John R. Monteith
Rogue Betrayer
CHAPTER 1
Olivia leapt from Jean-Claude.
“Aye! I hope you are not that rough with my clients,” he said in French.
She rolled off the bed and worked bra straps over her shoulders.
“No,” she said. “I treat your clients well. You gave me only the gentlemen.”
“I wish I had to share you with no one.”
She slid her pantyhose up her legs and reached for a blue satin evening gown.
“Consider yourself lucky I sleep with you at all.”
“How would it appear if my top lady ignored me?”
“Top lady? You’ve only known me five weeks.”
He strolled to the bathroom. She heard him flush his condom into the Parisian sewer system and splash water from the rushing faucet. He returned and grabbed her waist.
“You are a truly magnificent woman,” he said. “Leave the CIA and stay with me. I will triple your salary, whatever it is.”
Olivia teased herself with the idea until she could flush the greed from her mind.
“We’ve got a bad guy to catch,” she said.
Olivia reached for the sleeve of Jean-Claude’s Armani suit and followed him onto the Parisian streets. She had become accustomed to appearing graceful while laboring against four-inch heels, but she stumbled as she turned from the setting sun.
“Easy,” he said as he steadied her.
“I’m fine,” she said.
She followed Jean-Claude around a corner, and a black limousine stopped at the curb.
Jean-Claude opened the door and she slid in ahead of the pimp. Her team leader and CIA agent, Gerald Rickets, sat across from her.
Even sitting, Rickets looked large. He filled a gray suit that spanned half the back seat. His deep black eyebrows furrowed as he scowled at Jean-Claude.
“You’re set for tomorrow?” Rickets asked in English.
“Yes,” Jean-Claude said in a Parisian accent. “I will escort Marko to the second-floor lounge to close the deal. I told him that his cash is in my safe behind my upstairs bar. He will suspect nothing.”
“How many men is he bringing?” Rickets asked.
“How should I know?”
Rickets extended a thick finger at Jean-Claude’s nose.
“Don’t get flippant with me, pimp.”
“I prefer the term ‘man of leisure’.”
“You’re scum to me,” Rickets said, “The only reason I haven’t had you shut down is that I need you. After we’re done with Marko, if I hear of an American tourist getting so much as a genital wart from one of your whores, I’ll become your worst nightmare.”
“Marko’s been selling his girls across Europe for years,” Jean-Claude said. “You didn’t find him so offensive until he started shipping to the United States.”
“I didn’t have jurisdiction until he started pushing his girls in America. You just follow my plan, and if one hair on her head gets hurt, I’ll hang you by your balls.”
Jean-Claude looked at Olivia and smiled.
“I would hang myself if I were to let harm come to such a lovely creature.”
“You’d better see that it goes down clean,” Rickets said. “If I don’t get a takedown signal forty-five minutes after Marko walks through your door, I’m busting in with half of the Parisian police force.”
“What of it? You’ve already threatened to send half of my ladies back to Eastern Europe.”
“You bought slaves. Deal with the consequences.”
Olivia moved aside as Jean-Claude leaned forward.
“Listen to me, you self-righteous bastard,” Jean-Claude said. “I rescued slaves. Any lady who wishes to leave me may do so, but I treat them well, offer them protection, and pay them more than they ever imagined. Those in my employ will laugh in your face if you offer them your version of freedom.”
“We’ll see how your attitude changes tomorrow.”
“My attitude will be better. I will be rid of your constant threat to shut me down, and I will have earned the favor of this lovely woman you sent to tempt me.”
Olivia blushed.
“Get out,” Rickets said.
Jean-Claude stepped out and slammed the door.
“Why are you so tough on him?” Olivia asked.
“I don’t trust pimps,” Rickets said.
“He’s not a bad guy.”
“You’re in character too deep,” Rickets said. “Rookie mistake. You get a few undercover ops under your belt and you’ll know the difference. Until then, watch yourself.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Rookie mistake number two. Just remember your training and go nail me a slave trafficker.”
The next day, Olivia held Jean-Claude by the sleeve of a pinstriped Armani suit. She saw a red leather glove grasping his other arm and followed tan skin to the bare shoulder of the pimp’s favorite whore, Danielle.
Danielle wore her brunette hair in a bun with curls reaching to either pronounced cheekbone. Olivia thought that in her red satin evening gown, the brunette whore resembled a demon seductress. Danielle met Olivia’s glare, exposed capped teeth, and flared her nostrils in a smirk.
Olivia looked away. Her arrival five weeks ago, albeit undercover, had made the brunette whore jealous. Olivia wished Danielle were elsewhere, but Jean-Claude without a lady by either side would arouse suspicion.
Olivia heard a thud from a metal door. One of Jean-Claude’s bodyguards stepped to the door, slid a bar aside, and glanced through a peephole. He slid the bar closed, turned to the pimp, and nodded.
“Well,” Jean-Claude said in French, “our guests are right on time. Won’t you let them in?”
The bodyguard opened the door, and Olivia was disappointed to see only one man — a man too tall to be Marko — march toward the pimp. His boots clapped against the hardwood floor.
The man brushed back shoulder-length blond hair, removed his sunglasses, and slipped them into the breast pocket of his trench coat.
“Pavlo,” Jean-Claude said in English. “It is a pleasure to see you again. You are not alone, I trust.”
Olivia’s disappointment became discomfort as Pavlo let his gaze settle on her.
“I do not remember this whore,” Pavlo said in a Ukrainian accent.
“I have suppliers of talent other than your boss. Tell me, is he here? I wish to make his acquaintance.”
“Send your bodyguards away.”
“Away? Where should I send them?”
“I don’t care,” Pavlo said. “Send them to the fucking grocery store if you want your new whores. Marko didn’t come here to have guns pointed at him.”
“Impossible,” Jean-Claude said.
“Then we’ll distribute our girls elsewhere,” Pavlo said and turned away.
Olivia clenched Jean-Claude’s sleeve and nodded toward a black marble countertop.
“Drinks?” Jean-Claude asked. “We should drink to failure?”
“No,” Olivia said. “Lock their guns in the cabinets below the bar.”
“Wait,” Jean-Claude said in English. “But where are my manners? I’m sure I could bend my rules for Marko, provided that we lock your firearms behind my bar.”
Pavlo raised a wireless phone to his cheek and exchanged words in Ukrainian. He lowered the phone, reached into his pocket, and withdrew a Glock pistol. He extended the handle to the pimp.
“My dear,” Jean-Claude said and nodded at Danielle.
Danielle frowned but accepted the pistol and walked towards the bar. She sneered at Olivia as she passed.
“I will return with the guns from my colleagues,” Pavlo said, “and give them to you. Then send your guards away, and I will let my colleagues in.”
“As you wish,” Jean-Claude said.
Pavlo exited and returned with three weapons that he handed to Danielle for storage. The pimp’s two bodyguards left the establishment as Pavlo surveyed the room, lifted his phone to his cheek, and spoke again in Ukrainian.