A Girl Betrayed (A Leah Mason suspense thriller Book 2) Read online

  A Girl Betrayed

  Russell Blake

  Copyright © 2017 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:

  [email protected].

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  Contents

  Books by Russell Blake

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Excerpt from Silver Justice

  Books by Russell Blake

  Co-authored with Clive Cussler

  THE EYE OF HEAVEN

  THE SOLOMON CURSE

  Thrillers

  FATAL EXCHANGE

  FATAL DECEPTION

  THE GERONIMO BREACH

  ZERO SUM

  THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY

  THE VOYNICH CYPHER

  SILVER JUSTICE

  UPON A PALE HORSE

  DEADLY CALM

  RAMSEY’S GOLD

  EMERALD BUDDHA

  THE GODDESS LEGACY

  A GIRL APART

  A GIRL BETRAYED

  The Assassin Series

  KING OF SWORDS

  NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN

  RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN

  REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN

  BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN

  REQUIEM FOR THE ASSASSIN

  RAGE OF THE ASSASSIN

  The Day After Never Series

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – BLOOD HONOR

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – PURGATORY ROAD

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – COVENANT

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – RETRIBUTION

  THE DAY AFTER NEVER – INSURRECTION

  The JET Series

  JET

  JET II – BETRAYAL

  JET III – VENGEANCE

  JET IV – RECKONING

  JET V – LEGACY

  JET VI – JUSTICE

  JET VII – SANCTUARY

  JET VIII – SURVIVAL

  JET IX – ESCAPE

  JET X – INCARCERATION

  JET XI – FORSAKEN

  JET XII – ROGUE STATE

  JET – OPS FILES (prequel)

  JET – OPS FILES; TERROR ALERT

  The BLACK Series

  BLACK

  BLACK IS BACK

  BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK

  BLACK TO REALITY

  BLACK IN THE BOX

  Non Fiction

  AN ANGEL WITH FUR

  HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS

  (while drunk, high or incarcerated)

  About the Author

  Featured in The Wall Street Journal, The Times, and The Chicago Tribune, Russell Blake is The NY Times and USA Today bestselling author of over forty novels, including Fatal Exchange, Fatal Deception, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Blood of the Assassin, Requiem for the Assassin, Rage of the Assassin The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Silver Justice, JET, JET – Ops Files, JET – Ops Files: Terror Alert, JET II – Betrayal, JET III – Vengeance, JET IV – Reckoning, JET V – Legacy, JET VI – Justice, JET VII – Sanctuary, JET VIII – Survival, JET IX – Escape, JET X – Incarceration, JET XI – Forsaken, JET XII – Rogue State, Upon a Pale Horse, BLACK, BLACK is Back, BLACK is the New Black, BLACK to Reality, BLACK in the Box, Deadly Calm, Ramsey’s Gold, Emerald Buddha, The Day After Never – Blood Honor, The Day After Never – Purgatory Road, The Day After Never – Covenant, The Day After Never – Retribution, The Day After Never – Insurrection, The Goddess Legacy, A Girl Apart and A Girl Betrayed.

  Non-fiction includes the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time (even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody of all things writing-related.

  Blake is co-author of The Eye of Heaven and The Solomon Curse, with legendary author Clive Cussler. Blake’s novel King of Swords has been translated into German, The Voynich Cypher into Bulgarian, and his JET novels into Spanish, German, and Czech.

  Blake writes under the moniker R.E. Blake in the NA/YA/Contemporary Romance genres. Novels include Less Than Nothing, More Than Anything, and Best Of Everything.

  Having resided in Mexico for a dozen years, Blake enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while battling world domination by clowns. His thoughts, such as they are, can be found at his blog:

  RussellBlake.com

  To get your free copy,

  just join my readers’ group here:

  http://bit.ly/rb-kos

  Chapter 1

  The living area of the stately Georgetown townhome glowed with amber light from a half dozen Tiffany lamps. The stern countenance of a gaunt French nobleman glared from a portrait on a Venetian plaster wall as though annoyed at being framed for eternity in weathered gold leaf. Techno jazz drifted from the bar at one end of the room, providing discreet cover for hushed conversations among heavyset men lounging on rococo couches – the lobbyists and bureaucrats who ran Washington. Young women in lingerie with impossibly long legs brought cocktails to the rarified clientele, rewarding their groping and inebriated proposals with polite giggles and the dazzling smiles of supermodels.

  The townhome was a mainstay of the D.C. scene, its address well known to the city’s movers and shakers – as well as the police, who steered well clear of it. Brothels came and went in a town where power was the ultimate aphrodisiac, but Number Seven had provided dependable service for decades from the same location, an oasis of pleasure and possibility, its workers unmolested by prosecution and its owners far above the law. No debauchery was off-limits for its customers – boys, girls, young, old, innocent as angels or shopworn as street whores. Whatever the fantasy or predilection, Number Seven had it on tap.

