The guy holding my right wrist, pressing his other hand down hard onto my chest, makes an amused sound. “No. You told us to go fuck up his shit,” he says.
The redheaded guy in the suit thinks for a second and then nods. “Yeah, you know what? I think you might be right. I did say that, didn’t I?”
I writhe, rage bubbling through me as I try to get free. “What the fuck is going on?”
The guy in the suit enters the room properly now, casting a bored glance around the space, his eyes traveling over my scattered belongings. He reaches out and picks up my cell phone. “My employer is a trusting man. To a point. He hires men like me to be extra suspicious on his behalf. You could say…I am Fernando Villalobos’s paranoia. And I was very paranoid when I heard that a guy from New York had showed up today on a motorcycle without so much as a phone call ahead of time. I suggested we do a little investigating before we welcomed you into the fold with open arms.”
“I’ve hardly been welcomed with open arms.” I jerk my right leg free and swiftly kick all in one motion, sending the guy who was holding onto me flying onto his ass. The guy holding onto my other leg scrambles, trying to grab hold of me, but I bend and kick out again, smashing the sole of my bare foot right into his face. He hollers, letting go of me altogether, and then I’m straining, doing my best to free my arms so I can start swinging properly.
I’m almost free when I hear something that makes me freezes, though: the safety of a gun being removed. Looking up, I see that the guy in the suit is now standing over me, and he’s pointing the business end of a Glock into my face.
“You really are a handful, huh?”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“You certainly don’t seem like a straight laced businessman, Mr. Garrett.”
“I never said I was. Why the fuck would my employer be hiring a straight laced businessman to come out here on a trip like this?”
“True.” He grunts. “If you have nothing to hide, why are you railing against being searched, then?”
“I wouldn’t have given a shit if you’d knocked politely on the door and asked, motherfucker. When you sneak up on a guy in the dark, pin him to a bed while he’s naked and start messing with his stuff, of course he’s gonna react fucking badly.”
Suit Guy smiles. “I guess you’re right. How about this, then? We would like to look through your belongings, Mr. Garrett. Do you consent?”
“Let me go, and then ask me.”
He ponders my demand, then seems to agree to it. He jerks his head in a terse, irritated motion, and then his lackeys let go, releasing me from the bed. I hop up, grabbing the towel that had been wrapped around my waist when I passed out on the bed. No one bothers to look away as I cover myself. I have zero modesty left; I’ve been naked in front of so many people in college, in the military and at the club that I couldn’t give a shit if some guy gets an eyeful of my cock and balls. What pisses me off is that none of the assholes hide the fact that they’re checking out what I’ve got, assessing me. I suppose they’ve all been in that room upstairs. They must have seen what goes on there. They must have watched so many naked men and women fuck in there that it’s all just meat to them by now.
I fold my arms across my chest, clenching my jaw. “Have at it, jackhole. I don’t have anything to hide.”
Suit Guy smirks savagely, twitching a finger. His men get to work. I only had my small backpack with me when I arrived, filled with the clothes I bought at the airport and the money I knew I would need at some point. The guys go to town, tearing the bag apart, looking for hidden pockets or zips that might be concealing nefarious secrets. The bag is in pieces by the time they’re satisfied that there’s nothing to be found there. They quickly move on to my jeans, my leather jacket, and the Adidas sneakers I was wearing when I arrived. Soon the pants are destroyed, as is my leather, and the brand new shoes. One of them holds out my wallet to the guy in the suit, who shoots me a sly glance as he flips it open.
“Any surprises in here, buddy? Anything you’d like to get off your chest before I empty this thing?”
“Nope. Go for your fucking life.” I’m not stupid. It’s not like I have a Widow Makers MC membership card in there or anything. The wallet is still kitted out with my ID from the airport. The credit cards have Sam Garret’s name on them. The driver’s licence also his. I’m not dumb enough to have plastered the inside of my wallet with pictures of Laura, thank god. Suit Guy looks visibly disappointed when he doesn’t find anything that proves me to be a liar.
“You realize we’re going to have to search you personally, Mr. Garrett?” he says. That seems to put a smile back on his face.
“You think I’ve got a wire shoved up my ass?”
He shrugs. “Could be the case. We can’t be too careful.” He nods to one of his boys, signalling that he should come forward and check me, and I growl low and deep in the back of my throat.