Trophy 7

Frank waited in the antechamber. He sat on the secretary’s desk—never used except by dust—and checked his tools. A rag soaked in ether took minutes to work. A syringe full of animal tranquilizer needed a vein; hard to find when the victim was struggling. What he’d come up with was a bulb syringe, usually used for enemas. He filled them with chloroform.

He’d waited ten minutes after the town car parked, surveilling the building. Most of the windows were dark, a few were lit, but only two were made of tinted glass. He played a hunch that this was where Belladonna and her escort had gone.

Coming to the offices of Ethan James Markham, he’d tried the door. Locked. Unusual for an accountant not to keep banker’s hours. And it was almost eleven in the morning. He picked the lock, turned the knob. There was a deadbolt keeping the door shut.

Suppressing a growl of frustration, Frank had played another hunch. Judging from what he’d observed Bella doing while the cat was away, this was probably more of the same. In which case there’d be no one minding the store, only participants. And the love nest she’d picked out for herself had one obvious drawback.

He elbowed the frosted glass, reached through the shattered window, and undid the deadbolt. Then he let himself in, Glock .40 at the ready. The office was dark, empty, but a shaft of light wandered out of the next room. Frank approached it, held his ear to the door. Got the audio of the spectacle he had watched through his binoculars earlier that week. One thing you couldn’t say of Belladonna: that she was frigid.

He went to work on his syringes. The nozzles were inverted and tucked into the bulbs. He pulled them out, turned them around, plugged them in. Then he took the bottle of chloroform from his bag.

Bella was still at it; things were ramping up.

He squished the first bulb flat, stuck the nozzle’s tip into the bottle, and let it suck up the fluid. He repeated the procedure for the other two syringes, slotting each into one of his coat pockets.

They were still going at it, but Frank held no romantic notions about letting them get in one last delight before he did his work. These people were animals. They’d been allowed to be animals for far too long. Taking them out was like an overdue debt finally being called in. His only regret was that he couldn’t be entirely sure of their guilt.

Bella might not be complicit in Vincenzo’s crimes. The bodyguard might be just a hired hand. And whoever Bella was meeting with could be nothing more than a guy getting his dick wet.

Otherwise, his itchy trigger finger would get scratched.

Frank turned the doorknob, cracked the door. Holding the first of the syringes in one hand, his G40 in the other, he shouldered his way in. Luck was with him. None of the three ‘lovers’ were facing the door. They were too lost in each other, in the sheer debauchery of what they were doing, to give any thought to being interrupted. And they had no weapons on them. The only one wearing anything was Bella, and it could hardly be called clothes.

She wore Cadolle lingerie, a black corset that clung to her full breasts as avidly as the hands of the men caressing her body. Ruffled lace panties hung from one ankle; Frank could imagine how delightful they’d looked cresting the jaw-dropping curves of her narrow waist and plump ass. Finishing the ensemble were garter belts, stockings, and a choker, all of black satin, making her lusciously bared skin even more sensuous. Lace glovelets were the crowning touch, accentuating her orgiastically flexing fingers the same way the rest of her was alight with sexuality.

It struck Frank as over-the-top, obscene, an advertisement that she was there to fuck, born to fuck. Yet it aroused him. He had to fight down how turned on he was, focus on the mission, proceed with the mission before there was any time for Bella’s abundant charms to work on him.

Black Christian Louboutin So Kate stiletto shoes lay on the floor, seeming like a monument next to the detritus of the men’s discarded clothes. He stepped over them, marching up to the threesome with no attempt at stealth. He would’ve wanted them to notice him, to try to defend themselves, give him a fight, only Frank couldn’t want anything at the moment except Bella. She was all-consuming.

Romano was the closest, driving into Bella like a man possessed. Frank exorcised him, coming up behind the bodyguard and seizing him by the jaw. Iron-hard fingers nailed into the soft flesh of his cheeks, prying his mandible now, making sure Romano couldn’t muffle the gratified moan that became a squeal of fright and pain.

Frank was the one to silence him, stuffing the syringe into his mouth, down his throat, and fisting the bulb before his gag reflex could even begin to sputter. Eight ounces of chloroform suddenly introduced into his system, circulating into his digestive system, his airways, and quickly settling into his bloodstream. His last act that could be said to be conscious was to have a seizure—Frank shoved him aside.

Bella, already on all fours, was quick to scramble to the headboard, screaming. That left Frank with a straight shot to Vito.

