Out-Foxxed. Debra Webb
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her chin. Not exactly comfortable—and she didn’t trust him not to accidentally fire off a round. Glocks weren’t designed for amateurs or idiots. He looked exactly like the latter, a little too excited and gung ho. Considering the uniform she wore, she doubted her breasts had caused the effect.
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “Please…please…don’t hurt me.”
He laughed, nice and loud as goons would do. “Please, please don’t hurt me,” he mimicked in a high-pitched, squeaky voice.
“What do we do with her?”
The new male voice came from behind the goon currently manhandling her.
Well, now she knew for sure there were at least two of them.
The goon with the 9mm still rammed against her glanced menacingly over his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing? Get back in there!”
Sabrina knew this room was a two-bedroom suite. Though she couldn’t see anything beyond the large man blocking her view, obviously some or all of the family were being held in one of the bedrooms.
When the goon’s attention turned back to her, she dropped back into character. “Please,” she pleaded, “I’m just a housekeeper.” She shook her head frantically. “I don’t—”
“Shut up!” He backhanded her.
She saw at least one star on the heels of the pain that shattered in her jaw. She didn’t have to taste the blood to know he’d busted her lip. Nothing major, just a tiny crack.
Marshalling the requisite tears, she dove deeper into the part of terrified hostage.
Her new friend shoved her to the floor next to her cart. “Don’t move,” he snarled, “while I decide what to do with you.”
Shaking for the benefit of those watching, Sabrina huddled against the cool stainless steel of the cart and covertly took a look around the room.
Two men lay on the floor near the massive wall of windows that, behind the drawn drapes, overlooked Manhattan. Both men were bound and gagged, and either dead or unconscious.
The unmistakable sound of a hard fist connecting with soft flesh tugged her attention to her extreme right.
An older man was secured to a chair. His face bore the signs of a severe beating, yet he somehow managed to look distinguished in his distress. As she watched, he groaned and attempted to turn away from the next blow coming his way.
Mr. Stavi.
Well, at least he was still alive.
The guy beating him made Goon Number Three. The taller guy standing back watching the torture was Number Four.
Four to one.
Not the worst odds she’d ever encountered.
But not the best, either.
Since the wife and children were not in this room, her initial assessment had likely been correct. The family, dead or alive, was being held in one of the bedrooms. Since Goon Number One had ordered Goon Number Two back to his post, she would work under the assumption that he still had live hostages to oversee.
The sound of a round being chambered hauled her attention once more to the man hovering over her. She stared into the ominous black barrel of the 9mm, then at the bully beyond it.
“I’ve made up my mind,” he declared.
“GET UP.”
In her earpiece, Big Hugh reminded her that all she had to do was say the word and a team would move in and do the takedown.
“I’ll do anything you say,” she offered, sending a pleading look at the man with the gun and a definite message to Big Hugh that the team should stand down for now. She refused to allow the new wave of fight or flight that surged to divert her focus. She had to be ready for any scenario. “Just don’t hurt me.”
“Get up,” her captor roared.
Sabrina scrambled to her feet, mindful of the thigh holster she didn’t want making an appearance. Sheer determination kept her heart rate far calmer than it should have been, ensuring a clear head. She’d learned long ago the secrets to remaining cool and collected in the face of death. The enemy could only kill her once and only if she allowed herself to screw up. No matter the situation, some amount of control always belonged to her, no one could take that away.
The fear and panic she permitted on the surface were for the enemy’s benefit. She needed these men to continue to believe that she was just a hotel maid, an innocent civilian who had no clue what was going on here. As long as they felt in control, their actions would be more predictable.
“Take her into the bedroom with the others,” Goon Number One, the man who appeared to be in charge, told his minion. The boss was older than the others. Streaks of gray had invaded the raven-colored hair along his temples. His grim face told her he’d had more than his share of experience in this sort of activity. Despite his age, he looked lean and fit physically. What was more, his heritage was impossible to calculate. He didn’t look Middle Eastern and he certainly didn’t sound so.
Goon Number Four, the man she decided to call Tall Guy since he was well over six feet, grabbed her by the arm and hauled her toward the French doors that separated what was likely the master suite from the parlor. Inside the elegant spacious bedroom, a woman and two children cowered in the farthest corner from the door.
The wife and kids of the man currently being tortured.
Also in the room was Goon Number Two, the one she’d heard ordered back to his post before getting a visual on him. His age was easy to guess, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three. His inexperience was even easier to see. He handled his weapon as if he weren’t sure how to hold it or what to do with it next. His eyes were wide with his attempts at taking in everything at once.
Goon Number Two was scared.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. His inexperience could cause any number of mistakes. Not to mention that his presence reconfirmed the odds against her—four to one.
But hey, what good was a challenge without interesting odds?
The French doors abruptly shut behind her, sending her tension to a new level. With the doors closed, it would be difficult to hear what was going on in the other room. She would simply have to depend upon Big Hugh to keep her informed for now since he was monitoring that room via the rigged cart.
“Over there,” Goon Number Two commanded, directing her to join the other hostages.
Keeping up the necessary facade of fear, she edged past him and moved hesitantly toward the woman and children.
As she passed the en suite bath, she noticed three men, well dressed and obviously dead; they didn’t move and were unrestrained, piled on the floor in front of the elegant marble vanity. The three dead guys most likely were—had been— Stavi’s security detail. What a shame. Even a family’s own personal security couldn’t keep them safe in the finest of hotels.
Sabrina scrutinized the woman and her children. She saw no signs of mistreatment. That was good. She hoped like hell she could make sure it stayed that way. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered, hoping to reassure the woman with the words and her determined expression.
“No talking!”
Sabrina sent Goon Number Two a scornful glare but he was too busy watching his friends through the French doors to notice. She got the distinct impression he didn’t like being left on babysitting duty. He wanted in on the important stuff like the torture. He wanted to be in the middle of the part that really mattered, killing an Israeli VIP.
Too bad for him.
The little girl, who was six