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guys?
    “All right,” the Frenchman said decisively. “We’ll move the schedule ahead. I’ll deliver the letter to his papa ASAP. If we can get the ransom fast enough, we can give him his kid before he dies.”
    Samuel barely breathed as the Frenchman—six-foot-three, two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle, dressed in a waiter’s suit—strode past him, scowling.
    Inside the cloakroom, the flunky muttered and kicked the wall. Repeatedly.
    When the Frenchman disappeared from sight, Samuel stepped inside the cloakroom and softly shut the door behind him.
    No wonder the Frenchman called this guy Bull . He looked Hawaiian and Japanese and like a young sumo wrestler on steroids. And he was fast—at the click of the latch, he turned, saw Samuel, and charged. He had the speed of a linebacker and the hostility of a young gangster who a minute ago had been chided by his superior.
    But Samuel had trained for this. At the last second he stepped aside, then kicked Bull in the ass. The youth smashed into the freestanding chrome coatrack, sending it and the jackets, furs, hats, and gloves crashing against the wall. Bull’s head slammed a hole through the plaster before he and all the paraphernalia toppled onto the floor.
    He seemed to feel nothing. He came up in a flash and charged again, eyes gleaming with rage.
    Samuel stepped on a hat, waved his arms in exaggerated dismay, fell over—and when Bull lifted his foot to smash Samuel’s ribs, Samuel grabbed the guy’s boot and lifted.
    Bull fell. The floor quaked.
    Bull shook his head, trying to recover whatever wits he possessed.
    Samuel rolled behind him, grabbed a silk scarf, and wrapped the length around the sumo’s stub of a neck. He twisted hard, cutting off Bull’s air, making him spasm and claw at Samuel’s hands.
    Bull had hurt a kid, almost killed him, and the street-smart little boy Samuel had once been exalted in the guy’s writhings. He wanted him to suffer. He deserved to suffer.
    Samuel twisted tighter and tighter until Bull’s motion ceased and his eyes rolled back in his head.
    Putting his mouth by the man’s ear, Samuel asked, “Where’s the child?” He loosened the scarf to allow Bull to speak.
    Bull came to life like an animated corpse. Grabbing Samuel’s ears, he used them like levers to pull Samuel forward.
    Samuel felt his flesh rip. His head slammed into Bull’s hard skull. Blood trickled down his face on both sides, and he saw stars.
    Bull grabbed Samuel’s hair and rolled over the top of him. “Who are you?” He slammed Samuel’s head against the floor. “Who are you?” Slam . “Who are you?” Slam .
    The only thing that saved Samuel’s life was the fur coat underneath him, cushioning him from the impact. He groped beside him, seeking something to use as a weapon. A can! Mace! He sprayed Bull’s face.
    It was hair spray.
    But it did the job. Bull yelped and let go to dig at his eyes.
    Samuel slammed his fist into Bull’s nose. The crunch was satisfying. Bull’s squeal was even more satisfying. The spurting blood made Samuel almost giddy with glee, and when he wrapped the scarf around Bull’s throat again, he took real pleasure in applying pressure and using expletives he hadn’t used since his adoption twenty-six years ago. He didn’t take a chance this time; he found a real can of Mace in one of the coats tumbled around them on the floor, sprayed Bull, choked him repeatedly, and finally loosened the scarf. “Where is the boy?” he asked again.
    “Château. Schneider Road.” As Bull got his breath, his hand shot up, groping toward Samuel’s head. He didn’t volunteer any more details.
    Samuel sprayed him with the Mace again and, with a sigh, gave up trying to do this the hard way.
    Because mind control always worked . . . and mind control came as easily to Samuel as breathing.

Chapter 6

    I sabelle coolly ignored the waiter standing by her side.
    But although he was respectful, he was insistent. “Excuse me. Miss