Vice(27)

“My men will be by your room later on this evening to collect your fifty-thousand-dollar collateral, if that is convenient with you? I would be grateful if you would please remain in your assigned room until that time, please? A number of players from the blue room are being released this afternoon, and I would hate for any of William’s friends to run into you in the hallways. Just as I have not punished you for your indiscretions, Mr. Garrett, it would also be very hard for me to punish them for theirs should they decide to follow in your footsteps.”

“And Plato?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Garrett. You will see Plato again soon, I am sure of it.”





******





My bedroom is luxurious and way more than I was expecting. Dark, slate-gray drapes hang from high windows, and the bedclothes, also slate-gray, match the thick, rich rug that covers the polished floorboards. I have an en suite bathroom—clean towels, and tiny little bottles of body wash and shampoo stacked in a glass bowl beside a huge shower. I’ve stayed in plenty of five star hotel rooms that weren’t anywhere near as nice.

Five star hotel rooms don’t generally come with video surveillance, though. I spend an hour going over the place with a fine-tooth comb, searching every piece of furniture and picture frame, the light fittings and the air vents until I’m satisfied that there’s nothing in here. Looks like Fernando only watches over the common areas of the house, along with the party room. At least I can keep my own privacy here.

I kick off my boots and my clothes, stretching, revelling in the freedom of being naked. It’s three thirty in the afternoon—quite an eventful day thus far. I take a long, blisteringly hot shower, scrubbing the dirt from my body, and once I’m done I dry myself off and crash out on the massive bed that takes up a considerable portion of the room. I don’t mean to sleep. I don’t even mean to close my eyes, but the next thing I know, it’s dark out of the windows overlooking the rear of the property, and a weird, cold sensation is prickling across my still-bare skin.

My heart steps up the pace, sending my pulse skyrocketing upward. Something isn’t right. It’s dark, but I can feel it—eyes on me, eyes traveling over my body. There’s someone in the f*cking room with me. I sit up at the same time they strike.

“Get his legs! Get his f*cking legs!”

Hands claw and grab at me; I can’t tell how many men are in the room with me, but there are more than I can fight off. And they’re f*cking strong. I’m surrounded by American accents, which is weird. I try to wrestle myself free from the men that are holding onto my arms, thrashing my legs to prevent more of them from taking hold of me by the ankles, but it’s a futile struggle. It feels like there are two guys per limb, holding me down, and I can’t fight against those odds. Not naked and unprepared as I am. I still give it a f*cking good try, though.

“Goddamn. Fuck! He kicked me in the balls.”

“Quit f*cking around, Art. Just get the f*cking job done already.”

“I’m trying! Ahh, Jesus, I’m gonna throw up.”

I lash out, trying to connect with someone else, with something vital and delicate, but they’ve got me now. “What the f*ck are you doing?” I snarl. “Get your f*cking hands off me.”

A light switches on in the bathroom, followed by a small lamp on the table beside the bed, and a soft, warm glow fills the room. Not much light, but enough that I can make out the crowd of men kneeling on my bed, holding me down. I can see plainly enough the tall, redheaded guy standing in the doorway, wearing a black suit with a white button-down underneath, surveying the scene with distaste. He steps inside my bedroom, pulling the door closed behind him.

“Well, this is messy,” he says. “I thought I said ask him if you could search his belongings?”

The guy holding my right wrist, pressing his other hand down hard onto my chest, makes an amused sound. “No. You told us to go f*ck up his shit,” he says.

The redheaded guy in the suit thinks for a second and then nods. “Yeah, you know what? I think you might be right. I did say that, didn’t I?”

I writhe, rage bubbling through me as I try to get free. “What the f*ck is going on?”

The guy in the suit enters the room properly now, casting a bored glance around the space, his eyes traveling over my scattered belongings. He reaches out and picks up my cell phone. “My employer is a trusting man. To a point. He hires men like me to be extra suspicious on his behalf. You could say…I am Fernando Villalobos’s paranoia. And I was very paranoid when I heard that a guy from New York had showed up today on a motorcycle without so much as a phone call ahead of time. I suggested we do a little investigating before we welcomed you into the fold with open arms.”

“I’ve hardly been welcomed with open arms.” I jerk my right leg free and swiftly kick all in one motion, sending the guy who was holding onto me flying onto his ass. The guy holding onto my other leg scrambles, trying to grab hold of me, but I bend and kick out again, smashing the sole of my bare foot right into his face. He hollers, letting go of me altogether, and then I’m straining, doing my best to free my arms so I can start swinging properly.

I’m almost free when I hear something that makes me freezes, though: the safety of a gun being removed. Looking up, I see that the guy in the suit is now standing over me, and he’s pointing the business end of a Glock into my face.