Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(75)
Cold sweat broke out on Emm’s brow, but she lifted her chin a bit higher and said coolly, “And you can tell him that despite the insult, he needs to recall that the Rothschilds have made billions with our business acumen. We deal fairly with partners. He can check that independently if he likes, along with this—Mayer Rothschild, who founded our banking dynasty in the late seventeen hundreds, was orphaned at twelve and grew up in the ghetto. He, like Se?or Cervantes, was a self-made man. His five sons took his teachings around the globe, leading to the empire we have today in finance, publishing, wines, and many other ventures. My grandfather would respect a man of Se?or Cervantes’s determination and ability, as do I. I am not afraid . . . and I’ve dealt with him truly and fairly. But no matter what, I love my sister and niece very much. I am resolved to leave Mexico only with my sister and niece safe beside me. I can be Se?or Cervantes’s asset—or a very big liability.” Emm bowed her head before the despicable man in a gesture of both respect and challenge. Wouldn’t Yancy be proud of her desperate new ability to bluff? They played Texas Hold’em together when they could, and Yancy usually beat the socks off her . . . once quite literally when she’d demanded Emm’s Christmas socks as part of her winnings.
She was relieved when Curt finally said, “How much? He wants to know how much you offer.”
Yancy got to the lobby easily enough, but as she’d feared, it was full of guards. And also as she feared, it wasn’t easy to exit. When the elevator pinged, she peeked outside the still opening elevator door. A scowling guard started toward her, so she pushed the close button on the elevator and tried the lowest button. Nothing happened, so she figured the basement level was off limits and pressed the fourth-floor button again, trying not to think of Jennifer, of somehow saving her body from being thrown on top of many others like waste in some rock pile. She held grief at bay only with cool calculation.
This entire disgusting building was based on a very tawdry form of free enterprise, but prostitution had always been about money. Therefore, if she wanted to leave in one piece, she needed to be on the arm of one of the johns who funded this business. Part of the enterprise, not an escapee.
She went back to the room she’d entered before and left the door cracked so she could hear better. She also took the time to do a more thorough search, hoping she might find some sort of a weapon. Thirty minutes later, she heard a door open down the corridor and a male voice. She’d found a long and sharp nail file of sturdy steel, but it would be pathetic against Arturo’s army.
Still, she stuck the file in her jacket pocket and sashayed out into the corridor. She caught up with the businessman in a wrinkled suit who had pressed the elevator button. He looked at her nervously, shying away a bit, but Yancy only ran her hand down his arm and then down his hip. She lifted the veil and widened her lovely green eyes. He stared into them, fascinated.
“I’ll give you whatever you want if you’ll let me leave with you in your car,” she whispered seductively, still caressing. “I am one of the most popular girls here.”
She felt the frisson that went through him, but he looked around uncertainly. “I have no more money.”
“I don’t want money. I want to go to—” and she named the main street near the compound. When he still hesitated, her hand drifted closer to his groin. She brought his hand to her firm breast.
“That’s all? I want . . .” and he named several disgusting acts.
Yancy lowered her veil again but nodded to hide her revulsion.
This time, when she entered the lobby, she was latched onto the arm of one of the brothel’s best clients, who had his own arm around her, his free hand caressing her breast. They whispered to each other as they slowly made their way to the exit.
She heard the guards debating her identity as they passed and held her breath as her john opened the front door, but they exited unmolested. Then she was seated in a nice Lincoln sedan and driving through very crowded streets toward the compound.
They hadn’t gone far when the john pulled to an empty side street and stopped. He demanded a blow job. Yancy hesitated, eyeing the keys. She moved closer to him on the wide bench seat, as if to comply, but she whipped the nail file from her jacket pocket and held it to his carotid artery, leaning over him as if to whisper sweet nothings.
Instead, she said, “Get out or I swear I’ll give you a mark to remember me by. You disgust me. Do you know some of the girls in that place have been kidnapped?” She pressed the sharp edge into his throat. Swallowing harshly, he fumbled for the door. He tried to grab the keys at the last minute, but she cut his neck enough for him to bleed. He bleated and reared his head away. Blood dripped onto his shirt and he screamed, covering his scratch. But his gaze fell to the blood flowing now from beneath her black sleeve. He looked at his hand, at the few dots of his own blood, then back at her wound. His expression changed from anger to horror as he realized it wasn’t his blood. Frantically, he reached for the car door and fell onto the pavement outside.
She drove off, well aware that the first thing he’d do was call the police and report his car stolen. Good. She hoped he made all the papers when he described who took the car. Even better, she always liked a police escort when she was going to kill drug dealers . . . Yancy laughed, but strangely her voice sounded broken. However, she still had the presence of mind to pull over long enough to search the car. She found a thick wad of napkins and tied them around her wrist as she drove with her free hand. It wouldn’t stop the blood but would help with the mess.