by Zaires, Anna
Devil’s Lair
Molotov Obsession: Book 1
Anna Zaires
♠ Mozaika Publications ♠
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Excerpt from Tormentor Mine by Anna Zaires
Excerpt from Hard Code by Misha Bell
About the Author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 Anna Zaires and Dima Zales
www.annazaires.com
All rights reserved.
Except for use in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
Published by Mozaika Publications, an imprint of Mozaika LLC.
www.mozaikallc.com
Cover by The Book Brander
thebookbrander.com
Photography from The Cover Lab
www.thecoverlab.com
e-ISBN: 978-1-63142-619-3
ISBN: 978-1-63142-620-9
1
Chloe
A car backfires and the storefront window to my left explodes, blasting shards of glass in a wide radius.
I freeze, so stunned I barely feel the glass biting into my bare arm. Then the screams reach me.
“Shots fired! Call 911,” someone on the street is yelling, and adrenaline floods my veins as my brain makes the connection between the sound and the glass explosion.
Someone is shooting.
At me.
They found me.
My feet react before the rest of me, propelling me into a jump just as another sharp pop! reaches my ears, and the register inside the store explodes into splinters.
The same register I was blocking with my body a second ago.
I taste terror. It’s coppery, like blood. Maybe it is blood. Maybe I was shot, and I’m dying. But no, I’m running. My heartbeat is roaring in my ears, my lungs pumping for all they’re worth as I sprint down the block. I can feel the burn in my legs, so I’m alive.
For now.
Because they found me. Again.
I make a sharp right, sprinting down a narrow side street, and over my shoulder, I catch a glimpse of two men half a block behind me, running after me at full speed.
My lungs are already screaming for air, my legs threatening to give out, but I put on a desperate burst of speed and dash into an alley before they round the corner. A five-foot-tall chain-link fence cuts the alley in half, but I climb up and over it in seconds, adrenaline lending me an athlete’s agility and strength.
The back of the alley connects to another street, and a sob of relief bursts from my throat as I realize it’s the one where I parked my car before the interview.
Run, Chloe. You can do it.
Desperately sucking in air, I sprint down the street, scanning the curb for a beat-up Toyota Corolla.
Where is it?
Where did I leave the damn car?
Was it behind the blue pickup truck or the white one?
Please let it be there. Please let it be there.
Finally, I spot it, half-hidden behind a white van. Fumbling in my pocket, I extract the keys, and with violently shaking hands, I press the button to unlock the car.
I’m already inside and jamming the key into the ignition when I see my pursuers emerging from the alley a block behind me, each with a gun in his hand.
* * *
I’m still shaking five hours later as I pull into a gas station, the first one I’ve seen on this winding mountain road.
That had been close, much too close.
They’re getting bolder, more desperate.
They shot at me on the fucking street.
My legs feel like rubber as I step out of the car, clutching my empty water bottle. I need a bathroom, water, food, and gas, in that order—and ideally a new vehicle, as they might’ve gotten my Toyota’s license plate. That is, assuming they didn’t already have it.
I have no idea how they found me in Boise, Idaho, but it might’ve been through my car.
The problem is, what little I know about evading criminals hellbent on murder comes from books and movies, and I have no idea what my pursuers actually can track. Just to be safe, though, I’m not using any of my credit cards, and I ditched my phone the very first day.
Another problem is I have exactly thirty-two dollars and twenty-four cents in my wallet. The waitressing position I interviewed for this morning in Boise would’ve been a lifesaver, as the café owner was open to paying me cash under the table, but they found me before I could do a single shift.
A few inches to the right, and the bullet would’ve gone through my head instead of that storefront window.
Blood pooling on the kitchen floor… Pink robe on white tile… Glazed, unseeing stare…
My heart rate spikes and my shaking intensifies, my knees threatening to buckle underneath me. Leaning on the hood of my car, I drag in a shuddering breath, trying to get the mad drumming of my pulse to slow as I shove the memories deep down, where they can’t squeeze my throat in a vise.
I can’t think about what happened. If I do, I’ll fall apart and they’ll win.
They might win anyway because I have no money and no clue what I’m doing.
One thing at a time, Chloe. One foot in front of the other.
