The Housewife Assassin's Ghost Protocol by Josie Brown Read Free Book Online

woman from the pens.”
    As he crushes Pinky Ring’s hand in his fist, the smaller man whimpers,   “They’ve been passed around too much! And they certainly don’t have her desire to live.”
    “We have a few new ones in there. Whomever you choose, you’ll be her first.” Salem’s arm goes around my waist in order to jerk me along to another door further down the hall. It is closed.  
    Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he taps in the necessary code on its numbered lock:
    19*29#
    It slides open to reveal a room holding wall-to-wall cages. They are so small that the captives—both men and women—are on their hands and knees. Their mouths are gagged, and most are naked.  
    Water bottles are strapped to the rail of each cage, as if these people are lab rats. I imagine the liquid is drugged, which is why they are so docile.
    The women who are still dressed whimper the most. When one of them realizes the door has opened, she bangs on her cage with her bound wrists.
    Salem goose-steps me to the wall. There, he reaches up with his free hand in order to pull down a short metal rod: it’s a cattle prod.
    He takes it over to the woman’s cage and smacks her hard across the shoulder. She shudders from the jolt of electricity that runs through her body. Her eyes roll up into her head before she passes out.
    The others cower in the farthest corners of their pens.
    “Too bad. She was the prettiest,” Pinky Ring murmurs.
    I recognize her. She is Jean-Pierre’s friend, Gigi.  
    “The auction starts at midnight. I anticipate she’ll go for ten million Euros.” Salem cocks his head as he scrutinizes her. “Then again, I may keep her”—his gaze shifts my way—“if this one doesn’t last the night.” He jerks me close enough that his whisper is hot on my neck. “What do you think, my pretty? Are you up for some fun and games?”
    He wants me to be frightened of ending up like Gigi. He wants me to barter for my life; to beg him to let me go.
    I want to make him pay for all the suffering he causes.
    I want to kill this son of a bitch .
    I summon a smile. With a throaty laugh, I murmur, “Lead the way.”
    His grin grows into a leer. “After the head games you’ve played on me, naughty one, I’d say be careful what you wish for.”
    His arm goes around my waist again. He’s strong enough to lift me off my feet as he strides purposefully out the door, to another at the end of the hall.  
    I carefully watch as he opens the door with the same six digit code as the one he used to access the slave pens:  
    19*29#
    As Salem shoves me inside, the door slams loudly, echoing through his private torture chamber.

    Like the other rooms on this level of the ship, there are no portholes, and its walls are padded—to muffle any screams, I imagine. Only in here, the walls of the room come to a V at one side. From that I deduce that we are at the bow of the ship.
    The fluorescent lights from overhead cast deep ugly shadows of the only things in the room: the two chains that hang from the center of the ceiling, and above a stainless steel table to one side are several items: a cattle prod, a Taser, pliers, and a cleaver—undoubtedly there to torture this twisted bastard’s unfortunate guests.  
    With more than a little luck, one of his torture tools may save me.
    More goodies hang on a wall: whips of various shapes and sizes, spreader bars, more chains, choke and jolt collars, straightjackets, paddles, butt plugs, and dildos. On another wall, floor-to-ceiling shelves hold every high heel imaginable.  
    “I see you’ve taken great care to indulge your foot fetish,” I declare.
    He walks over to the shelves. From one on high, he pulls a pair of red four-inch sandals, from Yves St. Laurent.
    Yes, I remember those shoes: When Salem and I last met, he’d chosen a similar pair for me. I was still wearing them when I stepped over his corpse. I hope tonight I will experience a déjà vu moment.
    He holds them out to me.