  Upstairs, six suites were appointed as pleasure chambers, where the colors and finishes ran the gamut from understated elegance to lurid red velvet and black latex. In the second room from the rear stairwell, a man in his sixties with a florid complexion reclined on a divan, a brandy snifter half full of cognac on the marble coffee table before him, watching with rapt attention as a slender young woman with the lean curves of a teenager performed a slow stript
ease in front of a flat-panel television playing hardcore porn, her unlined face placid as a mountain lake and her doe-like eyes vacant.

  She swiveled her hips to the music emanating from concealed speakers with the practiced grace of a pole dancer, and pulled a white blouse over her pigtailed head to reveal rosebud nipples that glistened with a sheen of body oil. The man’s intake of breath at the sight was audible, and he leaned forward for his drink as the girl continued to dance, the muted film behind her reflecting off her creamy skin as she performed a slow turn.

  “You like?” she asked in an Eastern European accent, her voice childlike and musical as a violin.

  “Amazing,” the man replied, his words thick with alcohol and desire.

  The girl continued her dance. The exaggerated mascara that ringed her eyes was smeared as though she’d been crying – exactly as the client had stipulated when he’d ordered her that morning. Free of tattoos or piercings, Annika was sixteen, a veteran of Russian and Argentine brothels; her specialty was posing as forbidden fruit, a schoolgirl whose appetites were insatiable around men of a certain age. The client was a high roller and an important figure in the government – that was all she’d been told, which was more than sufficient, given the amount she would earn for a few hours of misery with the loathsome toad. For her it didn’t matter – after a thousand similar transactions, this was merely a mechanical chore that required every bit of her acting skill to keep convincing.

  The man withdrew a small metal container from his jacket pocket and opened it as Annika absently massaged a buttock beneath her plaid schoolgirl skirt. He set it on the table, removed a steel tube, and dumped a mound of white powder on the marble top. Annika didn’t blink – drugs were a routine part of the job, and if they were offered, she would gladly join the client in consuming them. Anything that would numb what was to come was welcome, be it liquor or dope, although she’d fortified herself chemically before the client had arrived and was already in a dreamy state of narcotic bliss that made the job easier for her.

  The client slid a credit card from his pocket and crafted four lines from the pile, only tearing his eyes from Annika for the time necessary to attend to his task. When he finished, he held up the tube in invitation.

  “You want some?” he asked.

  “What is?” Annika replied, swaying to the music.

  “Pharmaceutical-grade coke and skag. My own special mixture. Just enough heroin to soften the buzz.”

  “Mmm. I’ve never done this,” Annika lied.

  “It’s like heaven,” the client assured her, and leaned over the table to snort two of the lines.

  The powder disappeared up the tube, and he leaned back and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing from the effort. After a few moments he sighed contentedly and then motioned to Annika. “Come on. You’ll love it. It’s smooth – like velvet.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “I don’t do the drugs.”

  The client gave her a wolfish grin. “Then I’m corrupting you.”

  Annika knew better than to push her act past the point of credibility and offered him a smile of her own as she teetered over to the table on cartoonishly high heels, her unsteadiness as contrived as her hair color. A gymnast who lacked the talent to be competitive, Annika had been recruited by a criminal syndicate in the Ukraine and shipped to Moscow. She owed her appetite for drugs and freedom to a stepfather who’d molested her regularly from the ripe age of thirteen. Her awkwardness with her outfit was part of the performance the client was paying for; wanting a healthy tip, she would pretend to be right off the boat and unfamiliar with the trappings of her trade.

  She sat on a cushion beside the client, accepted the tube, and hesitantly inhaled one of the lines. Her eyes teared almost immediately as the heroin burned her sinuses, and she set the tube down on the table and shook her head.

  “That’s…that’s strong. One is enough for my size,” she said. “I am only little girl.”

  The client nodded and smiled, his eyes skittish. “More for me,” he said, and did the final line.

  Annika dabbed at her nose with her fingers, waiting for the burn to subside. She knew from smoking heroin what to expect, and hoped that the mixture was light enough that she wouldn’t vomit. The discomfort in her nose began to fade as the buzz of the cocaine hit, energizing her with a burst of euphoric adrenaline, and she giggled and gave the client a shy smile.

  The man put a clammy hand on one of her bare thighs and leaned into her, his breath heavy with cognac. “Daddy hears you’ve been very bad, lil’ darlin’.”

  Annika affected a pout. “Oh, I have. But I’m sorry. I can’t help the way I get.”

  “I’m going to have to teach you a lesson,” he said, fondling her leg.

