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  'Staff Entrance', nothing there.

  'Break Room', nothing there.

  'Kitchen'.

  And just like that, there she was. Robin watched as a bloodied and bruised Clara, overpowered by 3 Russian thugs as startled kitchen staff looked on, was scooped up, screaming and kicking her legs, and dragged out through a side kitchen door. Robin frantically pushed more buttons, desperately trying to work out where they were taking her, trying to follow their path. He pushed the button for 'Internal Parking', and saw the group once more, a black van being reversed to the doors, a bag being placed over Clara's head as she was hurled into the back of the van. By the time the van doors had been shut, Robin had already left the control room.

  Chapter 15

  Robin ran down the mess of dull, grey corridors, trying desperately to remember the way that he came in, reversing the route in his head as he moved. He knew that the main casino floor was absolutely out of action, and figured that so long as he only ran into non-security personnel along the maze of hallways leading to the staff entrance, he'd probably be alright. He wasn't sure what his plan was, like the dog that chases cars all day and wouldn't know what to do with one if it did ever catch it, but he knew that he couldn't stay and do nothing. Perhaps if he could catch a license plate, maybe even sneak his way on to the van, at least he'd be able to track them down. God knows what they were planning on doing to her.

  Robin flew through a door, appearing in the staff break room, a non-impressed bartender slouched on a sofa watching the TV, turning for a brief moment to look at Robin, before switching back to his original pose, unconcerned about what was going on.

  'Sorry', announced Robin, realising he'd made a mistake, turning and bolting back out. He moved quickly through corridor after corridor, looking for anything familiar from his last race through, something that might indicate he was at least heading the right way. A noticeboard with various staff signs, an announcement about a car for sale.

  'This was good', he thought. Progress, he knew he'd passed that on the way in.

  And then eventually, the thrust of the large metal bar handle, the door swinging open, and the bright lights of the parking lot bathing his face. He was outside, back in the lot, back at the empty staff entrance, and needed to find his way to the indoor parking lot. Before he could really get his bearings, a 'screeching' noise to his right, as the black van appeared out of a huge metal garage door, turning left and speeding past him.

  Robin shouted, waving his hands angrily, as if speaking sternly to the van driver would make him stop. But it was too late, the van had already passed him, the precious cargo on it's way to 'who knows where', the smell of smokey rubber lingering in the air. Robin felt his heart jump, he felt nauseous and stood for a moment, his hands resting on his knees, spine bent as he gasped for much-needed oxygen. He'd seen the license plate, and reached quickly for his smartphone, flicking to the 'Notes' tab and jotting it down, hitting the delete key over and over again as his thumbs struggled to type accurately in his panic-riddled state. They'd got her. And if these guys weren't going to hurt her, why was she bloodied, why were they taking her somewhere else? This had all gone wrong, so desperately wrong, and now these people had got her. Robin felt the vomit before it arrived, relieving himself quickly on the tarmac, his head pounding, fear and panic setting in.

  Not knowing what else to do, he pulled out his phone and flicked straight to 'Last Dialled'. Boal, Joseph.

  Chapter 16

  Joseph Boal's contact details gleamed back at him from the bright Smartphone screen, a number and an email address that he'd never sent or received an email to or from respectively. Underneath his name was a space for 'Job Title', the phrase 'Agency Director' sitting in it's place. Robin thought for a moment, wondering how well he knew Joseph after all. The job title may as well have read 'Psychic Overlord' or 'Puppet Master' for all Robin knew, pondering for a moment about how one becomes 'Director of the Agency' anyway. After all, it's not like they stick an advert on the job boards or the local papers. And who were 'they' anyway? Boal had always made it clear that as far as Robin and Clara were concerned, he was the 'Top Brass', the 'Big Cheese'. Robin's panic worsened, his mind beginning to race as he questioned quite what he'd gotten himself into, exactly who they were dealing with. His train of thought was interrupted as Boal's name flashed up on the screen, the words 'Incoming Call' above his name. Robin slid his finger across the screen and answered.

