Hostile Witness (Sanctuary, Inc. #1)

Chapter 20

20

E than rubbed the temporary-hair-color gel into his crew cut and slicked it back with a comb. His usual light brown instantly turned almost black. It’d do. He lathered his face and proceeded to shave his beard and mustache. Easy come, easy go. They would grow back. Tonight, he couldn’t look like himself.

He was one of four men in the Sanctuary locker room transforming themselves into someone new. Crisp tuxedos hung in a neat row on a clothing rack above complementing wing tips. They’d used this chameleon smoke-and-mirrors routine many times before. At least tonight he didn’t need to endure a new nose affixed or contend with prosthetics in his mouth to change the shape of his jaw. This job required simple hair color, contacts, eyebrows, and a clean-shaven face. He was down with that.

Mac stepped to the center of the room already wearing his wino getup. Because Mac’s past included way too many glossies on magazine covers, he always dressed as a local drunk, nondescript and harmless. Few people knew he was the brains behind the Sanctuary missions and, when needed, the eyes behind the sniper rifle. Mac cleared his throat, and the room fell silent.

He held up a spray bottle. “Before I douse myself with this eau de garbáge, I want to go over the details one more time. Ethan and Gus are running point tonight as emissaries of a Russian mafia boss in search of new women for his entertainment. Derek’s manning the van and computers. He’ll take down the live feed in the club hallway and the loading dock. Beck and Mooney?”

They both raised a finger.

“You’re sitting at the bar and will clear the hallway of possible collateral damage when the plan goes down. Try not to look delicious, you two. We wasted a whole minute last time waiting for you to unwind yourselves from the ladies.” The locker room broke into catcalls and off-color jokes.

Mac slashed a hand, and the place quieted down. “Our mission this evening is to visit The Pink Owl, owned by one Pavel Romanov, entrepreneur and human trafficker. Mr. Romanov will be our guest until we locate his latest shipment of trafficked women. Our source says he introduces the ten p.m. male strip show every night. Our only occasion to nab him will be in the hallway to his private quarters after the intro. Two Serbian fighters serve as his bodyguards. Expect the unexpected.” He looked up from his notes. “We’re not playing nice. Sanctuary paid the money for five of Romanov’s captures a few hours ago. Our job is to find those women and make sure they get their lives back. We’ve practiced the logistics for this a dozen times. Our federal contact at The Pink Owl wants out. Gus and Ethan will make sure said contact is clean and extract her.” His eyes roved the crowd. “Any questions?”

The room remained silent. “Remember the rules of engagement tonight. No live bullets unless absolutely necessary. Let the Feds use their firepower if needed. You are all equipped with alternative protection. Ten minutes and we move out.”

Ethan touched the gel on his hair. It had dried. In the next few minutes, he put on his tux, taking care that the tie aligned perfectly. This evening, as emissary for a Russian mafia boss, he pretended to have enough purchasing power in his wallet to buy human lives. There wouldn’t be one relaxed feature on him. This mission was strictly business, ruthless, and all in Russian. Gus was a former Russian national who spoke with a perfect Moscow accent. Ethan had learned Russian in school, and on his best day, his American was still detectable. But he and Gus had carved deals in Russian many times before, tossing the negotiations back and forth, achieving the desired results.

He checked himself in the mirror and stared into the emotionless deep-brown eyes of a man far more ruthless than himself. Breathing deep, he tucked the private invitation to the club into his breast pocket. It was showtime.

They slipped into a gleaming black stretch limousine, wordless and focused. Each man peered through his tinted window as the calm green lushness of a suburb morphed into the strident, loud boasting of Philadelphia traffic and neon signs.

The double line of women seeking entrance to the club commenced three blocks before they pulled to a stop. Tickets for the ten o’clock show started at one hundred fifty dollars, while stage-front admission cost three hundred apiece. Their chauffeur parked at the front entrance and opened their door. Women of all ages started screaming, “The strippers are here.”

Gus slid out first and gave the ladies a polite nod. Ethan followed and flashed them his most killer smile. A bouncer efficiently checked their tickets and held the door for them. A second bouncer roughly removed a woman clinging to Ethan’s side and abruptly shut the door in her face.

They were in. He could only hope it would go as smoothly when they wanted out.