Mom’s voice comes to me, calm and steady, and I force myself to straighten away from the car. So what if my situation has gone from desperate to critical?
I’m still alive, and I intend to stay that way.
I extracted all the glass shards from my arm a couple of hours ago, but the T-shirt I wrapped around it to stop the bleeding looks strange, so I grab my hoodie from the trunk and put the hood up to hide my face from any security cameras that might be inside the gas station. I don’t know if the people after me would be able to get access to that footage, but it’s better not to risk it.
Again, assuming they’re not already tracking my car.
Focus, Chloe. One step at a time.
Taking a steadying breath, I walk into the small convenience store attached to the gas station and, with a
small wave at the elderly woman behind the register, go directly to the bathroom in the back. Once my most pressing needs are taken care of, I wash my hands and face, fill up my water bottle from the faucet, and pull out my wallet to count the bills, just in case.
Nope, I didn’t miscalculate or miss a stray twenty. Thirty-two dollars and twenty-four cents is all the cash I have left.
The face in the bathroom mirror is that of a stranger, all strained and hollow-cheeked, with dark circles under overly large brown eyes. I’ve neither eaten nor slept normally since I’ve been on the run, and it shows. I look older than my twenty-three years, the past month having aged me by a decade.
Suppressing the useless bout of self-pity, I focus on the practical. Step one: decide how to allocate the funds I do have.
The biggest priority is gas for the car. It’s got less than a quarter tank, and there’s no telling when I’ll find another gas station in this area. Filling up all the way will set me back at least thirty dollars, leaving me only a couple of dollars for food to quench the gnawing emptiness in my stomach.
More importantly, the next time I run out of gas, I’m screwed.
Exiting the bathroom, I head to the register and tell the elderly cashier to give me twenty bucks worth of gas. I also grab a hot dog and a banana, and devour the hot dog while she slowly counts out the change. The banana I stash in my hoodie’s front pocket for tomorrow’s breakfast.
“Here you go, dearie,” the cashier says in a croaky voice, handing me the change along with a receipt. With a warm smile, she adds, “You have a nice day now, hear?”
To my shock, my throat constricts, and tears prickle at the back of my eyes, the simple kindness undoing me completely. “Thank you. You too,” I say in a choked voice, and stuffing the change into my wallet, I hurry toward the exit before I can alarm the woman by bursting into tears.
I’m almost out the door when a local newspaper catches my eye. It’s in a bin labeled “FREE,” so I grab it before continuing on to my car.
While the tank is filling up, I get my unruly emotions under control and unfold the newspaper, going straight for the classified section in the back. It’s a long shot, but maybe someone around here is hiring for some kind of gig, like washing windows or trimming hedges.
Even fifty bucks could up my chances of survival.
At first, I don’t see anything along the lines of what I’m looking for, and I’m about to fold the paper in disappointment when a listing at the bottom of the page catches my attention:
Live-in tutor wanted for four-year-old. Must be well-educated, good with children, and willing to relocate to a remote mountain estate. $3K/week cash. To apply, email resume to [email protected].
Three grand a week in cash? What the fuck?
Unable to believe my eyes, I reread the ad.
Nope, all the words are still the same, which is insane. Three grand a week for a tutor? In cash?
It’s a hoax, it’s got to be.
Heart pounding, I finish filling up the tank and get into the car. My mind is racing. I’m the perfect candidate for this position. Not only have I just graduated with an Education Studies major, but I’ve babysat and tutored kids all through high school and college. And relocation to a remote mountain estate? Sign me up! The more remote, the better.
It’s as if the ad was crafted just for me.
Wait a minute. Could this be a trap?
No, that’s truly paranoid thinking. Ever since this morning’s close call, I’ve been driving aimlessly with the sole goal of putting as much distance between myself and Boise as possible while staying off the major roads and highways to avoid traffic cameras. My pursuers would’ve had to have a crystal ball to guess that I’d end up in this remote area, much less pick up this local paper. The only way this could be a trap is if they’d placed similar ads in all the newspapers across the country, as well as on all the major job sites, and even then, it feels like a stretch.
No, this is unlikely to be a trap set specifically for me, but it could be something equally sinister.
