Going Gone, Book 2 of the Irish End Games (8 page)

9
Days after the attack
.

Sarah wondered if they would ever come for her. After three full days on the line, she was seriously balancing whether her odds were better breaking out of the factory at night or waiting until they took her to the whorehouse, where there were bound to be more opportunities.

If they were going to offer her the option at all.

Dez assured her they would ask her, they were just making sure she was amenable. Sarah picked chicken viscera out from under her nails and wondered if the smell would ever come out of her hair. The days were long and grueling. If she hadn't known that deliverance was coming, she had to admit it would have been much, much worse.

Where was Mike? Was anybody coming? Had they given up on her? She forced herself not to think what John must be going through—all alone. She knew Fiona would mother him, take care of him.

Still, she had to get back to him.

It was late on the third day, just before the clang of the day's bell was about to sound, that they came for her. She recognized the man called Aidan and someone else she had never seen before. Her hands still wringing with chicken entrails, she felt a strong hand clamp down on her elbow and pull her away from the line.

“Cor, she stinks! Can't we hose her off first?”

“Just bring her. Don't bother tying her, she won't try anything.”

Sarah didn't even have a chance to get eye contact with Dez before she was dragged out of the factory. The light was fading when they opened the double factory doors and prodded her outdoors. She was grateful it wasn't earlier in the day. Likely, she would've collapsed like a squirming mole at first glance of the sun. As it was, for her purposes she knew the night was her ally.

“I was gonna have a go at her before we delivered her, but I'm not sure I've had my shots.” The man that Sarah didn't know was a rough sort. He was big, easily six-three, with a thick skull and a slack, protruding bottom lip. Aidan referred to him as Gil.

“You don't want to touch anything in there you don't have to. Besides, Denny would have your balls on a platter you touch her before him.”

In the three days since she had been bound, her wrists had scabbed over and she didn't relish the idea of having them broken open again. She went meekly to the back of the cart wondering how long the trip was and if she'd have a chance to slip off. She was stopped before she could climb in.

“Nah ya don't, little sister,” Aidan said. “Hop up top between us.” Aidan lifted the reins and patted the seat next to him. “And we're no happier about it than you are.” With sinking heart, Sarah climbed onto the driver's bench and sat next to Aidan. Gil pulled himself up and wedged her in.

It was clear why they didn't feel a need to bind her hands, at any rate.

With the factory receding in the distance over her shoulder, Sarah felt a gnawing feeling of anxiety and trepidation working up from her gut to her shoulders.

Would they expect her to go to work
tonight
? Were they taking her straight to the whorehouse?

She looked frantically from side to side hoping to see someone who might recognize that she wasn't a willing rider with these two men. But there was no one else on the road this evening. Wedged in between them, Sarah had never felt more helpless or more like prey in her entire life. She could practically feel the hunger and urgency pinging off the man, Gil, as he sat next to her, his face twisted into a lethal contortion of anger and need.

Someone who hurt others for the pleasure of it, she found herself thinking, although why she thought she knew that she couldn't say.

Wherever they were taking her, she thought, could not be more uncomfortable or dangerous than where she sat right this minute.

She was, of course, absolutely wrong.

T
he ride wasn't long enough
. Before it was totally dark, the horse cart turned a corner revealing a long curving driveway that led to a large three-story mansion. Before The Crisis, it must have belonged to someone rich and powerful Sarah thought as she regarded the house on their approach. Kerosene lamps hung in several of the windows illuminating the rooms even from the outside.

Whoever lived there now was powerful, that was for sure. Jags and Bentleys may not drive up and down this bricked entranceway any longer, but the man who lives here is a king in every other way that matters. Dez said his name was Correy. As they rode toward the mansion, Sarah knew the man they were taking her to hired cutthroats and murderers to abduct innocent women and children to work in his filthy, vermin-ridden factory and as sex slaves to whomever still had legal tender.

By the time they stopped the cart in front, Sarah wished she was back in the factory.

