Quinn heard a second gasp when he was mid stairway, followed by another torrent of German curses. He hit the top step at an all-out run.
The upstairs was comprised of a one large open room with what looked like a small bathroom off the far back corner. Two large timber support columns ran up to wooden ceiling beams in the middle of the twenty-by-twenty room. A bald Chinese man with his shirtsleeves rolled up over brawny forearms stood over Belvan Virk beside the column to Quinn’s left. The muscular Sikh slumped in a chair, chin to chest, his bare feet and hands tied in place with thick cords. His face was a swollen mass of blood and bruises, but he managed a crooked smile when he looked up to see Quinn.
At the other end of the room, at the foot of a tidy double bed, Gabrielle Deuben was also tied to a chair. A tall man stood over her while two henchmen wearing jogging suits slouched on the foot of the bed, as if waiting for orders. Deuben wore only a thin cotton gown that had ripped in some earlier struggle and now hung well off a pale shoulder, exposing more than it covered. Deuben was far from being the sort to slump in defeat, but the tendons in her neck strained like knotted ropes as she arched her back and fought the ropes that held her in place. The Mongol’s men had not been gentle when they’d tied her up and her hands and bare feet were purple from loss of circulation. Spittle dripped from her lips.
Deuben’s face fell slack when she saw Virk’s change in demeanor, but a smile of her own spread over her face when she followed the Sikh’s gaze. Catching Quinn’s eye, she shot a quick look at the tall man looming over her, as if to let him know this was the one behind her present troubles. This had to be Grigor The Mongol.
He was more thickly built than the others in his crew, and there was a natural curl to his head of shaggy black hair. His brows grew wild and bushy over deep-set eyes. An expensive leather vest covered a tailored white dress shirt, complete with gold cuff links. The shirt was unbuttoned halfway down the front, exposing a dozen gold chains draped across his hairless chest. He clutched a heavy riding crop of braided rawhide in a gloved hand. Far from a simple quirt or whip, the rough leather resembled a short version of a South African hippo or rhino skin sjambok, capable of flaying skin or worse.
It was easy to see how such a man might intimidate a more timid sort into doing business with his “black hotel.” Full of his own perceived power, he misjudged the situation completely when he saw Quinn.
None of his men appeared to have a gun, but Quinn knew from hard experience how quickly a weapon could materialize.
Thibodaux had never really stopped moving when he reached the top of the stairs. He chose the man sweating over Virk as the object of his fury. A deep growl grew in the big Cajun as he plowed into the much smaller man. Lifting him high over his head by the belt and scruff of the neck he slammed the man into the floorboards like a bug against a windshield. A boot to the ear kept him there.
The two goons who had been sitting on the bed sprang to their feet and bore down on Quinn at a run. He sidestepped the leader like a matador, dropping to a crouch as the second man ran into him, intent on a tackle. The point of Quinn’s shoulder caught the man low in the belly, driving the wind from his lungs. Quinn twisted slightly, matching the man’s momentum while springing upward at the same time, pushing with his legs. Upended, Quinn’s would-be attacker flipped face-first into the wooden floor with a sickening thud. Quinn booted him hard in the ribs to keep him down.
The man who’d run past decided to keep going, yelling over his shoulder at his boss that he was going for help.
“Don’t let him get away!” Quinn snapped, but Jacques was already sprinting toward the stairs.
Seeing one man abandon him and two more reduced to crumpled heaps on the floor, The Mongol turned to face Quinn. His mouth twisted into an unnatural twitchy half smile — he was a cruel man, now terrified for his own safety. He held the rawhide swagger stick like a sword above Deuben’s head. “I will break her neck before you could reach me,” he said.
“Shăzi!” Quinn spoke in rapid-fire Chinese. “Idiot! Do you have any idea who this woman’s friends are? You are fortunate that you have not truly harmed her. As circumstances stand now I will be able to take my boss one of your ears — to let him know you heard his message.”
“My ear?” The twitch in Grigor’s smirk boiled over into his right eye. “What are you talking about?”
Quinn stepped sideways toward the heavy timber support column nearest the bed. Grigor was forced to turn with him to keep him in sight.
Quinn yawned as if he was fatigued at the mundane nature of the fight. “If you had hurt her,” he said, “I would have been forced to return to my boss with your head. But taking heads is such an ugly business, best left to thuggish brutes.”
“You are bluffing.” The eye twitch grew into something that looked like full-blown apoplexy.
A muffled cry rose up from the stairwell when Jacques caught the fleeing member of The Mongol’s crew. Quinn shrugged. “No help on the way, Grigor.”
“You are dead,” The Mongol whispered, his voice growling louder with every word. “Dead. Do you hear me? I will have you killed before you can flee the city.”
Quinn looked at his fingernails, feigning boredom again. “I doubt your men will trust a leader with no ears.”
Grigor’s eyebrows shot upward. “You said one ear!”
“I did,” Quinn goaded. “But you appear to be hard of hearing—”
Mentally undone, the gangster loosed a low growl. Rushing forward, he swung blindly with the leather crop.
His back to the column, Quinn had already decided to use the heavy timber as a weapon. With the end state of the fight already in his mind, it was a fairly simple matter to get from A to B with a man like Grigor who bullied his way through life on little more than bluster, bruised women, and brawn.
Quinn stepped inward, closing the distance to catch The Mongol’s arm high at the shoulder, robbing his swing of power. At the same moment, Quinn pivoted, bringing the point of his elbow across the other man’s jaw, cracking teeth and opening a two-inch gash in his cheek. Reversing directions, Quinn let his arm snake up and over the back of a staggered Grigor’s neck, trapping the man under his armpit. Using his opponent’s momentum against him, Quinn yanked backwards, slamming the top of Grigor’s skull into the heavy column. There was a good chance such a blow would kill the man, but Quinn didn’t have time to care. He felt Grigor go slack in his arm and let him fall.
Kicking the swagger stick out of reach, Quinn did a quick pat down to make certain there were no hidden pistols. Satisfied Grigor and the other two men posed no immediate threat, Quinn moved to check on Deuben.
She looked up at him with blinking wide gray eyes, her mouth agape. “Do you ever lose a fight?”
“Every time,” Quinn said, rolling his shoulder and feeling the cartilage pop a little more than it had just a few moments before.
“See to Belvan first,” Deuben said, her voice frayed from screaming threats at her tormentors.
Quinn drew a wicked, fat little blade called a Riot from his belt sheath and cut her loose first anyway. “He needs a doctor.”
“I am fine, little brother,” the big Sikh said, his words thick with Punjabi enunciation, despite his swollen face. He dabbed at a bloody lip once Quinn cut him loose as well. “Lucky for them you happened along when you did. I believe that one was about to injure his hand on the bones of my face.”