The Sarah Roberts Series Vol. 4-6 Read online

  There was no way he could run after her. She was long gone. The only way to solve this was to meet her at the same time tomorrow night and get his wallet back.

  She’ll be surprised when I don’t have the money because the card to access the money is inside my fucking wallet.

  He wondered why he forgot to ask her if she was the one who had sent him the text. If it wasn’t her, then who did?

  His phone rang. He pulled it out as the elevator door opened.

  It was his brother calling again. He was in no mood to talk to anybody, let alone his brother. He jammed the phone away and stepped toward the elevator.

  “Jake!” someone called.

  Just as he was about to enter the elevator, he saw his brother running toward him, cell phone in hand.

  Jake jumped on the elevator and hit the close-door button, praying it closed before Bruce got there.

  It did and instantly began rising.

  The elevator was empty. To avoid Bruce finding out what floor he was staying on, he hit two other numbers. At his floor, he got off and ran to his room.

  Inside the room, he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, closed it and leaned his back against it.

  Then he slipped to the floor, wondering what he was going to do.

  How the hell did Bruce find me?

  He lifted his jacket to his face and cried into it.

  Chapter 7

  Mark Stead sat in the back of the cab, shaking so much wondered if he would be able to hold his piss. He had no idea who the crazy girl with the gun was. Or why she made him send a text about keeping the money.

  His phone had announced an incoming text a few moments ago. Of course it was the person he’d texted asking who he was and something about the money saving his life.

  At the airport, he would reread it and decide what to say, or even if he was going to respond.

  The cab turned off the Vegas strip, drove behind the Bally’s and Paris Hotels and turned right, headed back toward McCarren International Airport.

  Mark needed to leave Las Vegas or face Maxwell. His buddy, Tyrone, and he had gambled too much, drank too much and snorted the rest up their noses. He didn’t care what Tyrone was going to do, but Mark was getting the fuck out.

  He had enough money stashed away for a plane ticket to Mexico and he could live a few months down there without working. After that, he would figure out what to do next. For now, getting as far away from Maxwell Ramsey as possible was all he could think about.

  There was no way they could pay the money back. When Tyrone was running for Big John, they were rolling in the deep, as they liked to call the wads of cash. But now they were all out of deep and only in deep … shit.

  The cab banked hard to the left through a yellow light. Mark could already see the lights of airplanes lining up to land. To his right, a plane ascended overhead, leaving Las Vegas.

  He smiled. Leaving Las Vegas. Who would’ve thought he would leave the hustling, bustling city of sin?

  He was either leaving it in a plane or a casket.

  Who the fuck was that hot chick with a gun? And why was she packing heat if she wasn’t with Maxwell?

  He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes to rest. It took another five minutes until the cab pulled up in front of the terminal. Mark paid, gave the driver a generous tip, and closed the door behind him.

  He took a deep breath, taking in the damp heat after the rain. It might be the last time he stood on Vegas soil.

  The automatic doors opened and four large men stepped out of the terminal, heading his way.

  He frowned. Maxwell’s men? No way. They couldn’t know where he was. Two hours ago he had called Maxwell and told him he was on his way over to make a payment. No one would be looking for him for another forty-five minutes yet. By then he would be through security and waiting to board his plane to Mexico.

  The men got closer. He recognized one of them. They were coming for him. He turned to run and alert airport security, but three men stepped up behind him.

  “Going somewhere, Mark?” the bigger one said.

  “Picking a friend up,” tumbled out of his mouth.

  “Ahh, how nice. You’re going to miss your friend though. Maybe he can catch a cab into the city. Maxwell wants to see you. Apparently,” he made an exaggerated attempt to look at his watch, “you’ve got an appointment with him in just over a half hour. Perfect timing. You won’t be late now. We all know how Ramsey hates it when folks are late.”

  The four men who had emerged from the terminal had stopped behind him now. All seven men surrounded him in a circle. There was no way out. No excuses and no weapon. There was too much muscle. He would have to go with them and lose out on Mexico. Probably never see Mexican soil now, or any other country’s except for the dark hard-packed soil found six feet under the Vegas lights.

  The big man who spoke to him motioned with his hand and pointed at a waiting stretch limo.

  “Do I have to ask twice?” His voice had developed a hard edge.

  Mark put one foot in front of the other, walked over and entered the open door of the limo. Two men entered with him and the car started moving. The rest of the men stayed behind, probably to monitor other debtors making mad dashes for the airport.

  How many fucking people does Maxwell employ?

  Then it occurred to him that he could work his debt off. Maybe Maxwell could give him menial jobs as payback for his debt. He’d do whatever Maxwell wanted to get this behind them. Torturing him, or worse, killing him, wouldn’t pay the debt.

