The Kidnap Years: by David Stout (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📕

operation, red satin and black carpet with a deep shag pocked with cigarette burns. Heavy curtains blocked out the windows and low lighting gave the whole room the aura of a cheap porn set.

The girls milled, a few of them lighting cigarettes, a few more discreetly popping pills from pillboxes or their bras and washing them down with vodka or cloudy water from a tap behind the wet bar in the corner.

Lola positioned herself against the bar, hip cocked, face carefully arranged to look bored. I sat myself on the edge of an armchair, grateful to be off the too-small shoes, which had already raised blisters.

While I sat, I went over the facts I’d garnered about the sex trafficking operation, like they were beads on a rosary that would somehow deliver me back to the light. Ekaterina was a boss, that much was clear, and I knew from briefings on the Russian mob that a female boss was unheard of. Then again, so was a brothel full to the brim with non-human prostitutes with a blood-sport arena in the basement.

Rostov and his men were enforcers who scouted women in Nocturne, and plenty of other cities had the same setup, if Lola was any indication. They transported the women to countries with few laws, where no one would question a bunch of Americans and Canadians and Brits locked up in a defunct hotel and sold as sex slaves. When I thought about it, it was really a perfect operation. I wondered how long it had been going on.

Laughter and shouting filtered from the lobby, and two men in cheap suits stumbled into the parlor, big sloppy grins on their faces. Ekaterina was behind them, wearing the obsequious posture of a helpful employee. She gestured at me, at Anna, who was trying to fade into the wallpaper, and at Charlie and Deedee. Deedee was holding it together, and Charlie was staring into space. She must have eaten the macaroni.

The johns clapped and grinned approvingly at the new meat, examining each of us in turn. When they got to me I tried to resist snarling or flinching, even though I’ve never done well being touched by anyone, never mind two sweaty office workers who reeked of cheap vodka. I just had to hold on a little longer, had to keep it together. No one was getting me out of here but me.

“You are very pretty,” one of the johns said to me in labored English. I tried to smile obediently. Ekaterina stepped in.

“This one is a bite, brand new, from the West Coast of the United States. A true California girl. She will be insatiable, or your money back.”

The john caressed my knee. “Care for a drink and a talk in private?”

Private, I could do. More and more johns were filtering in, none of them any better than the one currently pawing at me, some considerably worse. A blue pall of cigarette smoke hung over the parlor and the drinks and false cheer were flowing. I thought I caught a familiar scent amid the carnival assaulting my nose, clove cigarettes and the distinctive scent of a male were, but it vanished just as quickly as it drifted to me. I shook my head to clear it.

“Go,” Ekaterina said, as the john pulled me up. “And behave yourself.”

“Ekaterina.” Someone else had come in the door and stood behind the john, his face in shadow in the dim reddish light. Ekaterina turned in surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was passing by, and I saw we had new visitors.” The man stepped forward, and the john fell over himself to get out of the way. The man looked him over, lip curling with faint disgust. “What is your name?”

“Illya,” the man quavered.

“Illya. Find yourself another woman to reek all over.”

“I don’t think…” Ekaterina started, but the man cut her off.

“Be quiet. Go attend the front of the house so the whores don’t rob us blind.”

Ekaterina nodded and did as he said, instead of castrating the patronizing bastard like I would have. Illya, too, stumbled away, and pressed up against Lola, who seemed all too happy to have him.

The man looked at me, stretching out a finger and putting it under my chin. “You are very beautiful. I would even call you rare.”

I sized him up while he was staring at me. Pale skin, dark hair slicked back, green eyes that could have cut glass with their sharpness. The guy would have been drop-dead handsome, except for the utter lifelessness of his expression. He looked like a creature who had decided to try on a human skin and found it lacking.

This had to be Ekaterina’s brother, the one Lola had warned me about. Fucking fantastic. I swallowed the lump that had grown in my gullet. “Thank you.”

The brother extended his hand to me. “Shall we retire?”

“Is that allowed? I mean, I’m supposed to be earning money…” Anything to stall him. Anything for time to think.

The brother reached behind the bar and felt around for a bottle, unmarked. The good stuff.

He took my hand in his. “This way. Don’t worry yourself over such things. I’ll take care of you.” We started up the stairs, back to the apartments. I was going to have to knock him out. Then I’d be the girl who assaulted the boss and got sent to the basement. If I was lucky. Crap.

“What is your name?” the brother asked.

“Joanne,” I said without missing a beat. I decided to be brave. “What’s yours?”

“My name is Grigorii,” he said. “Grigorii Nikolaivich Belikov.” He had the same precise, Oxford-accented manner of speaking as his sister. “It is very nice to meet you, Joanne.”

My middle name was better than nothing. I wasn’t going to lose myself in this place, hide behind a construct like Lola. “Yeah, whatever,” I told Grigorii, opening the door to the suite. “You’ll understand if I’m not thrilled to be here.”

He grinned at that and dropped himself gracefully into the zebra chair. He was