“Please don’t hurt us. We’ll do anything you want; I promise,” Katherine said.

She was getting him pissed—already. Like some cockteasing little wife. Doing her coital duty. He slapped on the last cuff and secured it to the other bedpost and started fitting the gag into her mouth before she could say any more and ruin tonight.

“I can tell you’re still acting, and you’re not good at it,” he told her. “Now you’re making me a little angry. I’m sorry. I don’t like myself when I get like this. You won’t either.”

He tightened the strap at the back of her head. He used all of his strength, and he was a powerful man. The girl tried to say something, but it came out as a muted grunt. He’d caused her pain. Good. She deserved it.

When he stepped back, the look on Katherine’s face had changed completely. She was afraid of him now. That wasn’t something you could fake.

“Much better,” he said. “Now, let’s see if I can think of anything else to improve that performance of yours. Oh, how about these?”

He reached into his black briefcase and pulled out a Taser gun. And pliers.

“Katherine, that’s wonderful. Your improvement is just outstanding. It’s all in the eyes.”

Chapter 38

NICHOLSON FELT AS if he’d been drinking coffee all night instead of expensive scotch. He squinted at the headlights on Lee Highway, wishing for nothing more than a nightcap, an Ambien, and a few hours away from his own tortured thoughts.

It was done, anyway. He’d wiped the hard drive and taken the disk away with him. He’d recorded Zeus’s session with the two girls. He’d witnessed the horror show. The question now was what to do with it.

It was tempting to drive around all night, put the thing in his safe-deposit box, and hopefully never go back to it again. On the other hand, he thought, if the need did arise, he’d be smart to keep it closer at hand. Just in case.

Nicholson had never indulged in the idea that this scheme of his could go on forever. The discreet club and the dirty blackmail had been a delicate balance. With Zeus in the mix, it was untenable, and the madman showed no sign of slowing down.

If Nicholson wanted out, he was going to have to disappear, and sooner rather than later.

One contingency plan after another ran through his head as he drove.

The offshore account in the Seychelles had just over two million in it. There was a hundred and fifty thousand coming from Temple Suiter, and then the Al-Hamad party next week, which promised to be good for at least as much. It was no lifetime reserve, but it was certainly enough to get him out of the country and keep him more than comfortable for a while. Definitely a couple of years, maybe longer.

He could fly through Zurich and lie low for a few weeks, until he could get a second passport. Lots of countries offered acquisition programs; Ireland might draw the least notice. Then he could use it to fly back out again, perhaps heading east. He’d always heard the trade in flesh was outrageous in Bangkok. Maybe it was time to find out.