by Juno Rushdan
Shhh, Levik. Some men named their cocks. He had named his demon.
Aleksander inserted earbuds and played a little Handel to center them. Sarabande.
He’d feed Levik soon, when the target strolled the property for his morning wind bath before a swim. Aleksander would be one step closer, but neither one of them would be fully appeased until D-day.
Chapter 09
Maryland
Thursday, 5:25 a.m. EDT
Sunlight fractured the concrete sky. Cool air rushed over Cole.
After riding all night on the I-495 loop, the Capital Beltway—a sixty-four-mile stretch of freeway encircling Washington, DC, winding through Virginia and Maryland—the roar of his bike had anesthetized his bitter rage. A long, hard ride was the best form of self-medicating, more addictive than booze. But his thoughts still whirred as if his mind were caught in a blender.
His attempt at shut-eye in a dingy dive motel in Silver Spring had been torture. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Maddox. She’d baited him. Lured him to her apartment under questionable and possibly reprehensible circumstances. Where he could stay and be safe.
CIA code for fuck him, then fuck him over getting him to do her bidding?
Those scum suckers were master manipulators.
She’d sashayed from her bedroom, smelling of rose water. That sexy getup clinging to her curves had been an insane tease yanking his leashed gaze, drawing his body tight as a steel cable. But he’d done what he considered a sensational job not regressing into a devoted puppy drooling for her treats.
Nope. Never again.
Such bravado. A part of him craved her in the worst way, and he cursed the damned Pavlovian response.
Pure craziness to have touched her—hell, to get within ten feet of her. The woman was biological warfare incarnate, wreaking havoc on his common sense and self-control.
Shit. He hadn’t volunteered for this war. He’d been drafted and wasn’t even sure who the enemy was anymore.
Riding round the interstate loop, he had no idea where he was going until he exited on to Route 50, to Annapolis. Ilya had sold the family home in DC, no surprise. Their father had been shot on the front steps. What had stunned Cole speechless was that Ilya hadn’t taken the opportunity to legitimize the business. He’d propelled it to new illegal depths instead, adding arms trafficking to their list of sins. Everything Cole had sacrificed to keep his mother and brother safe, to free them from an illicit life under constant guard, had been wasted.
Cole rolled up in front his brother’s multimillion-dollar gated compound. It sprawled across several acres facing Whitehall Bay. He hit the intercom button.
“Yeah. What can I do for you?” said a voice he didn’t recognize.
Cole lifted the visor on his helmet. “Is Vitali up?”
Vitali had been the family’s head enforcer for as long as Cole could remember, and the only other person besides his mother and brother who knew he was alive. Ilya would never get rid of Vitali. The loyalty ran too deep.
“Yep. What’s it to you?”
“Tell him it’s Nikolai.” He all but choked on his real name. It’d been nine years since he’d referred to himself by it, and he felt like an impostor. The truth was he no longer belonged there. A part of him never had.
“Nikolai who?”
“Just tell him.” He rubbed his eyes, fatigue stinging his retinas.
On a subconscious level, he must revel in being tormented by Maddox. It’d brought him here, when not even the love for his mother had done that.
What were the long-shot odds the woman who’d upended his life by spilling secrets would become a damn spy? That bombshell had been worse than a boot heel to the groin.
Looking at it deeper, she might have the right skill set in spades. Her compassion endeared her to others—had won over his reticent father easily. Had Cole sharing secrets in the darkness between the sheets. And any good spy needed the ability to get others to confide.
She had book smarts to match street sense, was multilingual, and could handle herself. He’d made certain of the last one, teaching her devastating strikes, kicks, submission holds. She’d learned with the ease of a natural. Her fluid efficiency was impressive, but her ballistic speed and precision were her strengths.
No hesitation. A fighter’s heart. Fearless. And fierce.
Freaking CIA. He removed his helmet and spat the disgust from his mouth onto the driveway. Why couldn’t he hate her and be done for good?
