He turned in the direction of the house.
“I thought we were going to shoot on the beach, since I’m wearing a swim suit and all.”
He opened the patio door and ushered me inside. “Trust me, honey. This will be better.”
Inside he made for the staircase to the second floor.
I could guess what kind of pictures he was planning to take. A guess that was confirmed as we went deeper into the mansion. A long hallway opened at the top of the stairs, doors flanking both sides, most standing open. I peeked into the first, hearing moaning.
The lighting—a simple klieg on a tripod—was strictly amateur hour. And so was the talent. But what she lacked in professionalism she made up for with enthusiasm. I guessed this shoot could have been called, I Love Fruit, because that’s what the girl was doing.
“Now the Bartlett, babe,” the cameraman cooed as he snapped away. “And put the strawberry up to your lips. No, your other lips.”
The next door down was a video production of the more vanilla variety. Guy on girl, pretty standard stuff.
Scratch that. An animal musk odor made me look closer, and I noticed a miniature donkey next to the bed.
I’d call that production, A Piece of Ass.
“You like to watch?” Hawaiian Shirt asked, leering over his shoulder.
“I’m more of a doer than a watcher,” I answered, hoping my grin looked real.
We passed another door, saw another video shoot.
I’m pretty shock-proof, but my cover persona, Claire Thomas, wouldn’t be.
“Yuck.” I gave a shudder. “That’s gross.”
“Gotta keep upping the ante,” Hawaiian Shirt said. “We’re calling it Three Girls, One Cup. You want to join in?”
“No, thanks. I already ate. And I don’t want to eat that.”
We were almost to the end of the hall when a sound caught my attention. More a beat in my chest than a noise, but I recognized it immediately.
A helicopter.
Many millionaires had vacation homes in the area and few suffered the inconvenience of traffic snarls on their way back and forth to Manhattan. Around here, helipads were as common as tennis courts. But as much as I told myself all these facts, my gut said the arrival of this particular aircraft was no coincidence. It was here for Julianne, and I was stuck modeling for nudie shots with this chubby Seymore Butts wannabe.
He chose the last bedroom on the left.
The room was large, furnished only by a king size bed. It smelled of new paint and sheets that needed changing. Windows looked out on the Sound, and I spotted a purple Bell corporate-type helicopter approaching the beach.
“Let’s try a few on the bed. Take off your top, show me those sweet tits again.”
I struggled to look unsure.
“Come on, all the famous bitches did nudes. Marilyn Monroe did nudes. You want to be famous like her, right?”
I chewed my lower lip and pretended to think it over. “Well, okay, I guess.”
I set my purse on the nightstand, perched on the bed and untied the bikini top. I needed an opening, some way to escape my photographer without the men downstairs finding out and greeting me with gunfire.
I let the top fall to the bed.
He snapped a few shots then paused, stretching his neck.
“Stiff neck?” I asked.
“It’s nothing. Arch your back more. Show me what a hot little slut you are.”
I’ll show you something else instead.
“I can help you with that,” I cooed. “The stiff neck. I used to date a chiropractor.”
I climbed to my knees. Sitting back on my heels, I spread my thighs wide and patted the bed in front of me. “Why don’t you come over here.”
The smile spreading over his fat face had nothing to do with spinal adjustment. He put down the camera and sat where I’d indicated.
I massaged his shoulders for a few seconds, then unbuttoned his shirt, revolted that his boobs were even larger than mine.
“You really do want a modeling career, don’t you?”
“More than anything.” I pressed myself against his back, skin on skin. Circling my arms around his shoulders, I snaked one hand down to his crotch.
He moaned, deep in his throat.
“I can adjust this, too,” I said.
“Oh, yeah, baby. Here I thought I was going to have to slap you around. I still might. Horny bitch like you would like that, I bet.”
Charming.
I cradled his head between my breasts then smoothed my right hand around his shoulder and massaged up the back of his head to his scalp. I could feel him relax, goose bumps rising on his back.
I collared his neck with my left arm, and then before he realized what was happening, I grabbed my right elbow, pushed his head downward into the V of my left arm and flexed my biceps, applying pressure to his carotid artery.
He tensed, but even though he had weight and strength on me, it only took seconds before he was unconscious. Stopping the blood supply to the brain will do that.
I slipped out behind him and let his body fall back on the bed.
Breaking someone’s neck isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies. It also isn’t lethal 100% of the time.
Breaking someone’s trachea and cutting of their air supply is simpler, and more effective. It’s possible to survive a broken neck. Survive not breathing? Not so much.
I chopped the sex-trafficking pig in the windpipe, not sticking around to watch him suffocate. Grabbing my scrap of a bikini top, I slipped the memory card out of the camera and into my purse and closed the door behind me.
I had finished tying the top around my back and slinging my purse across my chest by the time I reached the patio. The whump whump whump of the helicopter blade pulsed in the air. The sun glared off the water, making me squint. Raising my hand to shield my eyes, I scanned the chairs surrounding the pool.
The other men were gone.
So was Julianne James.
“No operation is simple,” said The Instructor. “Things can invariably go wrong, and like any good soldier, you have to be ready to improvise, adapt, overcome.”
I started down the steps, leaving the door open behind me. Once the helicopter left the ground, Julianne would be lost, and I’d be damned if I was going to let that happen. She had taken up with some bad people, which made her more like me at that age than I wanted to admit. But I’d been given another chance.
She deserved one, too.
“Where are you going?”
I hadn’t spotted Udelhoffer standing behind a hedge that separated pool from lawn, but now he stepped out from the right, coming at me fast for such a big man.
Adrenaline spiked my blood, making everything slower, clearer. Udelhoffer’s movement. The drum of my heartbeat. The smell of the water and screech of the gulls. I stopped and held up my hands. “I was just wondering where everyone went.”
“What happened to Ronnie?”
“He’s taking a breather.”
Udelhoffer’s eyes narrowed. His beefy fingers twitched. I could see him thinking it over. Asking himself, is this just some dumb bimbo, or is something going on here?
His training kicked in.
His hand went for the Tec-9.
I anticipated the move and kicked to the side, my right foot striking just below his knee cap. I followed the blow through, scraping the side of my shoe down his shin, drilling the stiletto heel into his instep.
He bellowed like a bull.
Without pause, I brought a knife hand blow to his forearm, targeting his radial nerve just below the elbow. Localized strikes are hard to pull off on a moving target, but I was fast.