  “I promise I won’t do it again,” Annika protested, staying in character.

  The client looked over at the four-poster bed, silk ties already cinched into place at the corners. “But you must be disciplined. Punished for your thoughts.”

  Annika batted her eyes seductively. From here it would be straightforward bondage, she knew. The client would insist on tying her up, Annika would comply, he would tease her with the toys she had placed on the nightstand, and then he would consummate. When they were done, he might or might not have the will to go another round, typically with the roles reversed, where he was bound and she tempted him to the point of no return. It was a common fantasy with her clients: where she was entirely powerless and subjugated by them, the scenario all the more compelling because of her tender years.

  The man struggled to his feet and led Annika to the bed, where she dutifully unbuckled his belt and dropped his slacks, all the while maintaining the expression of innocent fear she’d rehearsed in the mirror for hours in order to convey just the right level of subjugation.

  The client groaned and tilted his head back as the drugs kicked in, and Annika went to work. After three minutes of fruitless effort, she paused and eyed him. “Is problem with me?” she asked.

  He shook his head and retrieved a small vial from his shirt pocket. He unscrewed the top, inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes as the amyl nitrate fumes dilated his circulatory system, enabling blood to flow where required. After a long final huff, he replaced the top and motioned for Annika to resume her ministrations, his face a mask of tense anticipation.

  The drug worked its magic and soon he was rigid, eyes hungry as he bound Annika spread-eagle to the bedposts. She pretended to struggle, but only a little, to add to the illusion that she was being restrained against her will.

  When he finished lashing her wrists, she whispered in a small voice, “Don’t hurt me too much.”

  He gave her a cruel grin and stripped off his suit. Annika closed her eyes, the sight of his corpulent form repellent to her even though she’d serviced far worse. He set his clothes on the divan and lumbered to the bed, and then he was on top of her, grunting like a rooting hog as she gritted her teeth and moaned appropriately.

  The first slap rang out like a rifle shot and snapped her head to the side. A red welt blossomed on her cheek, and her eyes popped open, nothing fake about the fear in them. “No,” she cried, but another blow silenced her, and the client resumed his labor, his breathing a rasp in her ear.

  Annika debated screaming, which would bring help, but decided against it due to the client’s power and prestige. She could take a few blows if the money was right. As long as he wasn’t using his fists, she’d endured worse for far less. Only when his hands wrapped around her neck and his pace increased did her instinct to cry out win over her greed. She tried to scream, but because he was choking her, all she managed was a muted groan.

  She convulsed as consciousness slipped away, her thrashing at her bindings no longer an act as her lungs burned for air. The last thing Annika registered before her vision starburst and then faded to black was the painting of a bucolic landscape on the far wall, the faces of the peasants jolly as they went about their harvest.

  Two minute
s later the man’s back arched as he climaxed, and then he rolled from Annika, sweating and spent. He gasped for breath as he lay on his back, his chest rising and falling enough to shake the entire bed. Eventually he rolled toward her, wisps of silver hair askew, his body covered in perspiration from exertion and the rush of the drugs.

  “That was amazing,” he said, eyelids clamped shut. When Annika didn’t answer, he glanced at her, his gaze unfocused. He blinked away sweat and squinted to better make her out, and recoiled in horror at her cyanotic complexion, blue lips, and eyes staring into eternity, the blood vessels ruptured to the point that her blue irises appeared to be floating in crimson.

  He slapped her face and, when there was no reaction, tried pumping her chest in a clumsy attempt at CPR, but after thirty seconds he gave up and rolled off the bed. He cursed when he stubbed his toe on the way to the divan, and hurriedly donned his clothes. When he was dressed, he called out in a loud voice.

  “Help! There’s been an accident. Help!”

  When nobody came, he crossed the room, unlocked the door, and stuck his head into the hall. “Get somebody in here. There’s…there’s a problem,” he called to the woman seated beneath a painting at the far end of the corridor.

  “Problem? What kind of problem?” the woman asked, rising and hurrying toward him.

  “I…she’s not breathing,” he whispered, his eyes wild.

  The woman raised a tiny radio to her lips and murmured into it. Footsteps sounded from the stairs at a run, and a tall man in a black windbreaker appeared. They pushed past the client into the room and froze. After a long beat, the man moved to Annika and felt for a pulse, his face impassive as he took in the contusions on her neck. He looked up at the woman and shook his head. Her lips hardened into a thin line, and she turned to the customer with a flinty stare.

  The client’s mouth worked like a beached fish. “I…we were…she wanted to be…she begged to be…but…I didn’t think…I didn’t mean…”

  The woman nodded to the man in the windbreaker and addressed the client. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of everything.” She looked to the man. “Get him out of here.”