Brotherhood in Death (In Death 42)

“Are we really going to do this?” MacNamee swiped a hand over his mouth. “All of us? On camera?”

“Brotherhood.” Betz gave MacNamee a poke in the chest. “This is how we seal our brotherhood, now and forever. We already agreed, we’re all set up. We’ve got the girl.”

“Let’s get started.” Easterday looked off camera, too. “Hey, she was practically humping me at the party, right? We’re giving her what she wants. Is the camera on?”

“I set it up, didn’t I?” Betz looked around, directly into the lens. “It’s on. Let’s quit fucking around and start.”

“We do it right.” Wymann stepped out of range. Music began to beat—something low and tribal. “We are the Brotherhood . . .

“Come on, guys, do it right. This is the first annual Celebration of the Brotherhood. April 12, 2011.”

When he nodded, they spoke in unison.

“We are the Brotherhood. We take what we want. We take who we want. From this day forward. We are bound, we are one. What one brother needs, the brothers give. What one brother desires, all brothers desire. All men envy what we are, what we have, what we do. And none but we, the six, will know. To break the vow of silence is death. Tonight, we seal our unity, our vow, by sharing the chosen. She is ours to do with as we will. The woman is a vessel for the needs of the Brotherhood.”

“Do we speak as one?” Edward Mira demanded.

“As one!” the others responded, though Stevenson ended on a giggle.

“He’s stoned,” Eve said. “Look at his eyes. The others, they’ve had some chemical enhancement, but he had more. Or he’s more susceptible.”

“Hardly an excuse for what they’re obviously about to do.”

“No, but they needed the false courage, this time anyway, to do it.”

“We drew lots,” the future senator announced. “I am the first to take the vessel.”

“Hold on!” Betz rushed the camera. “Let me set it up.”

“Make it fast.”

The image tilted, shook—Eve saw parts of the room—a large area. Sofas, chairs, some game tables, a bar.

“Like a game room, a lounge. No windows I could see. Lower level? A fancy basement maybe. Good size.”

Then the screen showed a woman—young, maybe eighteen or nineteen. A long sweep of blond hair, a pretty face with a rounded chin, wide-set eyes. Eyes closed now.

She, too, was naked. And bound, spread-eagle on a mattress.

“Like a convertible bed? A pullout deal. Leather straps tied to the legs. Fingernails, toenails, painted—pink. That’s girlie. She’s wearing earrings, glittery. Her makeup’s smeared some. Caucasian female, about eighteen, looks like about five-five, maybe one-twenty.”

Then Edward Mira stepped over to her, leaned over. And slapped her. One of the men off camera said, “Hey! Come on, Ed,” but he ignored the protest, slapped her again.

He had big hands. Eve knew how it felt to have a big hand slap you awake.

“Wake up, bitch!”

Her eyelids fluttered. Blue eyes, Eve noted. Glazed and unfocused.

“What?” On a moan, she turned her head. “I don’t feel good. What . . .” Hints of fear lit those eyes as she tried to move, found herself bound. The fear exploded as she focused.

On the six men, Eve thought. On the one standing over her.

“No, don’t. Please? What is this?”

“This is the Brotherhood.”

As he straddled her, she wept, begged.