  'They took her', Robin said.

  'I know', replied Boal.

  'Why am I not surprised?', asked Robin, clearly not expecting an answer. 'Yet another lie. How did you know?' He looked around, half-expecting Boal to appear or to spot an Agency sniper, rifle pointed at him off in the distance.

  'I need to be straight with you', said Boal. 'The test has gone wrong. Really, badly wrong.'

  'No shit Sherlock', snapped Robin. 'How about you give me some new information you piece of shit?'

  Boal paused, took a deep breath.

  'The men inside weren't actors', he replied. 'They're Russian mobsters, the real deal. Colleagues of ours in the Security Service have been scoping these guys for a while now, and we struck a deal with them. You were both planted in there and this entire situation was orchestrated by us.'

  Robin stood dumbfounded, his face screwed up in angry disbelief, his hand tensing around his phone.

  'Why? What deal?'

  'We get to, borrow, the Russians. We get access to put you in that situation. In exchange, we hand over any incriminating evidence to the Feds.'

  'Evidence? How were you going to get...' Robin stopped himself mid-sentence, pulling the phone away from his ear, looking at it with an expression a mixture of disbelief and disappointment, disappointment that he'd not seen it coming. 'Motherfuckers', he snapped, a sarcastic grin across his face. 'Wearing a wire without wearing a wire huh? Both of us?'

  'Yes, both of you. That's how we knew Clara was in trouble.'

  Robin laughed, holding the phone away from his face. He pulled it back to his ear, shouting. 'You listen to me you piece of shit, you're going to help me find her, or I'm going to find you, and kill you, do you understand me?'

  Boal waited, silent, before speaking calmly.

  'Robin, I know you're upset. But that's not going to happen, we both know that. Here's what I can do. I'm in contact with our friends in the Security Service, and they've tracked the van to a Russian safe-house not far from here. It's a bar that Gorshkov owns.'

  'Who the fuck is Gorshkov?', demanded Robin.

  'Probably better you don't know. You just need to get to the bar. I'm sending the coordinates to your phone now. Clara's inside but I don't know how long for.'

  'And what, I bust in there Action Man style and rescue her?', snapped Robin.

  'You get inside, you find out what's going on, you report back. I can have an armed unit there soon, but they need more information before they'll go inside.'

  'This is the same bullshit armed unit you promised me was outside the casino I assume?'

  'I know you're angry', replied Boal. 'I know you don't want to trust me, but you are going to have to trust me on this one.'

  Robin stood quietly, the warm evening air resting gently on his face, calming his mood, albeit only momentarily. He took a deep breath, a mixture of fear and anger welling up inside of him, the thoughts of Clara being hurt filling his head, the nauseous feeling back in his stomach. He put the phone back to his ear.

  'I'm on my way'

  Chapter 17

  The Russian safe-house was about an hour away by cab, with an additional ten-minute walk as Robin was dropped early by an apprehensive cab driver who wouldn't venture too far into this particular part of town, too accustomed to easy fares from tourists on the strip. The bar was somewhere in North Las Vegas, a huge sprawling expanse of small buildings with enormous, empty parking lots, a sad indication of the tarnished hopes of the proprietors of the establishments. Each parking lot was surrounded by chain fence,
and the bar that Robin was about to set foot in was a large 2-storey building made of dull grey concrete with no real visible signs that a bar was contained inside. Yellow light from the streetlights rained down on the parking lot as Robin walked toward the building. The windows were either boarded up with damp looking plywood, or shuttered over with metal bars, a large metal door the only visible way in. Robin figured there wasn't going to be any need for subtlety or shadowy deception this time around; he was going straight through the front-door.

  Robin pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled Boal.

  'I'm here', he said.

  'Good', replied Boal. 'Now look, I'm not going to feed you some bullshit story about this being safe or easy because it's not, but I got you the backup this time, you've got friends with guns ready to bust in and help when you need it.'

