Page 22 of Hunt

“Why are you here this early anyway?” I asked, closing the bathroom door and scanning the office again in case I had missed a corner where a rat could hide.

“My class was canceled because the tutor was sick, so I thought I’d come to work early,” he explained, combing his fingers through his hair, looking perturbed.

“Everything alright?” I questioned.

“Yeah, I don’t know. Something stinks…” his nostrils flared as he looked skyward at the ceiling. “Yeah, I can smell fried chicken or something worse.”

“Worse?” The more I sniffed, the more it smelled like sewage.

“It might be up there,” he suggested, pointing to the ceiling.

The floor above is the Red Velvet rooms, where we organize high-class hookers for our very elite and exclusive guests that can afford to pay large sums of money for the privilege of privacy and discretion. No secrets escaped the Red Velvet rooms, mainly because they were so fiercely gatekept that most of our staff wouldn’t know of their existence, let alone be allowed to venture beyond the hidden door.

“I’ll check it out while you help get rid of those rats,” I instructed, as another knock struck a wall, this time sounding as though it came from the ceiling. Maybe Ronan was right.

“Sure thing, Mikky,” he said, striding to the door, always eager to help out where and when he could. Another scraping sound came from the floor above, and Ronan came to a halt. “Maybe I should come with you, Mikky.”

“Yeah, maybe you should,” I agreed, opening my bottom drawer, taking out a Glock, and checking that it was loaded. “Pardon the pun, but I smell a fucking rat.”

“Me too,” he replied as I walked behind him down the hall, tucking my handgun into my belt under my shirt.

We trotted down the stairs under a serenade of screeching staff, discovering another rat somewhere it shouldn’t be. My jaw locked as a slight pain reverberated down my neck as Ronan swore under his breath.

I decided, “If we don’t solve this problem in one hour, we’ll remain closed. "

“How many are there?” he asked, staring down the hall at a staff member flapping her hands, her expression one of horror.

“I have no idea,” I exhaled as we left to enter the casino area. I ran my finger along the treacle-colored surface of the nearest blackjack table to ensure it was dust-free.

On the other side of the divider wall was the bar, dining area, and stage where the girls wiggle their asses. At the back of the gallery were double doors that led into a private lounge room, where men would go if they wanted to have a quiet conversation away from the noise of the brass band. Many business deals were conducted down here while relaxing on plush leather couches and smoking Cuba’s finest.

To the untrained eye, the last room on the left had a bookcase filled with leatherbound texts. However, the bookcase had a secret entrance, and you had to know which book hid the keypad and what the code was for opening it.

I tapped in the code, and the bookcase opened. We filed inside, clicking the bookcase shut. The stairs had a red glow from the colored lights as we quietly ran up two flights of stairs to the floor above our offices. The stench of fried chicken was pungent up there, turning my stomach, not because it stunk so badly, but because I knew it was something worse than fried chicken.

With my gun firmly in hand, I pressed my ear against the door; when I heard no sound, I opened it and peered inside to find it empty, with the bed neatly made.

“Mikky,” Ronan whispered, nodding his head toward the door at the end of the hall directly above my office.

I tread quietly along the wooden floorboards to the door, pressed my ear against the wood, and heard a scraping sound followed by a human gasp, but it was hard to tell.

“On three,” Ronan whispered as I nodded in agreement. He held up three fingers and dropped one finger as another grunt bled out from the room. This time, it definitely sounded human and in pain.

Ronan dropped his third finger and opened the door swiftly, and we were hit with the most disgusting, nauseating smell, which was the least revolting thing in the room.

“What the fuck?” Ronan blurted as we tried to digest the visual assault in our eyes.

An old dude, wearing nothing but his underwear, bound to the bed, mouth duct taped, and eyes covered with a blindfold. At the sound of us opening the door, he started freaking out, tugging at his handcuffs and making stifled pleading noises as if he thought we were there to hurt him.

“Jeezus, Mr. Yarmouth,” I panicked when I recognized him, wondering how the fuck this happened, and he started to make gasping sounds in relief as if he was close to a panic attack.

Ronan ripped the tape off his mouth and removed the blindfold, apologizing in one breath while asking him if he was okay in the other. This was embarrassing for us. Mr. Yarmouth was an important guest, so how the fuck did he end up like this?

“Do you want me to call an ambulance?” I asked him, and he shook his head.

“Just get me out of here,” he ordered, embarrassed, as Ronan felt for the release button on the handcuffs to unlock them. He’d soiled the mattress, which was where the stink came from. “Champagne. My wife. Oh god, my wife. She’d be worried sick.”

He was mumbling incoherently about various things, and I wondered if his wife had contacted the staff to see if he was there. “How long have you been here?”

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