Gil jumped down and Sarah immediately joined him to avoid any chance he might try to assist her.

“I'll take her from here, gentlemen.”

Sarah looked up the stairs at the verandah, where a stout woman stood, her arms crossed in front of her. If it weren't for the fact that she had screaming orange hair piled up into a beehive hairdo, Sarah would've thought she was the housekeeper. She followed her up the stairs, aware that the men were coming, too.

Sarah followed the woman through the house and down the main hall. She could hear raised voices at one end of the house, but she couldn't hear what they said. She needed to hurry to keep up with the woman ahead of her. The men had fallen away at the foyer and Sarah was grateful for that. Finding the right moment to slip away from this woman would be easier if she didn't have to watch her back, too.

The woman opened a door off a back room and motioned Sarah inside. She took one step in and her resolve began to falter. The room was steamed with the fragrance of orange and rose petals that rose off the large claw-footed bathtub situated in the middle of the room. Sarah stared at it with wonder.

“Clothes.” The woman said the word as if she was giving an order she expected to be obeyed without hesitation.

Sarah blinked at her and then the tub and unbuttoned her shirt. She dropped it, her bra, underwear and jeans to the floor.

“Kick them over here.”

Sarah obeyed, then went to the tub without being told. She gripped the sides and eased herself into the hot pool of sudsy water, an involuntary groan escaping her as she did.

The woman watched her for a moment and then said, “Get clean everywhere. You've got ten minutes.” And then she swept Sarah's clothes from the room with her foot and left, closing the door behind her.

It would never have occurred to Sarah that the one time she had had in nine days to escape would be the one time she was almost physically incapable of doing so. She needed the bath, the soak, the perfume, the heat, the water. She leaned her head back and dipped her head in the water, feeling the grime and the pain of the last week melt away. Like finding rest in unlikely conditions and food she wouldn't have fed to the dogs a week ago, she needed this restorative for whatever lay ahead of her. She held her breath and submerged totally. When she came up, she could see the filth coating the top of her sweet-smelling tub of water. She reached for the shampoo that had been left out for her.

She hadn't had shampoo in over eight months. She squeezed it out onto her head and massaged it into her scalp, feeling gently for the place where Aidan had slammed her head into the side of the cart. When she dipped her head back again to rinse the soap, she noticed that the bubbles were no longer grey. The shampoo had swung the tide. She stood up just as the woman reentered the room with a wide, fluffy towel in her arms, a change of clothes draped over a forearm.

“Figured I wouldn't have to tell a Yank how to get clean,” she said in a clipped English accent. “One is never sure what to expect with the Irish, however.” She handed the towel to Sarah, who quickly toweled off and wrapped it around her body.

“Put this on.” The woman held up a negligee. It was black, short and totally see-through. She held out a pair of crotch-less panties in her hand.

So that's the way it's going to be
. Sarah reminded herself that she was clean and that was a start. It wasn't a gun. But it was better than what she had an hour ago.

She reached for the outfit.

T
hirty minutes later
, Sarah stood in the middle of a man's bedroom. She knew it was Correy that she was waiting for, not a john. The head guy himself was going to interview her. The woman who had arranged her bath, clearly a madam of some kind, had made it clear that she was to sexually avail herself to Correy.

After dressing in the skimpy negligee, she was led to Correy's bedroom.

Where she waited.

The bedroom was masculine, almost painfully so. It looked as if someone was trying very hard to show that he was very male.

That almost never boded well.

Sarah's heart was pounding as she waited, seated on the man's bed, which was made of heavy brocades and velvets. She couldn't imagine how he kept them clean now that washing machines were no more. He probably had poor peasant women banging them out on stones in the river. She shivered. In all the times she had to think about this moment, one thing she never thought would happen…was this moment.

It had never occurred to her—even after all that Dez had said about it—that she might actually end up having to give her body to someone. And not just
any
someone, but someone vile and wretched and evil. She felt goose bumps creep down her arms and she rubbed them away.

