Title: High Society

Chapter 24: Just Say No

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Don shoved a piece of gum in his mouth and bit into it almost viciously, his eyes on the corner of the warehouse complex, a block away. It had been two weeks from hell; he'd spent the better part of the time on suspension – or maybe that was 'in' suspension – he'd drunk enough to feel like the pickled creatures he remembered in biology class, swimming in formaldehyde suspensions in jars. More than once, he picked up the phone to call Charlie and beg for forgiveness, and each time, Cooke's warning words had floated through his head. 'No phone calls – we don't know if they are listening somehow. You wouldn't want his cover to be compromised, would you?'

Part of him had been secretly hoping that Charlie would find some way to call him, or at least get a message to him. However, there was nothing – and to make matters worse, Leach had told him that Charlie had spent the first week recuperating at Morrison's estate, which gave Don yet another reason to worry. He'd breathed a sigh of relief when he'd heard that Charlie had come home Sunday, but it was short-lived; along with it came the news that Charlie had been invited back to Fantasy. This time, they were putting a chip on him so they could zero in on the location. This time, they were going to take Fantasy down once and for all, and Charlie would be done with his assignment. Don had vowed to himself that as soon as it was all over, they were going to talk – he'd beg forgiveness on his knees if he had to, but somehow he was going fix things.

There was a crackle of radio in his ear, and then Cooke's voice came over the line. "Our surveillance unit says the bug is moving, and we've got a truck on its way out," he said. "Everyone keep well back of the lead units."

Don stepped around the corner, where Colby and David were already getting into the SUV, and climbed in the back seat, just in time to look through the windshield and down the alley and see a semi roll past, trundling down the road with a grinding shift of gears. They sat there well after it was gone, waiting nearly twenty minutes before the command came to move. To make sure they weren't seen, they were tracking the truck by chopper; the helicopter crew was going to call the semi's route down to the lead vehicles. Behind them would follow the tactical and SWAT teams – an impressive caravan of firepower, bearing L.A.'s finest.

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Amita sighed as she folded one last sweater and placed it in the top of her suitcase. Her flight out was early the next day, and she'd packed everything except what she'd need in the morning. She was looking forward to going back home – not that her time with Larry hadn't been productive; they'd gotten a lot done, at least, they had after Dane had departed. Dr. Rastenbaum had been more of a distraction than she wanted to admit. So much so, that she had mixed feelings about being back on campus, and seeing him again.

She put him out of her mind resolutely. It was Charlie she should be thinking of, she told herself. Charlie, the man she loved, her fiancé. Although, she had to confess, he'd been difficult to understand lately, with his newfound penchant for the Hollywood fast lane. She had the impression that they'd been drifting apart, although deep inside, she knew it was she who had been sliding – Charlie had given her no reason to think that he was anything other than still in love with her. In spite of that, she couldn't deny the fact that her feelings for Dane were making her question how deep her commitment was to Charlie. She was not about to throw away that relationship, however; she was determined to make it work – at least until Charlie gave her an excuse to do otherwise.

She crawled into bed, and sat for a moment watching the light glint from the facets of the diamond on her finger. Then she turned out the light, and closed her eyes.

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The ride to Fantasy was slightly longer than the first one, Charlie noted, and as soon he stepped out of the truck, he realized why. Even though they were again in a loading dock and he couldn't see much of the scenery, he could tell by the layout of the dock that they were in a different location. Another warehouse in the middle of nowhere. As an added precaution, the location of the party must vary, he realized. It didn't matter though, he thought to himself, as he felt the reassuring outline of his wallet in his back pocket – the chip would bring the team here, no matter where it was. He fell in line behind J.T., as they moved inside to get their passes.

There, he was in for another revelation. As they reached the lovely young thing handing out the bronze, silver, and gold passes on neck chains, J.T. turned to him, beaming. "I have a surprise for you," he said. "You were asking about the gold passes, and I must admit, it piqued my curiosity. I decided that it was high time I saw the rest of the show, and I could think of no one better to do it with than you and my faithful companion, Ramon. I got gold passes for each of us." Ramon, ahead of J.T., was listening, and Charlie saw an inscrutable expression pass over his face before he turned back to the young woman, and accepted a gold pass.

Charlie felt his heart drop. He was sure that the prosecutor would be lenient when it came to the bronze pass holders, as long as they were of legal age to drink. The silver and gold pass holders, however, would probably be another story. J.T. had no idea that by taking a gold pass he was setting himself up for arrest, even though he had no idea what went on the back room. Charlie couldn't protest, however; he couldn't afford to arouse suspicion. He mustered a smile. "That's great," he said, as he shuffled forward and took a gold pass, after J.T. "Although the bronze passes were fine – last week was tremendous."