  Then he thought about hope and how finicky a friend it was. He sat in Maxwell’s limo on his way to a heavy beating or death and he entertained the idea that he would be rewarded with a job.

  Hilarious.

  The drugs, the gambling, and the bimbos were over for him. You could do that on your own dime, but when you are addicted to pussy and the cash that attracts it—once you run out of cash, you have to borrow and Maxwell loves to hand money out. Maybe because he loves collecting it a little too much.

  “Where are we going?” Mark asked.

  “Your funeral.”

  The two thugs laughed.

  “Classy.”

  “Whatchoo say, mutherfucker?” the bigger one snapped. “Say it again, say it again.”

  “I just want you to take me to Maxwell, since we have a meeting. Maxwell and I need to talk.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, you fucking pig. You gonna talk all right. You gonna talk real good.”

  He sat back and waited out the ride. There was no use discussing business with hired thugs who had egos bigger than their biceps. He was already intimidated. The funny thing was, the two idiots across from him didn’t know it. They felt they had to keep trying to scare him.

  The limo drove away from the strip and into the city. Finally, on the west side of the city limits, the limo stopped in front of a linen warehouse of some kind.

  “Out,” the bigger one commanded.

  This doesn’t look good.

  Maxwell had always met with him in hotel rooms at various casinos. Once it was the Mirage, another time, Mandalay Bay. Mark had always assumed that was because Ramsey needed to be near casinos which had cashiers to get the money he needed to hand over.

  Meeting Maxwell Ramsey at a warehouse on the west side of Vegas at this late hour only meant one thing.

  Mark was in for a beating. Or worse.

  He hadn’t heard of Maxwell having anyone killed before, but he wouldn’t put it past the man. At least he looked the part with the dreadlocks and the tats. He even had a tattoo on his face. Some Italian symbol. He always wondered who puts a tattoo on their face unless they’ve been to prison or a mental hospital.

  The men led him to the side door of the warehouse. The big man opened the door and stood to the side.

  “Can’t we talk out here?” Mark asked.

  The man holding the door stared at him and waited. The other guy stood rock still behind him, his arm buried in his
jacket, no doubt holding a pistol. He didn’t want another gun in his face in the same day, so he stepped inside.

  The linen factory had row after row of large bales of fabric. Huge machines lined the back wall with what looked like strings attached every which way, resembling colorful spider webs.

  The men led him to an open area by a lunchroom door at the back. Security night lights were on with one large dome light directly above them.

  Movement to the left caught his eye as more men joined them. Maxwell wasn’t among them.

  “Where’s Maxwell?” Mark asked. “We’re supposed to meet at ten.”

  Something hit him from behind which knocked him flat onto the cold metal floor. Pain shot up from his leg in a rush. He screamed and grabbed for his leg.

  Two men jumped on him and attached something to his ankles. Within seconds his ankles were secured to some kind of wooden trap that was hooked up to ropes.

  The big man from the limo held a baseball bat.

  The back of his left knee felt two sizes too big. He only hoped nothing was broken.

  “Come on, guys,” Mark pleaded. “This isn’t necessary.”

  “Fuck you. Shut up.”

  One of the men moved off to the side and spun a large wheel connected to the wall. The contraption on his ankles was pulled up into the air by the ropes.

  “Hey, guys, come on.”

  His feet rose until only his shoulders remained on the metal flooring.

  “Guys, is this really necessary? Maxwell and I go back. We did a lot of business together. When he finds out you did this, he’s gonna be pissed.”

  The big one stepped into view.

  “Somehow, I don’t think so. He’s the one who ordered this.”

  “What?”

  Mark knew then that he was in serious trouble. If Maxwell knew he was trying to run and had these guys pick him up, he didn’t know if he would last the night. They may not kill him, but Mark couldn’t handle a beating. Pain was his enemy and it always won.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Look, tell Maxwell that I’ll get the money. Please, you don’t have to do this.”

  He still hadn’t used the bathroom and now the piss he had trouble holding in the cab on the way to the airport spilled out and down his stomach, trickling to the floor by his chest.

  A man stepped close to his feet and yanked on his running shoes, pulling them off. Then he ripped off his socks.

  “Sensitive feet?” the guy asked.

  Mark nodded fast and hard. “Yeah, yeah. Listen, please …”

  Out of nowhere, the man produced a whip with something shiny on the tails. He swung the whip, snapped it twice in the air and then whipped it across the soles of Mark’s feet. Mark gasped, his body went rigid, his eyes wide at the instant shock of pain that coursed through his feet. Then he shouted and writhed under the restraints, trying his best to wiggle free and getting nowhere.

  He screamed again and again and tried to perform a sit up to reach his ankles and unlock them, but he couldn’t quite make it that high.

  Blood trickled over the edge of his heel and dripped down to the floor below. He cried so hard he need to wipe his face.