Could this really be happening? Was this really going to happen?
She glanced at the orange-headed madam, who sat in a chair by the window looking out. Sarah felt absolutely naked. The negligee easily revealed her breasts and she couldn't help hugging her body with her arms to cover them.

Once, the woman looked at her from the window and commented. “You'll need to drop your arms when he comes in. He won't be charmed by attempts to hide them.”

Who was this monster?

As she waited, Sarah took a long breath and reminded herself that the road back to her son had to go down this path. It wasn't by way of the poultry factory—which was a dead end in every way—and it wasn't by way of someone coming to rescue her. Tonight may be a terrible night. It may in fact be the worst night of her life, but it was a necessary night in order to get to the other nights—nights where an opportunity would present itself and she would be able to run.

The door banged open, startling both women. Sarah's hand flew to her mouth, but she quickly dropped it as the madam had warned her. She sat on the bed, feeling like she was nothing but a pair of breasts and a few strips of lace and panties.

He walked in and straight over to her. If she hadn't known him to be the monster he was, she would have taken him for a friendly young man who was eager to make her acquaintance. He smiled openly at her. He wasn't bad looking, with blue eyes and straight teeth, but he didn't look nice.

“Well, well, well, so this is the Yank. Very nice, I must say. Sarah, is it? I think Angie said?”

Sarah cleared her throat. “Yes, that's right.”

“Jolly good. Love that American accent. Reminds me of
Friends
. You ever watch that show? Phoebe was my favorite. Good tits. How's your arse?”

Sarah stared at him. “Excuse me?”

The madam from the window walked over. “Turn around and let him see your arse, stupid.”

Sarah slid off the bed and turned away.

“Bend over,” he said.

Oh, dear God, he's not going to do anything right here, is he?

Sarah put her hands on the bed and leaned over.

“Oh, very nice, indeed,” he said. For a moment, Sarah thought they were done. She was about to turn back around when she felt his hand slide up her bottom and yank her panties down and off. “How many times do I have to tell you, Maggie, I hate these things?”

“Sorry, Mr. Correy.”

“Get out!” he screamed.

Sarah turned to go but he grabbed her by the arm and held her by the bed. “Not you.”

When she tried to turn to face him, her heart pounding in her ears, her face red with fear and revulsion, he held her immobile between him and the bed. She felt him rub his pelvis against her naked bottom. She grimaced and bit her lip to endure it. He leaned over so his mouth was near her ear while both his hands held her hips in place in front of him.

“Now, here's what you need to ask yourself, luv,” he whispered hoarsely into her ear. “Is fighting me, or anyone else I send to roger you—which will surely force me to slit your throat and throw you on the growing pile of useless bitches who crossed me—going to get you back to your boy? Angie said you had a son. If you're dead, you have zero chance of ever seeing him again. You see how this works?”

Sarah took in a breath and held it.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“I love how quickly you Yanks see the writing. So, you'll be stripping down without my having to do it for you. You'll await me in my bed, no matter how long I take. And you'll do me just fine, no matter what I ask you to do. Do we understand each other?”

Sarah nodded, her hands gripping the bed in front of her. He gave her bare ass one last hard squeeze before he slapped it and pushed away from her. “Chin up, darlin', English women have taken it up the arse for Mother England for years. I don't recollect the exact phrase but it's something like that. I won't mind a bit if it helps to think of your boy while I roger you.” He laughed roughly and moved to the door. “I'll be back.”

Sarah nodded again and waited until the door closed behind him.

She was alone.

Jumping off the bed, Sarah ran across the room and jerked open the first drawer in his tallboy. T-shirts and underwear were neatly stacked. Rifling under the clothes, she found nothing she could use to protect herself. Hearing footsteps outside the door, she paused. When they passed, she pulled open the second drawer to find only jeans. Sarah touched the rough denim fabric and then, hearing a different set of footsteps, hurriedly pushed the drawer shut and ran back to the bed.