The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  “We should go if we’re going to make Austria at a decent hour.” She didn’t look at her driver. “You called in the reservations?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  She nodded. Now what to do? She had another passport, complete with another identity in case this little eventuality ever arose. Elianya sniffed, she was not about to spend any time in jail. She pulled her white fur tighter around her.

  The problem was that if they found the cache of videotapes, which she was certain they would, and some of the paper files, then the authorities would know most of the places she would go.

  Of course, they probably wouldn’t know them all. They couldn’t know them all. Not all were on file, or even operating yet. She could drive up to Cheb, but that was dangerous. Too many of her brother’s people up there. Too many bosses and enforcers who would love to make her pay.

  She sighed. That had not been planned well. She should have made it look as though Viktor had been killed in an accident, or at the very least by his own enforcer. Then the bosses would be helping her and aiding in trying to kill one Dimitri Petrolov. Of course, they would undoubtedly be looking for him regardless. He knew too many of their secrets. Too many shipment dates, too many meeting places, too many names.

  She grinned.

  All men.

  She should have planned to just take them all out, but this worked as well. There had been an opportunity and she’d taken it. She just needed a bit of time. She had enough money in her Swiss and Cayman accounts already under another name.

  Now it was simply time to become someone else.

  She sighed again. “Go.” She sat back as he pulled away from the curb and drove in the opposite direction of the chaos behind her.

  Overall, it wouldn’t matter. She still had the main client list on her CPU in the back of the car. She still had account numbers. All she needed to do was find someplace to download it all onto her laptop and then back it up on disk.

  Her phone rang.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “You idiot!” the voice said.

  She waited.

  “What in the hell have you started now?”

  “You told me to leave Petrolov alone and I haven’t even touched him.”

  “No, you blew his damn cover. Do you have any idea the amount of manpower you just put on this damn case? Everything will be blown way the hell open. Fuck.”

  She tsked. “You worry too much, my friend.” She picked at the fur. “Perhaps I rushed things with Viktor, but—”

  “Perhaps. We’ve now got a vacuum there. You know as well as I do, there will be war over who gets his holdings.” The other person muttered something she didn’t catch. “And since you decided to leave the guards alive, they know who killed Viktor Hellinski. The guards knew he was alive before you went in. Then he’s dead. Not real bright.”

  She frowned. “I saw no reason to kill them. It will work out. I’ve money, and connections. If they want to fight over my brother’s holdings, let them. I have my own.”

  A sigh answered her. “You may now. Tomorrow who’s to say?”

  Elianya knew she’d make it through this. She had undoubtedly rushed Viktor’s demise, but he was gone, she was moving on. And to better things.

  But there was one thing, one she would take care of before she completely turned her back on the past.

  “What of Petrolov?” she asked.

  “He’s our problem now. Your little stunt has alerted everyone to the fact we have a mole. Whether or not Petrolov dies is moot. The problem is much bigger than him now.”

  Not the way she saw it. Perhaps the powers that be would figure out who their snitch was, maybe she would help them there.

  But no matter what, Petrolov—until she learned his real name—would remain foremost in her mind.

  “I’ll contact you later,” she said.

  “Don’t. I shouldn’t—”

  Elianya hung up and cut her phone off. She didn’t care to talk to the informant. She looked at the small piece of technology and realized how stupid she was. They could trace her by her cell phone. At the first opportunity she would destroy it. It was tempting to simply toss it out the window. But that would be stupid.

  She took a deep breath and wondered how to find out Petrolov’s real name. She would. The contact had to know it, and she would obtain it.

  Elianya was not above blackmail and obviously her contact was worried. They should be, she could ruin them. She would unless they told her what she wanted to know.

  And what she wanted was very simple.

  A name.

  His name.

  Not just another alias.

  Petrolov’s true identity.

  • • •

  The sun over the city glinted a dark silver off the river, mirroring the glass windows across the way. The men behind him talked in low voices. Rori stood behind the minibar cutting up fruit room service had delivered. Cinnamon and baked pastries filled the air from the streusel and kolaches brought up, coffee swirled within the scents of the baked goods, reminding him he’d had nothing to eat since lunch yesterday.

  Snake, a medium-sized Latino, originally from New Mexico, had looked over the little girl, noted her eyes were still a bit glazed from drugs or shock, and decided against giving her anything else. Though cautious, the child moved with ease, belying any injuries she might have. She sat quiet and still now, sucking her thumb. So, Snake, ever the efficient man, had gently placed his hand on her neck and squeezed a pressure point until she merely slumped to the side on the couch cushions.