J.T. smiled at him, and for some reason, Charlie felt a chill pass down his spine. "Last week," murmured J.T., "will be nothing compared to this week, trust me."

Charlie's smile had wavered, and he tried to summon it back to his face as they made their way down the hall to main showroom. Even though he knew they were in a different location, the interior walls, the stage, the bar, all looked familiar. He realized that all of the props and settings must be dismantled each week, and re-erected in a new location. The logistics of it were staggering, and he realized that Mr. X, the man who ran Fantasy, must charge an exorbitant price to make it worthwhile. He fingered the gold card handing from his neck, wondering just how much it had cost.

"Excuse me for a moment," J.T. was saying, and Charlie looked up to see a man standing next to J.T. He appeared to be one of the bouncers; he was a big man, wearing all black, like the bouncers had the week before, and had apparently just delivered a quiet message. J.T. smiled at him. "Why don't you and Ramon get yourselves a drink – I'll be right back."

Charlie nodded, and as J.T. and the man in black departed, looked at Ramon, who gave an indolent shrug, and headed for the bar. Charlie followed him, taking the opportunity to look for cover, as Cooke and Leach had suggested. The bar would certainly be a good spot if he was in the back of the room, and if he were up closer to the stage, he could duck down the side hallway to the restrooms. That is, if the restrooms were in the same location in this warehouse. One thing was certain, he was going to try to delay going to the back rooms. He had no desire to go back there again, and with any luck, the raid would start before J.T. decided to investigate Dreamscape. They had reached the bar, and Ramon turned to him. "What do you want to drink?"

Charlie hesitated. He'd already had one drink on the drive there, and planned to order something non-alcoholic, but he could hardly do that with Ramon watching. "A screwdriver," he said. He'd drink a bit of it, ditch the rest, and come back alone and get an orange juice on the rocks, he decided. No one would be the wiser. Ramon handed him his drink, and raised his own glass in salute. "To new experiences," he said, his dark eyes glinting.

"To new experiences," repeated Charlie absently, as his gaze traveled over Ramon's shoulder. He could just see J.T. in a dark corner, his light tan jacket discernable in the gloom, talking to a tall man who was also dressed in black, nearly invisible in the darkness.

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"He has to go."

"What are you talking about?" hissed J.T. "We just got here. I had everything planned – I reserved the room, I brought Ramon along to film -,"

"I don't mean 'leave,'" interjected Markus, his voice soft, but sharp. "I mean we need to take care of him - permanently. He's a spy undoubtedly working for the feds – he tried to board with a GPS tracking chip in his wallet."

J.T. stared at him, his mouth dropping, and he looked so completely befuddled that Markus nearly laughed. "What?" stammered J.T.

"You heard me. We took the chip out and put it on another truck; it's on its way to San Francisco. That ought to keep the feds busy for a while. But we need to get rid of him."

J.T.'s tanned handsome face had paled, and he stammered, "B-but you can't! He's mine – I'll take care of him. I'll take him away, keep him somewhere safe -,"

"Listen to yourself, you fool. You're completely besotted. Don't you think that your properties will be the first place the law looks? I have far too much riding on this – I can't take that chance."

Morrison had begun to recover, and a crafty look stole across his face. "There's no need to kill him, as long as he's somewhere he can't escape. Why don't you keep him? You can put him with your performers, and give me visiting rights. That way, I get him, and you get to keep control." As Markus hesitated, J.T. wheedled, "I'll pay you handsomely for the privilege."

Markus scowled. "No one knows the location of the complex, other than my staff."

J.T.'s eyes narrowed. "You can trust me – you know you can. Knowing he would never be found would give me leeway to do far more than I had imagined, and what I could do with him – well, let's just say I wouldn't want him to be found any more than you do." A cold smile crept to his face. "Of course, I could just circulate among your snobby clientele tonight, and drop the rumor that the law is breathing down your neck. Your business would vanish in a heartbeat – they'd all run for the Hollywood hills to save their precious reputations, and never come back."

Markus' jaw tightened; then eased as his eyes turned on the young man across the room. "Very well – it could work. I will do it on one condition – when you are done with him, you allow me to sell him through my Russian contacts. I imagine a mind of his caliber would be something of value on the international market."

J.T. grunted affirmation. "Yes, I can agree to that. I sent the limo driver home with the car – I'll have him pick up one of my past conquests and take him to the house. I can pay the man to give me an alibi for the evening, if the feds should ask me for one. I trust the room is set up?"

