“So vulgar.” He sighs in annoyed disgust. "Three hundred thousand Euros, paid when I receive my merchandise—alive and…of use to my clients."
"Half now."
"Very well." My phone dings—I look at it, grinning when my bank account balance shows an increase of 150k. "There you are. Now. Finish with your little friend and be off. And expect the unexpected."
"Yeah, yeah. I'm no wet-behind-the-ears boot, you know."
"I'll expect an update in the next seventy-two hours."
"Sure, sure. Fuck off…cunt." I end the call, shut the device off, and swagger down the hallway.
She's about to go, arching off the bed with her fingers flying. I wait till she's right on the cusp, and then I knock her fingers away and take over with my mouth. I show her the promised good time—I always follow through on that promise, at least.
Behind the scenes, though, my mind is swirling with chaos. How did he know? No one knows. No one. Yet he does.
And I have no choice but to do this.
It's her last chance.
And I’m out of options.
We have a good time, me and…Shannon? Shenandoah? Something with an S-H. But really, my heart isn’t in it.
So, the moment she falls asleep, I pull on my kit and leave her flat.
It's a long train ride to Berlin.
3
3: TRAIN RIDE FROM HELL; A COCKNEY SAVIOR
Ow.
Everything hurts.
Why does everything hurt?
My skin hurts. My muscles hurt. My head hurts. Even my hair hurts. Did I get wasted again? I don't remember…what do I remember?
Skiing with the boys in Switzerland. The bar, the fight, sneaking out. The driver. The club. Dancing. Going to the bathroom. The selfies with those girls.
The hallway.
A girl being kidnapped. Trying to stop it.
Getting tased or stun-gunned.
I crack one eye open: a window, through which I can see precisely nothing—it's night, and pitch black. But I do get the impression that I'm on a train.
Why am I on a train?
I hear something—a shuffle, a breath. Holding stone-still, I open my other eye; I feel wobbly, thick-headed, and sluggish.
Yes, I’m in a train compartment, and I'm not alone. There are two men and one woman. The men are asleep sitting up, heads nodding; They're both in their late thirties or early forties, pudgy and unfit but strong-looking, greasy, unshaven, unwashed—the men from the hallway. The compartment smells of body odor and old cigarette smoke clinging to clothes that haven't been washed or changed in who knows how long. They're both white men, and I remember thinking that they spoke a Slavic language or something, but I don't know for sure. I’m no polyglot like so many of my extended A1S family.
The girl—she's about my age, so a young woman rather than a girl—is white as well, with long, fine, straight blond hair, pale skin, a few freckles. She's curled up away from the man beside her, so I can't tell much about her other than, like me, she's dressed for the club in a tiny red miniskirt and a sheer black top with black tape in an X over her nipples. No shoes. No bag. Come to think of it, my bag is gone, too.
Which means I have no phone, no money, no ID. I'm dressed in a skanky little outfit with no shoes, I've been drugged, and I'm on a train going who knows where.
