by Elle Kennedy
Juliet reached out and took his hand, stunned by how cold it was. She wrapped her fingers around his icy knuckles and squeezed gently. “And when you got home, she was already dead?”
Another moan, this one laced with hot agony that made Juliet vaguely uncomfortable. She knew Henry worshipped the ground Zoya walked on, but that kind of devotion was completely foreign to her. She’d shut off her emotions so long ago she didn’t remember what it felt like to love someone that deeply.
But she had. Loved deeply, that was. Just once.
And never again.
Pushing aside her thoughts, she waited for her brother to continue, which he finally did after a long silence and several ragged breaths.
“She was dead. Shot. Shot in the head.”
Juliet frowned. “In the head?”
“Three times. Three. Goddamn. Times.”
The frown deepened. “You saw three distinct bullet wounds? Are you sure?”
His breathing grew shallow. “Three holes, Jules. One at each temple. One between her eyes.”
Every muscle in her body stretched tight. Something niggled at the back of her brain, a crazy thought. A really, really crazy thought. But she shoved that away too, deciding to return to it later.
“You’re telling me the intruder shot Zoya in both temples and between the eyes,” she said slowly.
Henry nodded.
“What did he do when you walked through the door?”
“He swore.”
“In what language?”
“Russian. And then . . . he raised his gun and pointed it at me. I . . . heard a hiss. Or a pop. Or both. And then my stomach was on fire . . .” Henry’s brown eyes were becoming more and more unfocused. “The gun didn’t make a sound.”
“He must have been using a suppressor.” Juliet paused, unease gathering in her belly like a snowball rolling downhill.
Why would the gunman use a suppressor?
He had to be a pro, then. A skilled professional who knew that even the slightest noise could screw up a job.
And the way he’d shot Zoya . . .
She swallowed. “Tell me what happened next.”
“I’m not sure,” Henry said, his expression displaying pure defeat. “I think I blacked out. I was out of it, slipping in and out. And when I woke up again, I was here.”
“What did he look like? What do you remember about him?”
“Tall . . . he was tall. Not skinny, but not bulky.” Henry took another weak breath. “He was wearing all black.”
“Hair color? Eye color? Any distinctive features? Tattoos, moles, scars?”
“Black hair. Slicked back. Dark eyes . . . scary eyes. Very pale. That’s . . . that’s all I can remember.”
Juliet studied Henry’s familiar features, looking for any sign that she was being played, but there was nothing disingenuous in his expression. Besides, he’d never been a very good actor. As kids, she’d been the one to take the lead whenever their foster mother caught them doing something bad. Lying had come naturally to a young Juliet, while Henry blushed like a tomato when faced with evidence of his guilt.
She believed he was telling her the truth. She believed that a man had broken into Henry and Zoya’s house, killed Zoya, and mortally wounded Henry. But unlike the lead detective on the case, she didn’t need to investigate further in order to determine what happened. Because she already knew.
This had been a straight-up assassination.
And Henry’s fiancée had been the target.
“I’m going to die.”
Her head jerked up. “Don’t say that,” she snapped at her brother.
“But I am.”
He sounded so very tired, and although there was no denying he looked like a man on his deathbed, Juliet refused to let him go that easily.
“Don’t you dare give up,” she said fiercely. “I mean it, Henry. You’re going to live, you hear me? You’re—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” a male voice said in Russian, and then a short, stocky man in green scrubs entered the room. “You must be Ms. Mason.”
Juliet rose from her chair. “Dr. Vlacic?”
The man nodded. “May I speak to you out in the hall?”
She didn’t want to leave Henry, but the surgeon’s stern expression brooked no argument, so she reluctantly followed him out the door. When they were alone in the hallway, she crossed her arms and met his eyes. “How is he?” she demanded.
Vlacic had harsh features that no one could ever deem attractive, but his voice was much gentler than she’d expected. “Would you prefer I speak English or Russian?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just tell me how my brother is.”
Vlacic chose the latter language, proceeding to describe Henry’s injuries and surgery using a lot of technical mumbo jumbo that made her head spin.
“Stop,” Juliet cut in, her patience beginning to wear thin. “Tell me one thing: is he going to make it?”
His brief pause was not at all encouraging. “I’m afraid the damage to his organs was too extensive. They are failing, one by one. He’s also lost a substantial amount of blood and continues to bleed internally. He’s weak. He’s in great risk of going into shock. And signs of renal failure are already being exhibited.” Another beat. “He won’t make it through the night.”
Juliet almost keeled over. Her chest suddenly felt bruised, ravaged. She’d asked Vlacic to be blunt, but his brusque admission that her brother was going to die cut her right to the core.
She took a breath, her throat tightening to the point of pain. “There’s nothing you can do for him? Nothing at all?”
Vlacic slowly shook his head.
“Goddamn it.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Mason. I wish I had better news for you, but your brother suffered major trauma. Frankly, I’m surprised he made it through surgery.”
“He’s stronger than he looks.” Her voice cracked midsentence.
“Is there any other family you’d like to call?”