It could have been any other nightclub—except this was a front for human trafficking. The Pink Owl was a virtual sea of pub tables and leather chairs, with a large dance floor in the middle. Red velvet roping cordoned off the front VIP area and looming stage. The waitstaff were all men in bow ties. Part of the allure of this place was that a stripper could be any man in attendance, thus the scene at the front door when they’d exited their limo.

A ma?tre d’ greeted them in a posh marble-floored lobby laden with nude sculptures. After checking their invitations and recording their names, he summoned security. They were frisked and wanded. Ethan smiled inside—security couldn’t detect the full syringes in his hidden pocket and didn’t pick up his tiny earpiece.

A stunningly beautiful blonde attendant appeared from the shadows and led them to an opulent private lounge.

“May I fix you gentlemen a drink, yes?” Her Russian accent was warm and seductive.

Ethan gave her a curt nod while Gus monitored her every move from under heavy eyebrows.

“I suggest our smoothest Courvoisier, from Mr. Romanov’s home in Jarnac, France.”

Ethan dipped his chin. She’d spoken the first of three phrases required for them to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was the contact wanting out. “That will be fine.” He turned slowly. “Is your kitchen serving food?”

“Certainly, sir. A tidbit plate, perhaps?”

And there was the second code.

Gus cleared his throat. “I’m craving fine caviar.”

She smiled. “We have Bemka Crown.”

And that was the third. “Very well,” Gus agreed. The woman left the room to put in their order.

Ethan drummed his fingers on the shiny mahogany table. So she was the federal agent who’d been feeding them intel for the past three months and had positioned herself as Romanov’s supposed best girl? The woman had balls of steel, riding this assignment that long. Although she’d gotten one word wrong in the code, and that could cost her dearly later.

He glanced at the muted closed-circuit screen provided for their entertainment. While he couldn’t hear the music, a steady beat pulsed through the floor. A second monitor panned the bar and the dancing crowd. As per usual, Beck and Mooney had innocuously draped themselves in women at opposite ends of the bar. Ethan knew better than to think they were having fun. They were working.

The same server whisked through the door with their food and set it on the table. Neither he nor Gus had taken a sip of his drink. Likewise with the food. An accidental poisoning was out of the question tonight. Suffice it to say, they both swirled and stirred at proper intervals for anyone who might be watching them on the in-house security screens to think they were partaking.

The frenzied female crowd clapped thunderously on the monitor. Romanov strode onto the main stage with his arms wide open and his hips grinding in time to the music. He was quite the showman in his glittery formal wear. Enjoy it, man. Tonight would be the last time Romanov would wear a nice getup. As long as their mission was successful, the trendy orange of an inmate uniform would comprise his attire tomorrow.

“Gentlemen, would you like to watch the show from the hallway behind the stage? I can escort you,” their server said. Damn if her throaty Russian accent wasn’t a thing of beauty.

Ethan nodded as Mac assured them through their earpieces that the hallway cameras were down. With a gentle twist of his wrist and a shake, a syringe eased from the hidden pocket in the fold of his cuff into his palm. He relaxed a fraction knowing he was armed.

He and Gus followed the woman down the hallway. She was a temptress all right, with her swaying heart-shaped hips. Hmm... Tia has better legs though .

What the hell? He mercilessly fought off any thought of Tia as they rounded a corner to stage left and into the raised-eyebrow glare of Romanov’s bodyguards, who motioned for them to stop.

Ethan and Gus spread their arms for the frisking that ensued. The guard assigned to Ethan patted him down with extra concern at the dip of his trousers. When the beast grabbed his nuts, Ethan tapped the guy’s neck with the teeny syringe. “Enough. I’m here to conduct business with your boss, not to pleasure you.” He took a step back and straightened his lapel.

The bodyguard squinted his black eyes, aiming a thumb at his chest. “I say when I’m done.” The contents of the syringe took effect, and he crumpled to the floor with a thud.

Ethan dragged him behind a curtain and left him there.

Gus’s bouncer dropped to his knees and fell backward. “Damn, this new stuff is potent shit,” Gus noted as he slid the guy behind a row of scaffolding.

Mac chuckled in their ear. “You just gave them the best sleep they’ve had in years, gentlemen. It’s hypoallergenic and won’t interact with any medications. The loading-dock cameras are down.”

