68
Lampton had things to check up on. Or so he’d said. The fact was, he was angry. Without a please or a thank you, his room was being used for purposes he didn’t understand, nor want to. A man was hauled in and chained to a chair. The other man he did not know, but it was clear his intention was torture. Lampton had nothing against torture. He’d applied torture often, if he felt it was required. But to take possession of his room, like he was a piece of scrap, and use it for whatever they wanted. He felt taken for granted. Diminished. Humiliated. He concentrated on other things.
The Japanese had arrived. Lampton had two children to get ready. In fact, there was little to do. He’d given them both a mild soporific a short while ago. Nothing much. Just enough to keep them tranquil. The clients hated tears, or temper tantrums. Fear was acceptable, but in small doses. Respectful fear was tolerated. Lampton had the whole thing down to an art. He’d checked in on them briefly. Both sat in front of their television screens, both wearing pink pyjamas, both listless, unresponsive. Which was for the best. The whole thing required finesse and expertise. Plus, he had a very special incentive.
He was gazing at his “incentive” now. The room was half lit, the globe slowly spinning its characters across the ceiling. He sat on a chair by the bed, and watched her. She was breathing softly, steadily. The covers almost covered her head. Her blonde hair spilled out, onto the pillow. Such a delicate creature. Such pleasure they would both experience. And pain. Soon. He resisted the urge to stroke her hair, the side of her face. He sat, entranced.
A bleep made him jump. His mobile. It was Falconer, upstairs.
“He wants to see them. Both of them. Get them ready and get them up now. We’re in the dining room. No fuck-ups, Lampton.”
Lampton cursed under his breath. She hadn’t woken. He hurried out of the room. He hadn’t fucked up yet.
And he wouldn’t tonight.
She sat up. She waited for the lock on the door to click. She didn’t hear it. Hardly daring to breathe, she got out of bed, put on a dressing gown, crept to the door, as silent as a shadow. She turned the handle. The door opened, just a fraction. She saw him, his back to her, unlocking a door opposite. She shut the door, softly, softly. She pressed her ear up against the hard wood. She heard him talk, doors opening, shutting, his voice fading away, leaving a deep silence. Without knowing why, or without any idea of where she was going, or what she was doing, she slipped out.
But she did know something – she was terrified, and had to get away.
69
Sands listened to Falconer drone on about all sorts of crap, wondering if Mr Kaito was really as impressed as he appeared to be. He’d arrived with two men. Picked up at the airport, same routine as the man they’d picked up masquerading as Lincoln. The man called Adam Black. Sands was still shocked. A man – highly capable – had sat next to him at the dinner table. With the sole purpose of murder. Sands shuddered. So close to death. Now Black was languishing in the dungeon. At the disposal of the man called the Grey Prince. Sands couldn’t give a shit what happened to Black. As long as it ended with him being dead. And then business as normal.
He tuned back into the Falconer monologue. This was the first time he’d met an actual client face to face. The man was reputed to be a billionaire. He looked nothing exceptional. Small, a trifle portly, balding. His two bodyguards stood quietly in the shadows. Falconer had stationed one of his own men in the next room. The rest – another four – were on a roster. Two patrolling the grounds, one at the main entrance, one at the back entrance.
But despite the bullshit which spouted forth from Falconer’s mouth, Sands grudgingly conceded he had it right. The samurai warrior did the trick. Especially the sword. Kaito had desired to see it. It was placed on the table, still in its metal sheath. Kaito looked at the thing like a kid with a wondrous new toy. When he’d discovered its origin, that it had been fashioned by Masamune, the guy had an orgasm right there. And offered to buy it for one million dollars. Money would be transferred that evening. Falconer had the touch. He was a monster, but he knew how to make money. And that was one major turn-on for Sands.
The man called the Grey Prince, whose real name he’d discovered was George Reith, sat quietly, smiling, offering little in conversation. He seemed distracted. Sands found him boring. Over brandy, flushed with drink and the purchase of a fabulous Japanese sword, Kaito asked to see the merchandise. Falconer immediately obliged, calling Lampton. They were to be brought up. Sands took another swig of his drink. He was light-headed. It wasn’t like him. But he didn’t care. They’d made a ton of money, and life was good.
The man called Reith stood, excused himself. “I have important business,” he explained quietly.
“Of course you have.” Falconer laughed. “Make the bastard pay. I want to hear him scream his fucking lungs out.” Of course, that would never happen, thought Sands. The dungeon was well sound-proofed.
Reith nodded, and left the room. Presumably downstairs. To do what he had to do, to inflict dreadful deeds on Adam Black.
Sands sat back, swirling the brandy in his glass, thinking, While I sip my fine $500 brandy, a man will be downstairs being mutilated, pleading for his life. While I sip my drink.
Sands smiled to himself.
Adam Black had messed with the wrong people. Now he paid the price. May the fucker rot in hell.
70
Black surveyed the