"Elaina had already arranged it to your liking. The video room is ready – although since there is now no reason to blackmail him, perhaps you don't need it?"

J.T. smiled. "No, I will use it – if for nothing else than to trifle with Ramon. How he will hate having to watch this!"

"One more thing," said Markus. "I have a drug for you to try. It doesn't knock them out completely, like Rohipnol can – with this drug, they drift in and out, and although they appear groggy, they generally comprehend most of what is happening to them. It's actually a precursor of Rohipnol, but it didn't catch on – the victims remembered too much. For you, though, and for role-playing here, it is ideal. Simply tell the man behind the bar that you want a dose of Impulse in his next drink."

J.T. smiled, and this time excitement and pure gratitude were on his face. "Thank you my friend – I can't tell you how much this means to me."

Markus grunted affably. "Just be careful. Don't let your obsessions obscure your judgment." He watched as J.T. made his way across the floor. 'These games will be his undoing,' he thought to himself, and he turned and slipped through the door behind him into his private office.

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Cooke's voice came over the radio, crackling with static. "The truck's passing through the toll booths now, still headed north."

Don scowled, and glanced at his watch. "We've been on the road an hour and a half. Where in the hell is he going? Timbuktu?"

"Charlie did say they were leaving earlier than usual," David pointed out. "Maybe that's why – they were heading to a location that was further away."

Don grunted noncommittally in response, and chewed his gum reflectively. David had a point; although the longer they drove, the more apprehensive Don felt. He couldn't get rid of the feeling that something was wrong, but until the truck stopped, there was no way to find out what it was.

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Charlie stood staring at the acrobatic show, his stomach in a knot. Luckily, J.T. had seemed in no hurry to get into Dreamscape and its back rooms, he had suggested having a drink or two and watching some of the show. They were standing this time, behind the chairs toward the left side near the hallway. Charlie was still nursing his first drink– he hadn't gotten an opportunity to get rid of it, and had been sipping it so slowly that the ice had melted. As the time had passed, he'd grown more and more impatient; more tense. They'd been there for an hour, and there was still no sign of the impending raid. It had to be starting any moment now.

There was another reason for the pretzel-like condition of his gut. Watching the acrobatic show was a completely different experience this time, knowing that the performers doubled as prostitutes. The gold card members had been given programs, with the pictures and names of each performer, along with a brief description, so they could select one for later entertainment. The performers went by single monikers – obviously stage names, and many showed a penchant for plants or celestial bodies – names like Mercury, Sage, Nightshade, Orchid. Charlie could see the young girl he'd met in the back rooms flitting here and there on the stage; he'd found her in the program. Her name was Star, and she was ten years old. As he watched her, he couldn't suppress a shudder.

J.T. was fidgeting impatiently next to him, shifting from foot to foot, and as Charlie glanced at him, he said, "It appears that you need a fresh drink."

"No, this is fine," Charlie demurred. The last thing he needed was another drink laced with alcohol – he'd been hoping to switch to orange juice.

"Nonsense," said J.T., reaching for it. "The ice has completely melted. I'm going for one – I'll get you a new one. What are you drinking?"

Charlie reluctantly let him take it. "A screwdriver." He couldn't be sure, but he swore that J.T. tried to stifle a grin as he turned away.

With a sigh, Charlie glanced down at the brochure in his hands. 'Better stick this in a pocket,' he thought to himself. It would be evidence, and would help the law enforcement officers to account for most of the performers. He folded it, tucked it in his jacket pocket, and glanced around at the entrances. Where in the hell were they?

J.T. had returned, accompanied by a waiter with a tray. On it sat their drinks, but along with them were three shot glasses, filled to the rims with a pale amber fluid. J.T. handed one to Charlie, who took his reluctantly, and one to Ramon, then took one himself. "I couldn't resist," Morrison said, with a smile. "This is extremely expensive tequila, and only available to gold card holders. Drink up."

Charlie hesitated, then with a resigned smile, tossed the shot down. He really had no choice but to play along, at least a little, although that screwdriver on the tray would be his last, for sure. After that many drinks, he could make a good case to J.T. that he had to slow down. He put the shot glass back on the tray and accepted his drink from the waiter, and as he turned his head to look at the stage, the room dipped slightly. It was an odd feeling, like being on the deck of a rolling ship, and he blinked and shook his head slightly to clear it. As he did, a bright silver light flashed across his vision, and he involuntarily stepped backwards. The room was moving a bit more now, and J.T. was peering into his face with a smile. "Charlie, are you all right?"