“No.” She swallowed. “I’m the only family he has.”
After offering a few more words of condolence, the doctor stalked off, leaving Juliet alone outside Henry’s door. Her heart hurt. It literally hurt, throbbing and pulsing as cold reality seeped into it. Henry was dying. The only person who’d ever truly cared about her was dying.
She blinked through the sting of tears and tried to collect her composure, then walked back into Henry’s room. She pasted on a smile, prepared to say something optimistic, but he spoke before she could.
“Let me guess. I’ll be dead by morning.”
Her pulse sped up. “Don’t you fucking say that.”
“Why not? It’s true. I know that’s what he told you. I . . . can feel my body . . . giving out on me.” His breathing quickened, frustration flashing across his ashen face. “We’re . . . wasting time. The longer you’re here . . . less likely you’ll find him.”
“Find who?” she said sharply.
“The motherfucker who killed Zoya.”
She stared at him in shock, and not just because this was the first time she’d ever heard Henry curse. Was he seriously asking her to track down the man who’d shot him?
Her silence triggered a knowing glimmer in his eyes. “You can find him. I know you can.”
“Henry—”
“You think . . . I don’t know . . . what you do?” His heart monitor beeped faster. “The secrets? The traveling? You’re . . . filthy rich . . . You wear a different . . .” He was panting now. “Disguise every time you come to see me. You keep me in the dark.”
Guilt trickled through her. “I never wanted to endanger you. I didn’t want my work to harm you in any—”
“I don’t want the details,” he interjected. “Don’t need the details. The choices you’ve made . . . I don’t kn
ow if I approve of a lot of them, but . . . you’re a good person, Jules. You care, no matter how much you pretend not to. And I know you can do this. You can find him.”
“Possibly,” she admitted.
“Not possibly. Definitely. You can,” he insisted, revealing that tenacious streak he’d first exhibited as a child.
Even back then, Henry had been stubborn to the core. Each time Juliet tried convincing him to run away with her, he’d stuck to his guns, arguing that living as street urchins was not a smart alternative to the abusive foster home they’d been forced to endure. Juliet had disagreed, but the younger boy had been too damn pigheaded, and she’d refused to go without him.
“I loved her,” Henry choked out. “Zoya is . . . She’s the only person I’ve ever loved. Other than you. Love you too, Jules. But Zoya . . . she’s a good woman. She has . . . such a big heart. She didn’t deserve to die.” He gasped for a few seconds before lifting his chin and fixing her with a look of determination. “You’re going to kill him for me.”
Juliet found herself unusually flustered. “Henry—”
“Don’t you . . . goddamn fight . . . with me. You will kill him. I will go to my grave . . . knowing . . . knowing that bastard is dead. I can’t avenge Zoya, but I know you . . . you will avenge me.”
Agony flooded her gut, burning her insides and making her feel sick.
“Don’t pretend you won’t.” He jerked a thumb at the machine next to his bed. “When it stops beeping . . . when you see . . . the solid line showing my heart stopped . . . you’ll go out and kill the man who took me away from you. We both know it. So don’t put up a fight . . . Don’t waste time . . . Don’t wait for me to die to get your vengeance.”
He was right. It didn’t matter whether Henry lived or died. Whatever the outcome, she would still find the man who’d done this to him. Only the method of execution was subject to change. If Henry survived, she would probably show some mercy and use a rifle. If Henry died . . . well, she’d use every weapon in her vast arsenal to make sure his killer suffered before she took the son of a bitch’s life.
“Kill him for me,” Henry begged softly. “Leave . . . leave this room right now, Jules, and kill him for me.”
“I can’t leave you.” Tears burned her eyes. “I want to be here with you. I’m staying with you until the very end, little brother.”
“You’ve always been there for me.” His voice was getting weaker and weaker. “You . . . never left my side . . . when Deke burned my arm with the cigarette . . . didn’t leave me when they locked me in the closet . . . You sat outside the door . . . for hours. But you’re going to leave me now. You have somewhere more important to be.”
The tears spilled over and streamed down her cheeks. She was crying in earnest now, gulping for air.
Jesus Christ. She never cried. She never, ever cried. She was thirty-one years old, but she felt like a child again. A lost little orphan who hadn’t known a shred of kindness until she’d met the equally young and equally lost Henry Albright.
Gulping hard, she returned to his side and bent over his weakened body. She didn’t want to aggravate his injuries by hugging him, so she simply stroked his cheek before brushing a tender kiss over his freezing-cold skin.
“I love you, Henry.”
“I love you, Jules.” There were tears in his eyes too, and his features strained with effort as he lifted one hand to her cheek.
His icy fingertips on her skin felt like a caress from death. She fought another wave of tears, then took a couple of shaky steps back. She wanted to say something more, but words eluded her. Finally, she just smiled through her tears and murmured, “Good-bye, little brother.”
She was two feet from the door when he spoke again.
“You have an idea, don’t you? About who he is?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Yes.”
“Good.” A satisfied gleam, and then his brown eyes closed and he whispered that ominous phrase once more. “Kill him for me.”
