Out-Foxxed. Debra Webb
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enough to whisper back, “I don’t need luck, Trainer, I’m Sabrina Fox.”
He grinned. “That’s right. How could I forget?”
Sabrina pushed the cart into the corridor and the door closed behind her.
“I wish this night was over already,” she muttered.
“Sound check is good.” Trainer’s voice whispered in her ear, compliments of the commo link Big Hugh had tucked there.
“I need a long hot bath and a bottle of wine,” she added softly as she parked her cart in front of the elevators and pressed the call button.
A sound of deep, guttural agreement echoed in her ear.
She had to smile. Maybe she’d give Trainer a little tit for tat given that he’d made that smart-ass remark about her panties. She did prefer pink lingerie, that was true. She owned pink panties in every imaginable style. French cut, lacy thong, extreme low-rise.
The elevator doors slid open and she pushed the cart inside and selected the tenth floor. Since she was alone in the car, she leaned against the wall and sighed dramatically.
“Lots and lots of frothy bubbles. Neck-deep hot water. Oh yeah, that’s exactly what I’m going to do when I get home.” She closed her eyes and made one of those throaty, wistful sounds that made her think of hot, sweaty sex. “I’ll probably start taking my clothes off before I even get through the door to my apartment. Light every candle in the place and take the bottle of wine and two stemmed glasses to the tub with me.”
“Is that an invitation, Agent Fox? You did say two glasses.”
Director Anderson Marx.
Her gaze snapped open, her face flushed with embarrassment. “Negative, sir, I was…just getting into character with a relaxation technique.”
Damn, she’d forgotten Marx was tied in already. Damn Trainer. He should have said something.
She could imagine him, with his mike muted, laughing his ass off.
“Standing by,” Big Hugh said, reminding her that he was there as well.
“Ten-four, Big Hugh.” She didn’t worry about the big guy; she wasn’t his type.
The car glided to a stop with a soft ding. She pushed the cart into the alcove outside the bank of elevators. A floor-to-ceiling window was on the right, the corridor running parallel to the front of the building on the left. She took the left and headed for Room 1012.
A few steps later, she arrived at the door. She inhaled a deep, fortifying breath, then let it out slowly. She touched her uniform where the holstered weapon lay snugly against her inner thigh, then knocked loudly on the door. “Housekeeping,” she announced.
The room was quiet beyond the door.
Anticipation released another round of adrenaline that ignited a fire in her veins.
She knocked again. “Housekeeping!”
After waiting the perfunctory ten seconds, she slid her passkey through the reader and watched for the green light. Braced for whatever she might find, she pushed down on the lever and backed into the door, ushering it inward as she went.
With her back fully to the room, she pulled her cart through the door. Her pulse edged into that alert zone that reminded her that she’d just turned her back on the enemy. But she needed whoever was in the room to believe she expected to find it empty.
When her cart cleared the open doorway, the door closed with a heavy thud.
“Don’t move.”
The undeniable feel of a muzzle pressed against the back of her skull.
She caught her breath, adopted an expression of terror, making her eyes go wide and leaving her lips slightly parted.
A hand moved over her torso. She tensed, as much from the need to ensure whoever it was didn’t find the weapon fastened against her inner left thigh as from the need to appear frightened.
She twisted slightly away from his touch. “What’re you doing?” She was proud of the fear infused in her voice, as well as a second harsh intake of breath that sounded completely credible. “What’s going on here?”
Harsh fingers curled around her arm and jerked her around to face the owner of the gun that had left an impression on her scalp. “Shut up,” he growled.
She made a small shrieking sound, just loud enough to be convincing without alarming him. Things could go downhill fast if he or one of his friends grew suspicious of her and panicked.
“You have very bad timing, lady.” He leered at her, his gaze raking down to her breasts. “You should have skipped this room.”
Making her body tremble wasn’t difficult considering the guy jammed the silenced muzzle of a Glock 9mm under 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