  “Dude, you better get your breathing under control before you hyperventilate,” the big one holding the bat said.

  The pain was absolutely unbearable. Like nothing he’d ever felt.

  “I can stop this,” the man said. “But you gotta help me first.”

  “Okay, okay, whatever you want. Just please, no more on the feet. No more feet. I’ll do whatever you ask.”

  “Where were you going tonight?” He held up a finger. “And no lies.”

  “Um, I … ahh.” There was no way he could tell them the truth. No way. “I was picking up a friend at the airport—”

  The whip cut him off. It slashed across the arch of his feet. It hit so hard he wondered for a brief moment if his feet were torn in half. Blood didn’t just trickle down this time. It shot in the air and followed the whip’s arc.

  Mark screamed until his voice was hoarse. Stars rolled throughout his vision. The room grew dark. He was sure he was about to pass out.

  Suddenly a bucket of water was dumped on his head and he was wide awake again, gasping for breath, swallowing the excess liquid. It tasted of metal.

  “Good, you’re back with us.”

  Mark clenched his teeth against the pain and looked at each man in turn. He wanted their faces forever in his memory. If he got out of this alive, when he healed, each man would die in his sleep by Mark’s hand. Pliers to their dicks would be the easy way out for these scum.

  “Now, are you ready to stop lying or would you rather we just amputate your feet?”

  Words he never thought he would hear. They sounded so horrible, his stomach clenched and he vomited, angling his head to the side so he didn’t choke on it.

  The big man stood and stepped away. He ordered more water and one of the other men to clean the mess up.

  “There’s no fucking way I’m talking to this piece of shit with the smell of bile in my nose,” the big man shouted.

  His feet grew numb as they cleaned the puke up. If only it was over and they didn’t touch his feet again, then maybe he could make it out of this.

  Once they finished the clean up, the big man pulled a chair over and sat down close to Mark’s head, the baseball bat across his thighs.

  “Deal time. I ask the questions and you give honest answers. For each lie, you get three whacks from the whip. Count ‘em, three whacks. If you keep lying, I increase the whacks to five. Eventually, I’ll pull your pants off and we will hit you fifty times in the balls until you have none left. Then we’ll see who wants to lie to me. Are we clear?”

  Mark couldn’t find his voice in the horror he felt. He nodded so hard his head banged against the floor.

  “Good. Now, put your hands under your ass.”

  “Why?” Mark asked, his voice restored to a squeak.

  “Do it or be whipped.”

  Mark did as he was told. The big man leaned in close and rifled through Mark’s pockets, pulling the printed itinerary out for Mexico and his cell phone and wallet. After pulling the five thousand out of Mark’s wallet, he smiled down at him.

  “Maxwell is going to be pissed,” the big man said.

  “That’s my payment to him,” Mark spit out. “We had a deal.”

  “The deal was for ten grand.”

  “Tyrone has the other half.”

  The big man was shaking his head. “No, he don’t. Tyrone is dead.”

  “What?” Mark couldn’t believe it. “How? Why?”

  The man scrunched his eyebrows at Mark. “You really are a stupid motherfucker.”

  “It was only fifty thousand.” Mark felt shock settling in over his system. “Maxwell kills people for unpaid debts?” he asked out loud, more to himself. “Doesn’t that bring down too much heat?”

  “Number one, it’s more than fifty grand. Number two, Maxwell won’t tolerate disrespect anymore. Tyrone was a message. When news hits the street, debts will be easier to collect. And three, you’re the second part of the message.”

  “What, what …” He yanked on his feet and only succeeded in adding to the pain.

  “We left him in that trailer we found him in.” The big man leaned in close. “First we cut his tongue out and then his eyes. Can’t speak, can’t see. Then we did things to him while he was still alive that you wouldn’t wish on the man who raped your wife.”

  Shock set in. Mark would never have borrowed the money if he knew this was coming. He couldn’t believe Tyrone was dead. They’d known each other since they lived on the same street when they were eight-years old. Regrets were horrible at a time like this. He knew there was no way out.

  “Aha, a plane ticket to Cancun for tonight and it’s in your name.” He looked down and met Mark’s eyes. “Picking up a friend, eh? Who do you think Maxwell Ramsey is? You think you could take his money, have fun with it and then just fly off to
Mexico? You are so small time it makes my head hurt.” The man looked around at his comrades. “Can you guys believe this punk was going to run away?” He looked back down at Mark. “You are so dumb, be happy we’re here to smarten you up. Fucking idiot.”

  He clicked Mark’s cell phone buttons, scrolling through it while Mark tried to keep his breathing under control. He snuck a peek at his feet. The blood had slowed, but it still dripped off the edges of both feet. The man with the whip stood passively off to the side, waiting for his chance to go another round.