Last night, he’d seen flashes of sorrow and regret in her. None of that emotion had burned through her tough-girl facade, but he’d sensed her heartache, the loneliness. He had recognized the second he’d wounded her, for the sake of closure. And hurting her, even to save himself…
Excruciating pain wrenched his chest, worse than a knife between the ribs. It was as though his feelings for Maddox were a thoroughbred stallion that had a broken leg. He had to find a way to put a bullet in its head and spare himself further misery.
“Who the fuck is this?” Vitali said in Russian over the intercom.
Looking up at the camera pointed at him, Cole pushed the hair from his face. A moment passed. The wrought iron gates swung open.
He put his helmet on and sped up the winding, tree-lined drive to the massive stone house.
Blood money had paid for the expansive grounds, the mansion, the sports cars parked to the side.
Men like his brother and father had built their wealth off the graves of others. Although Cole had never had a hand in the family business, he was accountable. He’d saved Ilya and given him a chance to spread more misery.
If he could help stop a bioweapon from killing innocent people, he had a responsibility. Maybe, just maybe, his karmic debt would be paid.
He parked the bike near the four-car garage, catching a glimpse of the pool in the back. Stiffness riddled his leg muscles from the long ride. He stretched and walked toward the front, past two armed guards. Gravel crunched under his boots.
Vitali opened the front door and greeted Cole in a bear hug. “It’s been too long.”
The burly man looked him up and down and patted the left side of Cole’s face with affection. Vitali’s wrinkles and scars were stories engraved by seventy-five hard years. His hair was thinned and gray, his skin leathery. Time had shown him little kindness. His mobility was dulled, but the old guy probably still packed a mean right hook.
“I bet that scar hasn’t hurt you with the ladies.”
A hollow smile tugged at Cole’s mouth. He didn’t have a problem getting laid whenever he needed to take the edge off, but it’d been a while. Not since he had moved back to DC.
“Come in.” Vitali beckoned him to enter the house.
Taking a tour of his brother’s lavish blood-money mansion wasn’t on the agenda. “I need to speak to Ilya. Now.”
Vitali huffed, propping his fists on his hips. “He’s sleeping. Won’t be up for a couple of hours. Come in. Have coffee. Tell me about your life.”
The warmth in the old guy’s eyes and the love in his voice slayed Cole, but he wasn’t here to socialize. He didn’t have the stomach to reminisce.
“Wake him. I’ll wait around back near the pool.” Turning, Cole strode away before Vitali protested.
Curses in Russian spewed behind him. Then a door slammed.
He needed to confront Ilya, get the passcode for Maddox, and get gone. He’d help her, even if he was helping the CIA. Keeping a biological weapon out of the hands of a terrorist wasn’t too different from the work he did at Rubicon. Or so he told himself.
The back of the house overlooked the bay. Mist blanketed the water and silvery dew coated the grass. Small flowering trees and a garden of azaleas and delphiniums and peonies—his mother’s favorites—were planted beside the lap pool. The rising sun warmed the sky to a powdery blue. Serenity. Th
e quiet seclusion and charming beauty of the property stilled the restless energy winding through him and, at the same time, amplified his turbulent thoughts.
He didn’t begrudge Ilya a nice view or a large house. He had a taste for the finer things himself. The difference was everything Cole had, he’d earned through honest hard work and smart investments. Ilya had built this palace trafficking in violence and death.
Their father had been an ubiytsa, an assassin, who’d risen through the ranks of the Vory v Zakone, Russian mafia. The underworld brotherhood had gotten him and their mother out of Russia, but there was a price. The debt had built the illicit Reznikov empire, but it was his love for his wife and children that had driven him to strive for a legitimate legacy in America.
How could Ilya dishonor his memory like this?
A tingle sparked at the base of Cole’s skull. He glanced over his shoulder, staring at the bank of trees on the south side of the property. He had an eerie sense of being watched.
He scanned the thicket for anything that didn’t belong.
Leaves swayed in the whistling wind. Blades of grass danced. The scent of evergreen was heavy. Gossamer shreds of mist coiled and drifted like phantom fingers tickling the earth.
