He adds, “If I didn’t have little Amber to keep me satisfied, I’d even consider putting in a bid myself. Congratulations, Quinn. You’ve convinced me. Well done. I’ll arrange to have the sponsors here soon. But there’s one thing I should tell you.”
“What’s that?” My heart beats so fast I can’t even stand still without twitching.
His smile widens. “You might remember our friend Jonah? Judge Jefferson? The man you nearly killed after mutilating his face? He still wants some payback for all that.”
No.
“So when I show you off for the auction, I’m sure he’d love to do the honors.”
Oh no no no!
My stomach joins my pulsing heart, and I nearly retch. But then something occurs to me, and I swallow down my trepidation. The last thing I want is to be at that psychopath’s mercy, but if Reed does his part, it’ll be worth it.
“What do you say, Quinn?” Byron asks.
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
Chapter 31
Exiting Penn Station, I try not to gawk like a tourist. I’ve been to Manhattan before — more than once Lance wanted to hit up the Big Apple for some “real excitement.” To him, that meant the overpriced, tourist-packed bars within a block or two of Times Square. I lost my taste for the city because of that, but I knew I couldn’t just go to Philadelphia. Prescott’s reach goes far — New York might not be far enough, but I also only have a day. It’ll have to do.
This morning I spent an hour at the library researching recent cases of busted human trafficking organizations, and one name popped up more often than not: Bennett Consulting. Researching them turned up a sparse website with just a telephone line and P.O. Box where they could be contacted. No one picked up the phone, so I left a message asking for a call back. I didn’t get one, but after half an hour I got a text:
Reichenbach Hall, midtown. 3 PM
It feels bizarrely cloak and dagger, but I don’t have a better idea, so I go. The place is only a few blocks from Penn Station, so I walk. A restaurant and bar, Reichenbach Hall is moderately busy when I get there, but it seems crowded for the mid-afternoon on a weekday. Outfitted with long benches for seating, the eatery is way more spacious on the inside than one would expect for New York, or so I imagine. Most of the patrons are young, drinking beer from tall glasses and sharing the biggest soft pretzels I’ve ever seen.
Not knowing who I’m looking for, and figuring they’ll find me, I take a seat at the bar and get a beer. I probably shouldn’t drink at a time like this, but I could use a little something to calm my nerves. What will these people think when I tell them my story? I’m going to be admitting to some criminal activity. In theory, they could have me arrested on the spot. It’s a risk I have to take, I guess.
“Reed Nolan.”
I turn on my stool to see three women standing a few feet behind me. A blonde on the left carries a computer case over her shoulder and keeps her fist wrapped around something small — possibly a can of mace. The muscular one in the middle wears a leather jacket with a suspicious bulge around her waist — potentially a concealed handgun. On the right, a short brunette has her phone out and pointed at me.
“That’s me,” I say, getting up.
The middle one points to a shorter bench near the back of the restaurant. “Go.”
Nodding, I move, biting back a smile. I’m not used to women giving me orders. Do they have any idea what I do? They know who I am, apparently.
“How do you know my name?” I ask as I take a seat.
“You used your personal phone,” says the short one. “We looked it up.”
Figures.The number is unlisted, but I guess if they have resources, that won’t matter.
The three women all sit on the other side of the bench, across from me. I’m not sure what to make of them, other than the fact they clearly mean business. They walk quickly, and almost in formation; like a flock, they don’t get in each other’s way. The middle one constantly looks around the room, as if checking for threats. I could tell them I’m alone, but would they believe me?
With my physical size and my position of authority at Walker, I don’t often get intimidated — I wouldn’t say that’s what I’m feeling now, but I’m uncomfortably aware of the fact I amnotin control of this situation. I recognize them, but not the way I did with the girl at Prescott’s — this is far more concrete, like I’ve definitely seen them before, and in a way that raises an alarm in the back of my mind.
“You’re Bennett Consulting?”
“I’m Carson Bennett,” says the muscular one, nodding. “These are my colleagues Marla Angel and Helena Bloom.”
As soon as she says it, I remember who they are. “You’re the one abducted from that college,” I say, pointing to Helena. Her photo was all over the news during the search — it was as if she’d disappeared. She was one of the asylum survivors with-
With Marla. I turn to her, remembering the infamous clip of her on YouTube. “And you’re the reporter who went missing. And you, Carson, aren’t you the private detective who infiltrated that mega church in New Jersey?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t infiltrate the church, but I did investigate undercover. It’s a long story, and we’re here to talk about you, Reed. You seem to have a good recollection for stories involving human traffickers. Care to tell us why?”