  'Prove it', snapped Robin.

  'Turn around, your six o clock. Black car about 400 feet from you.' In the distance, a black car flashed it's headlights twice. 'Happy now?', asked Boal. 'And there's more around the corner, so when you find her, we can extract the both of you.'

  Robin paused for a moment. 'Why do I think there's something you're not telling me?', he asked.

  Boal took a deep breath, audible from the other end of the phone. 'I uh, I had to pull some strings to get this kind of access.'

  'Access?'

  'The Agency have got all the firepower we need, but you don't just storm into the safe-house of a major Russian mobster and shoot the place up, not without good reason. We're in Andrei Gorshkov's turf now and needless to say he didn't send us an invitation.'

  'Pardon me for being so blunt but how the fuck does this affect me exactly?', asked Robin.

  'Because I can't fuck up years worth of Federal investigation for one girl, if you'll pardon ME for being so blunt', snapped Boal. 'You've got your escape route, but I need you to do something for me before I can give them permission to go in through the front door.'

  Robin shook his head, running his hand through his hair.

  'What 'something'?', he asked.

  'You remember the Helen Berghaus murder last year?', asked Boal. 'The mayoral candidate found dead in her home?'

  'It may surprise you to know I don't live in a fucking cave', sniped Robin. 'Yes I've heard of the Berghaus murder.'

  'Helen had a lot of friends in very high places, but she also had a lot of enemies in high places. She planned taxations to push out dirty industry, pull in the clean high-tech companies, and she pissed off a lot of wealthy people in the process. We know that Gorshkov was responsible for her death, and we're pretty sure it was the owner of a foreign conglomerate with a heavy emphasis on US production and manufacturing who paid for the hit. This guy's wealthy enough to buy off everyone in the USA, so there's no way we're putting him behind bars, but Helen was well liked in the FBI, she did good things for Police and law enforcement in this country...'

  'Let me guess', said Robin, interrupting, 'you want a confession.'

  'Between you and Clara, you've got the necessary skills to make this fat Russian piece of shit spill his guts. We don't care how you do it, and to be honest we don't even care how clean the confession is, I've got some of the best audio editors in the world at my disposal. Provided we hear the words 'Helen, Berghaus and contract murder', we can put this fucker behind bars, and take his whole crew down with him.'

  Robin stopped for a moment, struggling to take in the gravity of his situation.

  'Think about this Robin, you save Clara but you also put one of the most disgusting criminals in jail at the same time. This is your chance to do something great.'

  'How do you get the confession?', asked Robin. 'I mean, how will you hear the record...' He stopped himself halfway through his own question, holding the phone away from his ear to look at it again, a knowing grin on his face. 'The fucking spy phone, of course.'

  'It will be constantly recording', said Boal. 'It's also our way of knowing when to send in the cavalry, so make sure it's out of your pocket and somewhere where we can hear everything.'

  'Would you like me to see if Gorshkov wouldn't mind having a little fucking chat with you while I'm in there?', asked Robin sarcastically.

  'How you get the confession is up to you', said Boal. 'Be quick, we don't want this to get any messier than it already is.' A 'click', and Boal ended the call. Robin tucked the phone into his jacket pocket, took one last glance around at the warm Las Vegas night, and stepped in through the huge metal front door.

  Chapter 18

  The sheets were filthy, and it was the first thing that Clara noticed when she was left on her own inside the Russian safe-house. Not the mould on the ceiling, although she had noticed that, not the stench coming from the rotten carpet on the floor, but the filth of the bedsheets she was laying on. Throughout Clara's troubled existence, even during her days and nights on the street, her personal cleanliness had been of the utmost importance to her, breaking into people's homes while they were out at work to use their shower or convincing staff in department stores that she was a new member of staff so that she could use the company washroom. She would wash her bedsheets with an almost 'OCD’ level of scheduling, a minimum of once each week, never letting it go any longer wherever she was. She'd been tied to a chair and beaten to a bloody pulp in the last 12 hours but this, this feeling of unclean as she lay spread eagled, tied from each limb to a festering bed, was the absolute low point of her day.