The tingle deepened to a throbbing tightness that was impossible to ignore.
No birds. At this hour, there should be the rustle of wings, the busy activity of feeding. It was nothing major, but his instincts geared him to full alert.
A patio door opened. “Nikolai?” Ilya stepped outside under the wisteria-covered pergola and stared at him a second. “Kolya!” He waved him over, then disappeared inside.
Cole sighed, dreading the conversation, and traipsed toward the house. He snuck another glance over his shoulder. Nothing stirred; all appeared peaceful. He passed the pool and grabbed the handle of the open solarium door. Hesitating, he promised himself he wouldn’t stay long. A sudden strange urgency prodded him to get inside, across the threshold. He entered the sunroom and shut the door.
“Back from the dead,” Ilya said with a sleepy smile. “I can’t believe it. I called Vitali a liar when he said you were here.” Ilya stood in the solarium, wearing silk pajama pants and a matching robe. On his bare chest, the eight-pointed stars of the Vory had been inked.
Ilya gave him a one-armed hug.
Patting his brother’s back in return, Cole steered him deeper into the room. The solarium wasn’t much better than being outside, its high glass walls fit for a menagerie. At least the six-feet tall ficus plants scattered along the periphery provided some screening.
The prickling throb in the base of his skull tightened. He peered between the plants outside at the woods. Wind brushed away the mist, but he still didn’t see any cause for alarm.
“What have you been doing with yourself all this time?” At thirty-six, three years older than Cole, gray hair salted Ilya’s temples and he’d already packed on a paunch.
“I’m pretty sure not as much as you.” Atrocities always followed in the wake of an arms trafficking deal. A Reznikov deal.
“This is nice, huh?” With the foliage-lined walls, pots of blooming flowers, and soft morning light for a backdrop, Ilya grinned, arms extended, waltzing around the room, oblivious to Cole’s contempt. “Momma loved this place,” Ilya said. “At the end, when the cancer got bad, she talked about you a lot. She wanted to spend one more day with you before she died, making your favorites. Blinis. Borscht.”
Cole’s regret at losing a chance to hug his mother once more was another on a mounting pile.
“I caught a glimpse of you at the funeral.” Ilya slid his hands into his silk pockets. “Knew it was you, even at a distance with that beautiful face hidden behind a helmet.”
The sarcasm cut deep, but Cole met his brother’s eyes with unflinching coldness.
“Vitali! Bring us some coffee,” Ilya said, averting his gaze.
“Is your guest going to grace us with his presence long enough for coffee?” the old man sneered from the hall.
“No.” Cole threw the word like a dagger.
“Pssh.” Always willing to play with fire, Ilya waved a dismissive hand. “He stays for coffee.” He pranced around the room as if he were a king. “So, are you back to take your place at my side?”
Cole folded his arms across his chest. “I’d rather shit glass.”
Ilya threw his head back with a grating laugh, the noise shredding the air. “Kolya, you always had a flair for the dramatic. All those people you gutted nine years ago. Come on, bratik.” He called him brother in Russian. “You have to admit, that was pretty dramatic.”
Not once had Cole ever shed blood because he enjoyed it. Violence wasn’t imprinted in his DNA like it was for Ilya. Their father had been gunned down for something he didn’t do. A bull’s-eye had been smeared on the rest of their backs—including Maddox. Not a day went by he didn’t think about the blood on his hands. Taking lives to protect those he loved was the second hardest thing he’d ever done.
Leaving Maddox behind to keep her safe topped his list.
For Ilya to joke about it sickened him. He shot a warning glare at his brother.
Ilya held up his hands, feigned self-reproach painting his slim face. “Don’t get me wrong, it was necessary. I owe you my life. You did what no one else would’ve been able to and in a very short amount of time. When you get pissed, watch out.”
Ilya threw a one-two punch in the air, hopping on the balls of his feet. “A force to be reckoned with. My crooked nose is a daily reminder.” Ilya tapped the indentation of the bridge that slanted to the left. “Unbelievable. You broke my nose in front of Momma over that bitch, Maddox.”