I hesitate for a moment, then get out of the car and go back into the store.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, approaching the elderly cashier. “Do you live in this area?”
“Why, yes, dearie.” A smile brightens her wrinkled face. “Elkwood Creek born and bred.”
“Great. In that case”—I unfold the newspaper and place it on the counter—“do you know anything about this?” I point at the ad.
She pulls out a pair of reading glasses and squints at the small text. “Huh. Three grand a week for a tutor—must be even richer than they say.”
My pulse jumps in excitement. “You know who placed this ad?”
She looks up, rheumy eyes blinking behind the thick lenses of her glasses. “Well, I can’t be certain, dearie, but rumor has it, some wealthy Russian bought out the old Jamieson property, way up in the mountains, and built a brand-new place there. Has been hiring local boys for some random jobs here and there, always paying cash. No one’s said anything about a kid, though, so it might not be him—but I can’t think of anyone else around these parts with that kind of money, much less anything close to an estate.”
Holy shit. This may actually be for real. A rich foreigner—that would explain both the too-high salary and its cash nature. The man—or more likely the couple, since there’s a child involved—may not know the going rate for tutors around here, or may not care. When you’re wealthy enough, a few grand may be no more meaningful than a few pennies. For me, though, a single week’s paycheck could mean the difference between life and death, and if I were to earn that kind of money for a month, I’d be able to buy another used car—and maybe even some fake papers, so I could get out of the country and disappear for good.
Best of all, if the estate is remote enough, it may take a while before my pursuers find me there—if they ever do. With a cash salary, there would be no paper trail, nothing to connect me to the Russian couple.
This job could be the answer to all my prayers… if I get it, that is.
“Is there a public library anywhere around here?” I ask, trying to temper my excitement. I don’t want to get my hopes up. Even if my resume is the best they get, the hiring process could take weeks or months, and it’s not safe to stick around here that long.
If they found me in Boise, they’ll find me here too.
It’s only a matter of time.
The cashier beams at me. “Why, yes, dearie. Just drive north about ten miles, and when you see the first buildings, take a left, drive past two intersections, and it’ll be on your left, right next to the sheriff’s office.”
“Wonderful, thank you. Do you have a pen?” When she hands it to me, I jot down the directions on the front of the newspaper.
Not having a smartphone with GPS sucks.
“Have a nice day,” I tell the elderly lady, and when I head out this time, there’s a definite bounce in my step.
* * *
The tiny library closes at five p.m., so I hurriedly put together my resume and cover letter on one of the public computers, then email both to the address indicated in the ad. Instead of a phone number and email address, I put only my email on the resume; hopefully, that will suffice.
By the time I’m done, the library is closing, so I get back into my car and drive out of the small town, randomly turning onto narrow, winding roads until I find what I’m looking for.
A clearing in the woods where I can park my Toyota behind the trees, out of sight of anyone driving by.
With the car safely situated, I open the trunk and take out another sweater from the suitcase I was lucky enough to have with me when my life went to pieces. Rolling up the sweater, I stretch out on the backseat, place the makeshift pillow under my head, and close my eyes.
My last thought before sleep drags me under is the hope that I stay alive long enough to hear back about the job.
2
Nikolai
A knock
on the door distracts me from the email I’m reading, and I look up from my laptop as Alina opens the door and gracefully steps into my office.
“We got a promising application tonight,” she says, approaching my desk. “Here, take a look.” She hands me a thick folder.
I open it. A driver’s license photo of a striking young woman stares at me from the front page. Her brown eyes are so big they dominate her small, diamond-shaped face, and even on the grainy printout, her bronzed skin seems to glow, as if lit from within by an invisible candle. But it’s her mouth that catches my attention. Small yet perfectly plump, it’s a mix between a doll’s Cupid-bow pout and something one might find on a porn star.
She’s not smiling in this picture; her expression is solemn, her hair pulled back in either a tight ponytail or a bun. The next page, however, has a picture of her laughing, her head thrown back and her face framed by golden-brown waves that disappear below her slender shoulders. She’s beautiful in this photo, and so radiant that I feel something inside me go dangerously still and quiet even as my pulse quickens with a primal male response.
