handling it. I alone can be trusted because I have sufficient incentive to keep me in line.

  So off I go to Lima, to meet up with a man who might or might not be named Fouquet.

  I contemplate going to the police, but I feel trapped. I can tell them that Rose has been dating a guy who is French (except not) named Duval (except probably not) and that she’s missing. And by the time someone does something, I’m afraid my trusting, reckless friend will be long dead.

  Because I think of the girl in the pictures, the one licking the knife that was later used on her. Did she have a friend that failed?

  I won’t fail Rose. I can’t. And it keeps me in line. It stops me from going to the police, from screaming for help at the airport as I fly from New York City to Lima.

  Once in Lima, I get a room at the hotel that Duval directed me to. They’re expecting me and have a second-floor room reserved under the name Lucy Wessex. Once I check in, I find someone else has a keycard for Lucy Wessex’s hotel room.

  It’s Fouquet.

  I hate the man. He’s vulgar and filthy and thinks I’m there in Lima as his plaything. Or at least, he did until he got a good look at my mismatched eyes without my contacts. Then, he changed. Now, I’m a demon, a succubus here to steal his soul.

  Whatever, dude. I just want my friend back.

  Me being a succubus doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole, though. He still tries to squeeze my tits and feel my ass, telling me that it’s because I’m a succubus and I’m luring him. And when I make it clear I’m not interested in the tit squeezes he keeps trying to give me, he turns to slapping. I’m a hand model, so what’s my face matter, right?

  Fouquet’s the one that shows up with the details of my first job and gives me the handbag, along with instructions to never, ever lose it. Whatever Duval is selling isn’t in the purse, of course. Instead, I have folders of information. On each day, I’m to go to a random location in Lima with my purse, meet a man who will tell me a color. I pull out that color folder and hand it over. I wait while they read it and then hand it back to me.

  Then, I turn around and walk back to my room and wait for further instructions.

  So far, two days have passed. I have five folders. I have met yellow and green, both men with cold, dead eyes. Red, blue, and black are still waiting.

  If I do not do as Fouquet asks, I am told that Rose will die, and it won’t be quick or pretty.

  It’s not something I want to call a bluff on. I have to do this. I have to save her. So I’m the good little mule and never say a peep that I’m terrified or want out.r />
  I let the blind fall back down and gaze around the room. As has become my habit, I move to the lamps and run my hand along the underside of the shade. I brush my fingers over the phone, then under it. I unscrew the receiver and put it back together. I drag my fingers over the edges of every hard surface. I’m looking for bugs. Not the kind that crawl (I wish) but the kind that listen in on conversations.

  My room isn’t safe. I have no hope as long as they can hear everything I say. I have to find all the bugs.

  And then I have to find someone to help me. I don’t know how that’s possible, though, given I can trust no one.

  I have to do something, though. I know once this purse is gone and the information sold, I’m dead. I know once the sale has gone through, I’m no longer useful.

  I have three days—three colors—to think of something. Two, actually, because I need to go to a café and meet Red today in about an hour.

  With a small sigh, I tug my sleeve down over my newest bruises, check my hair in the mirror, and then I’m ready to go.

  Almost.

  I shut the bathroom door and glance at my watch. They won’t let me have a cell phone, so I have to have a way to check time and they gave me a cheap, tacky pink watch. I have an hour and the café is only five minutes away. I have time to burn. So much time. It’s driving me crazy, all this time.

  I lock the bathroom door and run my fingers all along the sink and under it, then check the lip of the tub and even in the faucets. I find a tiny listening device hidden under one of the faucets and smash it, then flush it down the toilet. When I don’t find any others, I suck in a breath and open the purse.

  I’m always a little wigged out at the thought of looking inside the purse. I don’t know why. I guess I’m afraid I’ll find something worse. Like nuclear missile codes or a murder weapon. Hell, I don’t know. I wouldn’t put anything past these guys.

  Fouquet always comes and checks the purse when he shows up, though. I don’t know why, but when he checked it again today, I started to get suspicious. Everything looks as it normally does, though. The five colorful folders are tucked into the center, dotted with sticky notes and tiny flags. A few loose flyers are inside, of local events and printed spreadsheets. Garbage information, all part of my cover. I even have an iPad with Wi-Fi disabled as part of my “businesswoman” shtick. There are lipsticks, pens, and a sanitary pad to make it look legit. I even have a few keys on a key chain, but they don’t belong to anything that I know of. I ignore all that shit. Something’s nagging me, and I think of the many bugs I’ve found in the room. I check the purse, pulling the folders out and setting them on the counter. Out go the papers, too. When the bag is empty, I run my fingers over the lining. I might just be paranoid.