Those sloppy words lit a primal fuse in Cole and he strained not to detonate. “Watch your damn mouth. You’re not good enough to speak her name.”
Ilya rolled his eyes, flashing a tight-lipped grin. “That piece of ass still gets you worked up? She came to see me after you died, asking if you were truly dead. I enjoyed consoling her.”
Cole charged across the room. Ilya staggered back, his smile faltering. Cole snatched his brother by the robe’s lapels, slamming him into a ficus, smacking his head against the glass. Ilya stood taller by an inch, with a muscular frame, but there’d never been a contest between them in this department.
Fury whipped white-hot through Cole, constricting his thoughts into laser focus. “Did you touch her?” Cole shook his brother, hoping to knock some decency into his head. Why hadn’t Maddox mentioned she’d gone to see him? “Did you lay a finger on her?”
A vile grin spread across Ilya’s mouth. Cole cocked his fist and punched the smirk off his face.
Ilya yelped, throwing his hands up. “Shit, bratik! I didn’t touch your fucking pizda.”
Cole nearly collapsed from the profound relief. Ilya hadn’t hurt Maddox, and Cole didn’t have to butcher his mother’s firstborn. Maddox was capable of kicking Ilya’s ass, but Ilya was the type of disgusting lowlife who would’ve had others hold her down for him.
“Breaking your nose obviously didn’t teach you the fucking lesson. If you call her a bitch, piece of ass, pizda”—cunt in Russian—“or anything else disrespectful, I’ll break your jaw so it’ll be wired shut.”
A tortured expression stamped Ilya’s face. “Want to know why I never liked her?”
Cole jammed his fist under his brother’s chin, against his windpipe. “I know. You’re a prejudiced bastard.”
Ilya snorted a laugh that curled up and died in his chest. “I see you. So clearly. Yet you don’t know me at all, Kolya. It was never about the color of her skin.”
“Bullshit. You said the vilest things. After I smashed your face in and broke your nose, you screwed every whore with a shade of brown skin just so you could talk about what you did to them and make your sick implications.” How his brother had run through prostitutes to ensure his gr
oss point hit home had disgusted him.
Cole’s fists shook at the recollection, acid eating at his stomach. He jostled Ilya, knocking his head against the glass wall. “Did you think time would erase my memory?”
“I thought you’d end it with her if I got deep enough under your skin.” Ilya tilted his head and his gaze fell.
“I loved her.” Clenching his jaw, Cole shoved him. The glass vibrated like it might break. “Why would you do that?”
Ilya’s eyes sliced up to his. “If her father had been a gangster instead of some white-collar Dudley Do-Right from suburbia, I would’ve embraced her like a sister.”
The words slapped Cole dumbstruck.
Ilya’s jaw tightened. “I never thought you working on that hoity-toity master’s degree would stick. You’d never be an architect. I knew that whole fantasy life you dreamt of would fade away eventually, because I see who you really are. Deep down, you’re just like Papa.”
The stone-cold tongue of fear licked Cole’s spine, and he let his brother go. There was something terrible prowling inside Cole and he fought to keep the darkness in check, but he wasn’t a monster.
“You’re one of us.” Ilya wiped blood from his mouth. “But when she came along, I knew I’d lose you. To the suburbs and your fantasy of a legit life. And then I lost you anyway.”
What Ilya said made sense, in a twisted way. He had seen her as a threat, as the one thing that could truly sever Cole’s connection to the family, but it didn’t justify his grotesque behavior.
Turning his back on his brother, Cole crossed the room. He’d never told Ilya the raid had been Maddox’s fault. Even in the middle of the shitstorm she’d caused, he’d protected her.
Vitali came in, carrying a tray of coffee. He set it down on the glass table in the center of the room and left in stubborn silence.
Adjusting his robe, Ilya smoothed down the shiny fabric.
“Why the fuck are you wearing stars?” Cole raked his hair back with both hands. “You swore you were done. You looked me in the eye and gave me your word. Instead, you became one of the most notorious arms dealers on the Eastern Seaboard.”