  To her right was a small bedside table, the kind that the average family would use to house a nice lamp, maybe an alarm-clock, the stereotypical glass with dentures for the more mature owner. This particular bedside table, though it looked no different from any ordinary bedside table, held on it's surface a spoon, several pieces of tinfoil and two filthy syringes, along with several blood spots. They weren't huge blood spots, but they were everywhere, and as Clara began to examine as much of the bed as she could see from her imprisoned position, she realised the bed was littered with them too. She tilted her head, looking back to the handcuffs that had been used to tie her down, noticing that they'd been welded shut at the bed end, the same with the ones by her feet. Clara surmised that they clearly hadn't been installed just for her visit, and she figured that the drug paraphernalia probably hadn't been either. This room had one purpose, and she knew that her current run of luck meant that she would probably be experiencing that purpose in the not-too-distant future.

  The door opened, and the same well-dressed old Russian man from the casino walked in, followed closely by one of his thugs, who was carrying a wooden chair. The thug placed the chair down by Clara's bed, before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him. The man sat down, pulling a cigarette from out of his jacket.

  'You don't mind if I smoke I trust?', he asked.

  A defeated Clara shook her head, and the old man pulled an expensive lighter from his pocket, lit his cigarette and blew the first drag up into the air.

  'I feel as though you and I got off to a uh, bad start', he said in his strong Russian accent. 'I was thinking about it in car on the way over, that we've perhaps not had enough time to talk, just the two of us. And as it would appear that I have now got your attention, let's talk.'

  The man leaned back in his chair, staring at Clara, her eyes fixed on his. She read him, his head full of angry thoughts, bottled up with a level of calm she found almost impressive. He genuinely believed she was responsible for the thefts from his casino, and she knew she wasn't going to convince him otherwise without a fight.

  'My name is Andrei Gorshkov', he said. 'I came to America when I was a young child, to New York City. The American dream is what my father told me we would be living. But you Americans, you didn't want Russians to succeed. Polish, Lithuanians, all immigrants, all destined to work in laundry stores, to pump fucking gas to you rich American pigs.'

  He took another drag of his cigarette.

  'So I made the American dream that my father was too scared to chase. I did it for my friend
s, for my family. Created jobs, put food on the table of my friends, clothes on their children's backs. Not everything I have ever done is legal, but the most powerful Americans in the world didn't become powerful by living uh, how you say, clean life.'

  Gorshkov leant forward a little, lowering his voice.

  'I have a big family. Brothers who would take a bullet for me. Brothers who would slay an entire family of people in the street in broad daylight, with no idea of why, only because I tell them to do it.'

  He leant back again in his chair.

  'You're probably wondering why I am telling you this. I am telling you this, so that you truly understand why it's important for you to tell me what I need to know. Why you must tell me who you work for, give me the names I want. You, and your fucking friends, you take 3.2 million dollars from my casino this year. 3.2 million dollars! You think I was just going to sit back and let you steal food from our babies, clothes from our children?'

  Gorshkov rose to his feet slowly, pacing the room for a moment, walking over to the bedside table, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and using it to pick up one of the syringes, placing it gently on Clara's chest, the needle not touching her skin.

  'Most of the time, when we send women to Russia or Eastern Europe, to work in our whore houses, they are already dead inside. Pathetic, worthless bodies, their souls gone many years before. Like babies hungry for a feed, they just want their drugs, and they will do anything so long as you keep feeding their addiction. And you know, I look at the healthy, happy women in this country, living their lives with their husbands, with their families, spending their money in my casinos, in my restaurants, and I wonder to myself, 'how many needles would it take to transform them? How many needles before they're willing to go anywhere, to do things to men they don't know, just to feed their addiction?' What do you think?'

  Gorshkov leant forward again, staring into Clara's eyes, his threats 100% genuine.