Charlie suddenly felt as though he couldn't hold himself upright, and he thrust his glass toward the waiter, trying to get it back on the tray before he spilled the drink. "M' not sure," he mumbled. "Feeling kind of dizzy." The drink disappeared from his hand – he was aware that it was gone but wasn't sure how – he was too busy trying to find a focal spot across the room to keep his balance. Another silver light shot across his field of vision, and then he felt hands take him by the arms, and he sagged into the support.

He could hear J.T. saying, "Charlie, we're going to take you somewhere you can lie down," and then they were turning toward a hallway marked 'Dreamscape.' His mind was spinning, whirling along with the hallway around him; he was losing the ability to reason, although he remembered that the back rooms were somewhere he didn't want to be.

"Nnno,' he slurred. "M'okay. Jus' need to sit…" The last sentence was completely unintelligible to the others around him, but he didn't realize it – he had slumped in the arms of the guards, unconscious.

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He awoke moments later; he was drifting in and out – he was lying down now, he could feel hands moving over him, quickly and efficiently unfastening his clothes. He had a brief impression that he was about to be examined – perhaps there was a doctor on site; then he was out again.

This time, although he didn't know it, he was out for a half hour. He awakened slowly; his head bobbing as someone gently slapped his face, and called his name. His arms felt heavy, and as he lifted his head, he realized that he was upright. Suddenly a hand grasped the hair at the back of his head, and lips brushed roughly past his. He recoiled in shock, jerking his head away, gasping, and the adrenaline cleared his head enough for him to realize that he was hanging by his wrists, suspended from the ceiling, although his feet were still on the floor. He blinked, and J.T. face came into view, smiling lecherously.

"Charlie, I thought you would never wake up," he purred, reaching a hand out to stroke Charlie's cheek. "You've been making me wait. Of course, you've been doing that since the moment I saw you. And we have all the time in the world – you do know that they found your GPS chip, and sent it off on another truck. No one is coming for you, Charlie – you're mine now."

Charlie gaped at him – his head still wasn't clear, and he shook it, trying to focus. The silver light shot across his vision again, and after it passed, he could see J.T. standing at the side of a room, surveying a rack. At the same time, he suddenly realized he was naked, and a surge of panic raced through him as he began to comprehend the situation. J.T. lifted a whip from the rack and ran a hand over it, lovingly. "I do so love a good whip," he said, "although they cut the skin, and that gets messy eventually." He put it down with a sigh, and lifted a broader leather strap, as Charlie stared at him in horror.

"J.T.-," he managed – he was slurring badly, the name unintelligible. This had to be a nightmare, he told himself; he was having some kind of reaction to the drink – maybe a drug – he was hallucinating…

J.T. had stepped over to him with the strap, still smiling, then suddenly wound up and lashed at Charlie's torso. The heavy leather strap hit with a smack, and forced an involuntary cry from Charlie's lips. It came down again, and again, and as the room began to spin once more, red began creeping into Charlie's vision, along with the flashes of silver.

He lost of track of time, slipping into and out of consciousness, each time he woke, encountering a new horror, new pain. His memories were a twisted confused mélange of torture devices, blows, jabs, twists, and electric shocks, and through them all, J.T.'s face, transformed by the unholy, sickening gleam in his eyes.

At length, through the red fog and silver haze, he felt himself sliding earthward. Then strong arms were pulling him, dragging him onto something soft; laying him half on his side. His head fell back, and he found himself staring blankly at a pair of hands, bound by leather restraints. His hands. Someone was holding a hook on the restraints, and hooking them to metal bars. Then the strong hands turned him on his stomach.

Charlie blinked, lethargically, and tried to pull away from the hot breath on the back of his neck. No, he thought, and the two-letter word took an eon of time to form in his befuddled mind. He felt cool air – and something else – brush against skin that should not be naked, and yet for some reason was. The breath was in his ear now, a voice, thick with passion and exultation. "I own you," it said.

No, his brain repeated, slowly, methodically. He made a sound at the back of his throat, trying to remember how to talk. "Nnnnnnn," he grunted, unable to translate the word into actual verbalization. The room was swimming in red; abstract flashes of brilliant silver and white would shoot across his view like unobtainable lightning bugs. He had no body, and yet at the same time experienced excruciating pain. Spears of deceit, betrayal, and unimaginable horror jabbed at him with poisoned tips until he wanted to scream…wished he could remember how to scream.

But he could do nothing, say nothing; think only one thing: No.

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End Chapter 24