Brady made himself smile and relaxed his posture, still feeling like a heel for leading him on. “Of course, Cal.”
“Stay close to me. Don’t wander off by yourself and don’t talk to anyone unless they speak directly to you first.”
Brady had no desire to talk to anyone but Vargas, so he let Cal’s strict instructions slide. He would behave until he could get close enough to shake his hand. That was all that needed to happen. Ken’s program would do the rest.
At least it was quieter up here. If you ignored the sound of floggers and the blood-curdling screams of pain. He followed Cal and took in the large space as he went, making note of all the possible exits out of habit. The place was surprisingly utilitarian—the walls were gray with black trim, the furniture was red and the lights were bright and unflattering. No one cared about aesthetics or ambiance, that was clear. The only decorations were living and begging for mercy.
He instinctively looked for Ken—his long black braid and wicked smile, his tattooed back and beautiful body. But each time his gaze collided with a scene that made him queasy, he was glad he wasn’t there. Brady had seen a lot of gruesome things in his years of combat, but some of this was just plain wrong.
The first was a naked man whose arms were spread wide on a cross and held in place by thick metal chain. His knees were bent, his feet resting on a small protrusion on the device, and his entire body was covered in bloody welts. Brady assumed those came from the man wielding a multi-tailed whip that was tipped with sharp metal edges. Brady flinched when he looked down and noticed the clothespins attached to his testicles.
Son of—God that looked painful. Truly. And the man genuinely looked miserable. As if he would stand and try to leave if there weren’t fucking mousetraps on the floor to keep him from lowering his feet.
Had he voluntarily asked for this? Why?
Open mind, Brady. Remember your training and tighten up. Stick to the mission.
He tried. He passed another man hanging from metal hooks inserted into his back. The Conan-wannabe behind him whipped his ass ferociously and ordered him not to move, which was impossible because the force of the blows made the hanging man rock forward. He was helpless and dangling with no way to obey. No way to get down.
Brady clenched his fists at his sides, then quickly opened them and hooked his thumbs in his pockets so no one would notice his tension. Open mind, my ass. He wanted to break that damn whip and cut that poor guy down. He’d reached his limit as soon as he got off the elevator. Only fifty-five minutes to go.
Did Ken like things like this? Did he do things like this? He couldn’t see it. Couldn’t merge these images with the man who was his lover.
He thought about the night Ken had bound Tasha. Brady knew it was just a demo, and it had all been for show, but it hadn’t looked anything like this. Ken had moved like he was dancing, and his hands had been commanding but soothing. Everything about him that night had been focused on his partner, on her pleasure. This? This was all about pain without mercy. This was everything he’d thought BDSM was when he first met Ken. Torture. Humiliation. Power.
Were any of these men Terry Wahl? If not, had they been tricked, trapped and traded into being sex slaves, as he had? Most of the men who weren’t being tortured were chained to the wall—waiting for their turn to be abused by the ones wielding the whips, chains and knives. Did they want to be here? Were they given an option?
He glanced over his shoulder and took a closer look at the wrestlers dressed as security guards stationed throughout the room. There were telltale bulges under their shirts. Armed wrestlers. Even better.
How was he going to do this without Ken?
Just do it, that’s how. Focus.
Cal squeezed his hand. “My friends are at that viewing table up there.” Brady noticed a few carpeted steps leading to a row of tables, one of them occupied. “Don’t worry, I have no intention of talking shop tonight, but I need to say hello. I want to show you off.”
Yes, finally. The reason he was here.
“I don’t mind,” Brady said, speaking through the knot of disgust in his throat. “I’d like to meet them. And if you want to talk for a while? We’re not in any hurry, right?”
Cal frowned. “You might not be, but I damn well am.”
As they slowly climbed the steps, Brady observed the four men he was going to meet. Their ages ranged from forties to sixty-something and their clothing was casual, but expensively so. He memorized their individual features, but it wasn’t easy since they all had a similar look about them. That look was money. So much money they didn’t need to count it or talk about it. So much that they didn’t understand what a budget was and never heard the word “no.” Only one of them was looking down toward the main floor. The rest were having a quiet discussion, showing little to no interest in the painful scenes of torture they’d supposedly come to see. From their expressions, they could have been at their yacht club or playing golf instead of watching naked men bleed.