The houselights dimmed as a machine poured theatrical smoke across the stage. Romanov held up his arms. “And now, ladies, for your pleasure, allow me to introduce you to the men of The Pink Owl.”

Fire sirens swelled from the speakers, and screams of delight reverberated in the crowded venue. A popular hip-hop song started playing as Ethan peered around the curtain. Several waiters set their trays down, and a dozen strippers filed in from stage right wearing fireman coats. Pull-away cummerbunds, ties, and shirts flew through the air. Ethan snapped his attention back to Romanov, who was heading in their direction. Time to work.

Romanov waved his finger for them to follow him. He wheeled around in the hallway and shut the stage door. “You are here to negotiate, gentlemen?”

“The negotiations are done, Mr. Romanov. We agreed on the terms of sale yesterday. The money has been paid,” Gus retorted in Russian.

“I have received much finer merchandise today, but it will cost you. We’ll speak in my office.” Romanov headed down the hallway but slowed and turned as he shoved a hand into his pocket. His beady eyes searched their faces. “Where are Oleg and Boris?”

Conversation over. Ethan moved like lightning and struck a neck and wrist pressure point, bringing the man to his knees. Gus ripped a piece of duct tape from the inside of his tux and covered Romanov’s mouth, and Ethan zip-tied his wrists together. They each slid an arm under the guy’s shoulders and dragged him kicking and resisting through the exit where the van waited for them. They handed him over to Derek and Mac and went back inside to extract their server, the Feds’ confirmed contact.

Gus muttered, “She got one word wrong in the code.”

“I noticed. I’ll vet her one more time. Let’s try the office,” Ethan said.

As they rounded the corner, they came face-to-face with a bouncer holding their server at gunpoint. “You make one move, and I kill her. I found her rifling through the boss’s office and loading his personal things into her purse. She’s one of you, huh?”

Ethan and Gus glanced at each other. This kind of annoying snafu tossed a mission timeline out the window. Judging by a second glance down the hallway, they would only have to entertain the bouncer for maybe twenty seconds.

Gus rubbed his hands together and raised an eyebrow. “You’ll never get a chance to use that gun on her.”

“You doubt me? Take one step in this direction, and she’s gone.”

“Mr. Romanov is waiting. I suggest you hand her over.”

“Yeah, right. Looked to me like she’s a part of whatever’s going down here. Nobody takes Romanov’s phone and lives to tell about it.” A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his pockmarked face. “What’d you do to the boss? Where is he?” He jammed the nose of his gun into the girl’s temple.

“He’s waiting for us in the limo. We’re business partners.”

“I don’t believe you. I found Oleg passed out in the backstage area. He always accompanies the boss on outside deals.”

Gus held up his hands. “Not this time—our rules.”

Ethan smirked. “Hey, buddy. Do you have eyes in the back of your head?”

The guy frowned. “What? You cracking jokes now?”

Beck came up from behind and tapped a syringe into the bouncer’s neck as Mooney yanked the man’s hand upward and the gun clattered to the ground. The bouncer swung at them before sliding to the floor, clearly out of the conversation.

Gus zip-tied their server’s wrists and rushed her down the long hallway to the exit door. “I look forward to finding out who you are, beautiful. Your Russian is impeccable, but you missed a code word.”

Ethan grabbed the server’s purse and raised an eyebrow at Mooney and Beck. “You guys were right on time.”

“Lots of practice, dude.” Mooney glanced at his watch. “Nice job sweet-talking the goon while we walked up behind him.” He and Beck turned left into Romanov’s office.

Ethan flung open the loading-dock door. Mac and Derek had already loaded Romanov into the waiting limo. Gus handed the server to Mac. Mooney and Beck jogged down the hallway, their arms loaded with computers and hard drives. Ethan held the door for them as the erotic pulse of strip music reverberated behind them.

Beck and Mooney quickly filed into the van with Mac, shut the door, and sped off into the night.

Derek reactivated the cameras and the alarm they’d turned off. “Alarm system is active again” echoed in their earpieces.

Ethan and Gus slid into the limo, where Romanov and their server sat strapped to seats opposite each other with black sacks on their heads. The limo rolled smoothly into the night toward a prearranged rural location.