Page 32 of Hostile Witness
“You’re sitting at the bar and will clear the hallway of possible collateral damage when the plan goes down. Try not to look delicious, you two. We wasted a whole minute last time waiting for you to unwind yourselves from the ladies.” The locker room broke into catcalls and off-color jokes.
Mac slashed a hand, and the place quieted down. “Our mission this evening is to visit The Pink Owl, owned by one Pavel Romanov, entrepreneur and human trafficker. Mr. Romanov will be our guest until we locate his latest shipment of trafficked women. Our source says he introduces the ten p.m. male strip show every night. Our only occasion to nab him will be in the hallway to his private quarters after the intro. Two Serbian fighters serve as his bodyguards. Expect the unexpected.” He looked up from his notes. “We’re not playing nice. Sanctuary paid the money for five of Romanov’s captures a few hours ago. Our job is to find those women and make sure they get their lives back. We’ve practiced the logistics for this a dozen times. Our federal contact at The Pink Owl wants out. Gus and Ethan will make sure said contact is clean and extract her.” His eyes roved the crowd. “Any questions?”
The room remained silent. “Remember the rules of engagement tonight. No live bullets unless absolutely necessary.Let the Feds use their firepower if needed. You areallequipped with alternative protection. Ten minutes and we move out.”
Ethan touched the gel on his hair. It had dried. In the next few minutes, he put on his tux, taking care that the tie aligned perfectly. This evening, as emissary for a Russian mafia boss, he pretended to have enough purchasing power in his wallet to buy human lives. There wouldn’t be one relaxed feature on him. This mission was strictly business, ruthless, and all in Russian. Gus was a former Russian national who spoke with a perfect Moscow accent. Ethan had learned Russian in school, and on his best day, his American was still detectable. But he and Gus had carved deals in Russian many times before, tossing the negotiations back and forth, achieving the desired results.
He checked himself in the mirror and stared into the emotionless deep-brown eyes of a man far more ruthless than himself. Breathing deep, he tucked the private invitation to the club into his breast pocket. It was showtime.
They slipped into a gleaming black stretch limousine, wordless and focused. Each man peered through his tinted window as the calm green lushness of a suburb morphed into the strident, loud boasting of Philadelphia traffic and neon signs.
The double line of women seeking entrance to the club commenced three blocks before they pulled to a stop. Tickets for the ten o’clock show started at one hundred fifty dollars, while stage-front admission cost three hundred apiece. Their chauffeur parked at the front entrance and opened their door. Women of all ages started screaming, “The strippers are here.”
Gus slid out first and gave the ladies a polite nod. Ethan followed and flashed them his most killer smile. A bouncer efficiently checked their tickets and held the door for them. A second bouncer roughly removed a woman clinging to Ethan’s side and abruptly shut the door in her face.
They were in. He could only hope it would go as smoothly when they wanted out.
It could have beenany other nightclub—except this was a front for human trafficking. The Pink Owl was a virtual sea of pub tables and leather chairs, with a large dance floor in the middle. Red velvet roping cordoned off the front VIP area and looming stage. The waitstaff were all men in bow ties. Part of the allure of this place was that a stripper could be any man in attendance, thus the scene at the front door when they’d exited their limo.
A maître d’ greeted them in a posh marble-floored lobby laden with nude sculptures. After checking their invitations and recording their names, he summoned security. They were frisked and wanded. Ethan smiled inside—security couldn’t detect the full syringes in his hidden pocket and didn’t pick up his tiny earpiece.
A stunningly beautiful blonde attendant appeared from the shadows and led them to an opulent private lounge.
“May I fix you gentlemen a drink, yes?” Her Russian accent was warm and seductive.
Ethan gave her a curt nod while Gus monitored her every move from under heavy eyebrows.
“I suggest our smoothest Courvoisier, from Mr. Romanov’s home in Jarnac, France.”
Ethan dipped his chin. She’d spoken the first of three phrases required for them to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was the contact wanting out. “That will be fine.” He turned slowly. “Is your kitchen serving food?”
“Certainly, sir. A tidbit plate, perhaps?”
And there was the second code.
Gus cleared his throat. “I’m craving fine caviar.”
She smiled. “We have Bemka Crown.”
And that was the third. “Very well,” Gus agreed. The woman left the room to put in their order.
Ethan drummed his fingers on the shiny mahogany table. So she was the federal agent who’d been feeding them intel for the past three months and had positioned herself as Romanov’s supposed best girl? The woman had balls of steel, riding this assignment that long. Although she’d gotten one word wrong in the code, and that could cost her dearly later.
He glanced at the muted closed-circuit screen provided for their entertainment. While he couldn’t hear the music, a steady beat pulsed through the floor. A second monitor panned the bar and the dancing crowd. As per usual, Beck and Mooney had innocuously draped themselves in women at opposite ends of the bar. Ethan knew better than to think they were having fun. They were working.
The same server whisked through the door with their food and set it on the table. Neither he nor Gus had taken a sip of his drink. Likewise with the food. An accidental poisoning was out of the question tonight. Suffice it to say, they both swirled and stirred at proper intervals for anyone who might be watching them on the in-house security screens to think they were partaking.
The frenzied female crowd clapped thunderously on the monitor. Romanov strode onto the main stage with his arms wide open and his hips grinding in time to the music. He was quite the showman in his glittery formal wear.Enjoy it, man.Tonight would be the last time Romanov would wear a nice getup. As long as their mission was successful, the trendy orange of an inmate uniform would comprise his attire tomorrow.
“Gentlemen, would you like to watch the show from the hallway behind the stage? I can escort you,” their server said. Damn if her throaty Russian accent wasn’t a thing of beauty.
Ethan nodded as Mac assured them through their earpieces that the hallway cameras were down. With a gentle twist of his wrist and a shake, a syringe eased from the hidden pocket in the fold of his cuff into his palm. He relaxed a fraction knowing he was armed.
He and Gus followed the woman down the hallway. She was a temptress all right, with her swaying heart-shaped hips.Hmm... Tia has better legs though.
What the hell? He mercilessly fought off any thought of Tia as they rounded a corner to stage left and into the raised-eyebrow glare of Romanov’s bodyguards, who motioned for them to stop.
Ethan and Gus spread their arms for the frisking that ensued. The guard assigned to Ethan patted him down with extra concern at the dip of his trousers. When the beast grabbed his nuts, Ethan tapped the guy’s neck with the teeny syringe. “Enough. I’m here to conduct business with your boss, not to pleasure you.” He took a step back and straightened his lapel.