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And then I remember.
I remember what happened in the car.
I turn, running for the safe room. My lungs can’t get enough air as I scramble through the door. Desperate, mumbled pleas and distressed cries leave my mouth as I bash and push buttons on the control panel. I must hit the right one because a heavy door slides closed.
Max rushes towards me, an anguished look on his face the last thing I see. And the lamenting tone of his voice calling my name is the last thing I hear.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
MAX
Then
My mobile buzzeswith the address details. The money arrived safely via transfer. It means a green light.
I forward the address to Jeremy and get in the car, following the satnav directions while he and Ben trail me. The drive takes about thirty-five minutes, delivering me to an abandoned farm on the outskirts of Aachen.
Awash with fear that makes a man stink from his own body, I exit the car. Faint light from inside outlines the dimensions of the door as I approach.
I knock, the door opens, and I step inside a darkened corridor where two men holding guns greet me. Gunman One searches my pockets, returning my phone and shoving the condoms back in my pockets. Thankfully, he’s missed the tracker sewn into my waistband.
“No images of face, just body,” Gunman One instructs in broken Dutch, letting me know pictures of the woman will be allowed but with restrictions.
I’m led to a small space that might have housed animal feed or crop chemicals at one stage; now it’s a makeshift office. The man I know only as Luca is inside, wearing a dark suit over his slim frame. He’s a wiry-looking fucker, all mean sinew and serpentine eyes.
“Yves de Graaf,” I greet, also in Dutch, using the alias Jeremy was able to acquire for me.
“Luca.”
There’s never a surname. The trafficker slides narrowed eyes across my face, so I paint a picture on it that looks despicable and perverted and nasty enough to pass. The shaggy hair, and the wild beard I can’t be arsed to shave makes me look less like a billionaire and more like a disgusting paedophile.
“So you like grey-eyed girls,” Luca begins, referring to the request made via a shady contact.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“We all have our preferences,” I dismiss. “Where is she?”
From the opposite end of the farm building, sex sounds filter towards me. My mouth fills with acid and I somehow swallow it down.
Luca’s grin is sly. “You have two hours. Make them count.”
With my gut in meltdown, I walk on and then stop as if a thought has just occurred. “If I like her, will you sell?”
“For the right money. I have other interest. Grey eyes are valuable.”
My stomach sinks. “Is that right? Do you have other girls? What about the girl down the passage?”
“Not here. Not me.”
“Somewhere else?”
“I can get you all the grey-eyed girls you want for the right money.”
Bastard.“Send me the details.”
The gunmen lead me along a concrete, dusty passageway where feeble yellow-orange lights glow. A heavily bracketed wooden door looms at the end. Gunman One pulls a key out of his pocket and unlocks it.