He brought his free hand down, fist hitting Vito in the breadbasket with the force of a sledgehammer. Any strength the Mafia prince had in his body went into coughing, gasping.

Frank knelt on his belly, holding Vito down while he produced a second syringe in his right hand. His left jabbed Vito in the face. Vito didn’t have the wherewithal to bite as that same hand dragged his jaw down.

Frank fed the syringe into his mouth, down into his throat. He squeezed the bulb. Vito’s anatomy was besieged as Romano’s had been. He wasn’t any more immune than the bodyguard.

By now, Bella had her wits about her. She made a break for the door. Frank intercepted her. Thick arms snaked around her body. They held her tight. He dragged her back to the bed, thrust her onto the mattress. Bella screamed; once more she was sharing the sheets with two convulsing, foaming bodies.

Frank slapped her. His right hand came up with the G40. His left hand held up the third syringe.

“If you want, I can knock you out. But I don’t think you’d like waking up after being dragged down three flights of stairs. Shut up, get dressed, and I’ll let you walk to the car.”

“I can’t believe that you… you…” Bella gasped breathlessly, lying back with her legs flung open as wide as her smoky eyes. “You stopped me—I was so close—!”

Frank thumbed the G40’s safety off. “You’ll get over it.”

Bella retrieved her panties, which had fully fallen off in the scuffle, and wiggled into them. Her shoes were next.

To Frank’s surprise, the only other thing she put on was a Dolce & Gabbana black technical organza trench coat. The garment was all but sheer, doing little to convince anyone that she was wearing anything at all. Her bare legs and arms were easily discernible. Her chest and groin only slightly less. It amazed Frank that the woman would wear such a thing to cheat on her husband. Did she have any sense of subtlety at all? Was she trying to get caught?

Frank didn’t let himself care. He gripped her arm tight enough to make her flinch. In his other hand, he held the G40 down in his coat pocket.

“Don’t try to get loose or I’ll kill you. Any noise, I’ll kill you. And I hope for your sake you don’t have any more bodyguards around.”

“Why? You’ll kill me?” Bella demanded.

“No. Because they’re going to have blue balls for a while.”

***

Frank led Bella downstairs. He didn’t rush and he didn’t let Bella rush. They came to the ground floor and proceeded out the exit Frank had preselected, as calm and orderly as middle schoolers doing a fire drill. Outside, the streets weren’t as deserted as they had been before. Three Somalis were playing dice on the curb across the street. Bella eyed them; Frank squeezed her arm until the bone creaked.

“Don’t scream,” he told her. “They might have guns. You wouldn’t make much of a shield.”

“I watch my weight,” Bella replied. “I won’t scream. Even if you’re going to rape me, I’d rather one man do it than three. I’m old-fashioned that way.”

“Funny,” Frank said, leading her to his Mustang. “It’s unlocked.”

She opened the driver’s side door and climbed in. Frank pushed her over to the passenger seat and took the driver’s. She tried the door. It didn’t open. Frank jabbed the muzzle of the G40 into her side.

“Buckle your seatbelt.”

Bella did it. “You traffic cops are getting strict these days.”

“Now open your coat.”

“We could’ve done this upstairs,” Bella said, holding open the lapels of her coat to show once more how her incredible breasts seemed in a constant struggle to escape being held by her low-cut corset. Each breath tested the tightness of the lingerie against the buxomness of her body.

“Open the glove box.”

“A present? You shouldn’t have.”

She fingered the clasp and the door fell open. Inside were several grenades, cases of ammunition, insurance information, and on top of it all, a hypodermic needle. Frank picked up the needle and bit off the covering.

“Hey, what’s in that?” Bella demanded, shrill panic setting in. She’d always hated needles.

“You tell me,” Frank said, and stabbed the point into Bella’s bare thigh. He depressed the plunger quickly.

Bella started to scream; he let go of the syringe and covered her mouth. She struggled, but the seatbelt was enough to hold her. Her body rapidly weakened, lost its coordination, eyes going glassy…

“You didn’t ask what was in the dose I gave your boyfriend,” he reminded her. “Either of them.”

Bella’s eyes shut. Frank took the empty needle out of her leg, tossed it back in the glove box, shut it back up. He tugged Bella’s coat shut, adjusted her seatbelt, then reclined the seat. Now he looked like nothing more than a man taking his sleepy wife on a car ride.

Except a guy like that probably wouldn’t have a hard-on in danger of hitting the steering wheel.

Where was Agnes when he needed her?