• • •
Juliet checked into a small suite at the Grenadier Hotel, a modest downtown establishment with the kind of sloppy security she looked for in a hotel. She took the stairs up to her second-floor room and went straight to the bathroom, slightly startled when she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were splotchy, her eyes red and swollen beneath the fake glasses, which she removed and set down on the laminate counter.
After she’d washed the tears and makeup off her face, she left the bathroom and settled on the queen-size bed with her cell phone. She pulled up the number she needed, but didn’t press SEND yet. She had to make sense of a few things first.
Like the fact that Zoya had died from three neat bullet holes to the head.
Alone, that could be nothing more than a random detail, but the precise positioning of the shots was too familiar to ignore. One temple, bang. Second temple, bang. Right between the eyes, bang. It screamed execution, but, more than that, it was a signature.
And Juliet knew of only one contract killer who possessed that macabre signature.
But why would he want to kill Zoya? That was the million-dollar question.
Zoya Harkova didn’t have any enemies—Juliet knew that for a fact, because she’d had the woman investigated once Henry began dating her. Zoya was a schoolteacher. She was a tad timid, way too sweet, but she’d been perfect for the kindhearted Henry. The only noteworthy detail about Zoya’s life was that she happened to be the daughter of a lower-level official in the Ministry of Justice. Her father was hardly a political powerhouse, Juliet recalled, just an insignificant cog in the government machine, but maybe his position in the ministry was the reason the man’s daughter had been targeted. Or at least it was the only one Juliet could think of, and she made a mental note to get Paige to dig into his background ASAP.
Chewing on her lower lip, she finally raised her phone to her ear. Three rings later, a deep Irish brogue danced over the line.
“Why, hello there, luv. Long time no speak.”
Sean Reilly sounded thrilled to hear from her, which came as no surprise. Juliet knew Sean would jump into bed with her in a nanosecond if she gave him the okay, but although she liked him well enough, she didn’t mix business with pleasure. And she valued Sean’s talent for producing information from thin air far too much to risk losing such a crucial contact.
“How’ve you been, Sean? How’s Ollie?”
“We’re both peachy. Though my brother is probably peachier—he’s in the Bahamas at the moment, lying in the sun and drinking piña coladas, while his poor twin is shivering his ass off in bloody Michigan.”
“You’re in the States? Why?”
“Meeting a few folks,” he said vaguely.
“Sounds exciting. Anyway, listen, I need a favor.”
“Let me guess—you require some intel.”
“Yep.”
“Then it’s not a favor. It’s a job,” he said smugly. “I’ll decide on the fee after you tell me what you need.”
“Asshole.” With a sigh, she leaned against the headboard and stretched out her legs. “What do you know about the Siberian Wolf?”
“The Siberian wolf . . . a majestic breed, usually gray, weighing anywhere from sixty to a hundred and forty pounds—”
“Very funny, smart-ass. But you know I’m not talking about a goddamn dog.”
“Someone’s feeling cranky today.” She could practically hear him smirking. “Fine, I won’t ruffle your feathers, little bird. The Siberian Wolf—I assume you mean the Russian assassin who’s eluded Russian law enforcement, Interpol, and multiple federal agencies for the past five years?”
“That’s the one.”
“What do you want to know?”
“All I need is a name and address.”
A low whistle sounded in her ear. “You planning on paying
the Wolf a visit, luv?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Can you handle that for me?”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” he mimicked before his tone turned serious. “Look. I’ll be honest, Jules. I rather like you.”
She arched a brow. “Where are you going with this, Sean?”
“I like you so much that I don’t want to see you dead,” he clarified. “And messing with a Russian psychopath will get you dead. The man is a mass murderer.”
“As flattered as I am to hear how much you care, I don’t need you to protect me,” she retorted through clenched teeth. “Can you help me or not?”
There was a long pause. “What do you want with him?”
An atypical feeling of helplessness crawled up her spine.
“He shot my fucking brother.” She swallowed. “The doctor said Henry won’t make it through the night.”
“I’m sorry, luv.” The Irishman’s sympathy seeped through the extension. “I don’t know what I’d do if someone killed Ollie.”
“Bullshit. You know exactly what you’d do.” Determination hardened her tone. “Get me his name and address. I don’t care how much it costs.”
Sean released a heavy sigh. “It won’t cost you a dime. I already know the identity of the Siberian Wolf.”
“Since when?”
“Since he first became active. Ollie and I make it our business to know anyone who might be of interest to us or to our clients.” Sean sounded smug again. “We maintain a database of all the active and inactive contract killers operating on the globe.”
Wariness rippled through her. “Do you have a file on me?”
“Of course.” He chuckled. “You’ve led an exciting life. We should have a pint one day and exchange stories.”
“What’s the point?” she said dryly. “Clearly you already know everything about me.”
“Yup, but it’ll be more fun hearing it from you.”
“Don’t count on it. Now, quit stalling and give me his name.”
“I wasn’t stalling. And his name is Victor Grechko.”
She leaned forward and scribbled the name on the complimentary notepad she found on the bedside table. “Address?”
