would know it was a scream of ecstasy, as Belinda DeMouy experienced the most powerful, most intense, and most satisfying orgasm of her entire life.
38
Standing in the darkness of the basement, Loving reached toward the young girl’s shoulder. She involuntarily flinched; then, as if reminding herself what she was taught to do, she relaxed.
Loving could understand what must be racing through what was left of her brain. Very well. They could talk without touching. It would be better that way. She might actually trust him.
“Is anyone else here?” Loving asked in hushed tones. He had spotted the wooden staircase that led to the ground level of the house. The door at the top was open. “Any other grown-ups?”
“Miss Magda went to the grocery for food. She said if we were good, she might bring us candy.” The girl paused, her face expressionless. “But she always says that. And we’re never good enough.”
“What’s your name?”
The girl hesitated. “They call me Angela. But that isn’t my real name.” She spoke English with a pronounced accent-Russian, Loving thought, but he was really no judge. Under the circumstances, he was amazed she could speak at all.
“What’s your real name?”
Another long pause, and then she answered, “I don’t remember.”
“Do you like Angela?”
“I guess.”
“Then that’s what I’ll call you. I like it, ’cause it sounds like Angel. You’re a little angel.”
She didn’t smile. But Loving liked to think her face brightened.
“How long have you been here?” he asked, scanning the room full of girls.
“We didn’t come together. I’ve only been here a few weeks. That’s why I’m in charge.” Normally, that would seem like the exact opposite of the way any hierarchy would work. Unless, Loving imagined, you assume that life as an illegally trafficked sex slave is so hard that it puts the children on a one-way track to a permanent vegetative state.
“Do you know a girl named Djamila?”
Angela thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. But they make everyone change their names.”
Of course they did. The bastards. “Do you know a man they call the General?”
Angela’s back immediately stiffened. “Do you work with the General?”
“No,” he said hastily. “I do not. But I’m tryin’ to find him.”
“If you want a session, you should talk to Miss Magda.”
“I do not want a session,” Loving said, gritting his teeth. “But I want the General. Very very badly.”
“He will probably come tonight to collect the money. He usually does.”
“Do you ever get any of the money?”
She looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. “We are not allowed to carry money. If we had money, bad men would try to hurt us.”
Ah. Wouldn’t want you to be exposed to bad men. “Do they ever let you outta this stinkin’ basement?”
Again, she looked at him as if he just didn’t comprehend. “We like it in the basement.”
“You do?”
“We are safe in the basement. When the door opens-we must work.”
Now he was beginning to understand.
“At first, I liked it when the door opened and they called me by my new name. I would get a bath, maybe even a new dress.” She looked down at the tattered pinafore she was wearing. “But that was a long time ago.”
As her head lowered, Loving noticed a bruise on the back of her neck. He gently lifted her hair and took a closer look. More bruises. Gently, making sure she understood he meant no harm to her, he rolled back the left sleeve of her dress.
What he saw there made him sick to his stomach.
“How long before Miss Magda comes back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Damn.” Loving stood, glanced at the stairs and the door, then at the window through which he had entered. “Look, gather your friends and anything they need. We’re gettin’ outta here.”
“I thought you wanted the General.”
“I did. But now I think it’s more important that I remove you and your friends. So gather up all-”
“What’s going on here?”
Loving turned, swearing under his breath. A large brunette woman in a plain frock stood at the top of the stairs. Damn, damn, damn!
“Can I help you?”
She spoke with a thick Russian accent, but she was not nearly as old as he expected. Miss Magda had saved herself from a life of sexual slavery, he guessed, by going into business with the slavers.
“Uhhh…you Miss Magda?” Loving asked, trying to pull himself together as quickly as possible.
“I am. May I ask why you are here? In the basement?” Loving noticed that as soon as Magda entered, Angela slunk back into the shadows.
He grinned sloppily, doing his best to look like the sort of scum who might actually come here for a “session.” “Uhhh, sorry-I rang the bell but no one answered so I came on in. I’m here to do a little business. I understood you had some goods of particularly high quality.”
“I’m sure we can produce something you will find…pleasing,” she said. “May I ask how you came to know of our services?”
There was only one name he could produce. “I’m a friend of the General. Name’s Loving.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard him mention you.”
Keep treading water, he told himself, till you figure a way out of here. “Well, I guess we’re more business associates than friends, tell the truth. I handle his, uh, Southwest distribution.”
“Ah, so he succeeded in cracking the Mayor’s territory.”
“Oh yeah. Piece of cake. You know the General.”
“Indeed I do. And…if you have your own outlets, why do you need to come here?”
Didn’t matter what excuse he came up with. She wouldn’t have asked if she weren’t already suspicious. He had no way of knowing what it was, but something he said hadn’t washed. “I’m in Washington on business. You can imagine. And while I was here…well, it’s a long ways to home.”
“I understand entirely. Did you see anything that might be of interest?”
He cleared his throat. This whole charade was making him sick to his stomach. But he had to keep it going. At least until he could make a break for it. “Well, Angela and I hit it off.”
“An excellent selection. I’ll set that up for you immediately.”
“Great.”
“As soon as I take care of my scheduled customer. Emil?”
Loving felt his gorge rising. Would he really have to sit here and watch some pervert pick a child to his liking, someone sufficiently scared enough to bloat his male ego?
Emil entered the doorway.
It was the assassin. The man he had clocked back in the cemetery.
No wonder the son of a bitch had this address in his pocket. He was a customer. Probably took his assassin’s fee out in trade.
For a moment, Loving held out hope that the man might not recognize him. No such luck. Then he hoped that he might be able to get past him, if he moved fast enough.