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Sighing, I shove the notebook in my bag and page Hannah.
“Set up a meeting with Paul right away, then meet me upstairs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The intercom clicks off, and I grab my cell before I make my way upstairs. By the time I enter the hallway, Kris is already gone, and no one is visible. Despite its broken-down appearance, this place is a variable fortress. Between the security cameras, heavy stone walls, and strategically placed men around the building, no one could hope to get in, or out, without us knowing about it.
Kris and I bought this place almost twelve years ago now, a decrepit fortress forgotten about in Poland after the second world war. Using threats, bribery, and all the money we possessed, we purchased it then transitioned CASH-ULTY out of North America to the relative safety of Eastern Europe. The misinformation provided about our location is one of the many ways we remain hidden.
One thing I will give him is Kris has always been in charge of security, and he’s never steered us wrong. I understand what he’s trying to do by stopping the order, keeping us safe, that is, but it's not necessary this time. Really, we have no choice.
With the Dutch government and Anti-Slavery International cracking down on us, we needed to make these deals. Order 622 is their price, and I intend to pay it.
Krystof and Galina have been through a lot, but it's Kris and Ginger who run CASH-ULTY. It wouldn’t take much for it to come crumbling down, regardless of how well placed and structured it is. And I’ve worked too long and hard to see it fail now.
Ever the good assistant, Hannah is at the top of the stairs waiting for me with a mug in hand. I pause to take it and inhale the steamy beverage, immediately noting the hint of liquor. I raise a knowing eyebrow and she shrugs with a smile.
Hannah is a cutthroat bitch Kris helped me hire after my last assistant had a breakdown. She knows how to handle my affairs well, and we hold a mutual respect for one another. Plus, she makes a mean Irish coffee. That’s as good as it gets in my line of work.
I sip the drink gratefully then continue down toward the conference rooms.
“Anything this morning?” I ask as we walk. From a step behind me, I hear Hannah pull out her phone and tap away.
“Total count at seventy-three as of this morning,” she replies. “One died last night, but there were no bids yet, and the acquisition cost was low.”
“How's that?” I ask, not used to hearing about low acquisition cost. Our targets tended to be costly but not always. Hannah hesitates only a moment before responding.
“It was Henry,” she replies, and I pause to look at her.
“And the rest of his family?” I ask.
“All fine. They were separated from him, so they had no idea. The son has a few bids already. We’ll make the cost of storage back and then some.”
“Plus, Henry’s salary,” I think out loud. At least that clusterfuck will put me in the positive, even though I would’ve rather not have had to deal with it at all.
Our eyes meet, and I nod, turning on my heel and walking into the empty conference room. Behind me, Hannah comes in and pulls open a briefcase before she starts pulling out papers and setting up the projector.
I take a large sip of my coffee, grateful again for the extra kick in it.
It’s going to be a long day.
* * *
It isn’tuntil the end of the day that I finally make my way down the winding stone staircase and into the dungeon. We have one wing for acquisitions, and another for.… other activities.
I push open the double doors that enter the west wing when the sound of screams greets me from down the corridor. My pace doesn’t slow as I move toward the sound, stopping outside the closed door. I reach forward and knock.
There’s a muffled crash and a loud smack followed by some whimpers before the door opens and a heavyset man in a leather apron pops his head out. His expression transforms immediately on seeing me, a large grin growing over his face. An oversized mustache moves with his face and he laughs, opening the door to allow me entry.
“Mistress, what a pleasant surprise!” Moe says as he moves back toward the man strapped to a metal chair in the center of the room. “I wasn’t expecting you today. I’m just in the middle of—”
I wave a hand dismissively. “No rush, feel free to finish.”
He gives me a nod and a small bow before turning back to the man, whose eyes are so bugged out they look like they’re going to pop any moment. His hands and feet are strapped to a chair along with a band along his head. The ground beneath is concrete with a metal grate just to the side, a handy placement for cleaning the fluids that tend to congregate here.
I walk over to the side of the room and his desk where a stool waits, sitting and crossing my legs while I watch the infamous CASH-ULTY Butcher at work.
“Normally, I don’t use the ball gag,” Moe explains as he walks over to the desk and looks down at his selection of devices. “But I’ll keep it on for now to help with the noise.”