  Ian bit down. “Was that necessary?”

  Snake, his dark eyes narrowed, stared at him. “Probably not, but it was a hell of a lot quicker than waiting for her to go to sleep or waiting until whatever drugs are in her system to work their way out.”

  Snake started to reach down and lift the child, but Ian stepped forward and mumbled, “I’ll do it.” He scooped her up, ignoring the stares the others threw him. “Where do you want her.”

  They went back to the bedroom and he laid her gently on the bed.

  “She’ll be out for a few minutes, and considering what you’ve told me, I’d rather not have her come to while we’re examining her,” Snake muttered, pulling out a stethoscope, some vials, a blood pressure gauge.

  Ian stood at the foot of the bed, thrumming his fingers against his thigh as Snake quickly checked her heart, her pulse.

  The harsh bruises on the back of the girl’s neck yelled at him from her pale skin. And as Snake quickly undressed her, more bruises and injuries made themselves known.

  Ian fisted his hands, cursing, “Son of a bitch.”

  Snake’s head whipped up. “Wait in the other room.”

  He started to. God help him, he almost turned around. Instead he swallowed, walked to the window and sat on the sill, looking out at the morning activity—at people who may or may not have a care in the world.

  Not like the poor soul on the bed.

  Christ. He closed his eyes, took another deep breath and wished again he was anywhere but here.

  Snake tended to whisper to himself, muttering as he examined, and Ian ignored him, or tried to. He didn’t even turn around when he heard Snake’s oath, and wasn’t surprised when the man softened his voice, as if calming the little girl who couldn’t hear him.

  “Well,” Snake’s voice didn’t pull his attention from the street below, “she’s been bound, given injections in the arm, from the needle marks. Not too many, so I would have to say they didn’t have her too long, as the last one is still somewhat fresh. Probably last night’s. I’m taking some blood samples to see what she’s been given.”

  He closed his eyes, thinking of the evidence he’d knowingly washed down the drain. “She took a bath.”

  “I know, but from what I can tell it doesn’t matter. She wasn’t sexually abused from what I can tell. Of course, where she was, what she saw . . .” He trailed off. “As for suffering as the poor girl on the video, no. Thi
s one here’s still a virgin, no bruising, no tearing, no signs of any sexual assault.”

  Thank God.

  Ian turned, breathing deep, controlling the rage that had roared up in him through the last few minutes. He cleared his throat. “When will you have the results back on her blood work?” He walked to the bed, sat on the other side, reaching out and grazing his finger down her pale cheek.

  “Hard to say. Probably in a few days.” Snake tossed his stuff back into the bag, carefully set the vials into a small tray and placed the tray in a miniature cooler. He quickly zipped all the compartments shut.

  Voices floated in from the other room.

  “Poor kid. Bastards,” Snake said, taking her pulse again.

  Without taking his eyes off of her, he reached out, took her other hand and said, “How old do you think she is?”

  Snake laid her hand gently on her chest and pulled the covers up. “Hard to say. Some kids are really small for their age, malnutrition, genes, whatever, others larger. But going on average, I’d say probably five. But she could be four or even six.” He shrugged, grabbed the discarded shirt and pulled it back over the girl’s head. Ian helped him put her arms into the garment.

  He rubbed his hands over his face. “How much longer will she be out?”

  Snake straightened, twisted, his back crackling. “A few more minutes, why?”

  Ian stood, walked into the living room and asked for a printing kit. Tanner, shoving pastry into his mouth, reached over, grabbed a kit out of his bag and handed it to Ian.

  Back in the room, he eased her fingers onto the pad, then onto the paper, printing each digit. Her palm was warm against his own fingers. In the bathroom, he wet a washcloth, then quickly cleaned her fingers off. He didn’t want her sucking on the ink.

  Probably wouldn’t hurt her, but still.

  When he was finished, he tossed the washcloth into the wastebasket, where they were tossing all their towels. He knew when they left here, they’d also clean the room, strip it of linens, crammed in a bag, and someone would toss it below themselves—preferably in the incinerator.

  Leave nothing behind.

  That was the motto.

  He leaned his arms onto the counter and looked at himself in the mirror. His shadow was practically a beard. His hair long.

  He only saw the man he’d been for the last five years. One Dimitri Petrolov, who had saved girls, helped men and killed some he wished he could forget.

  “You look tired,” Rori’s quiet voice said behind him.

  He shifted his gaze to her in the mirror and didn’t say anything for a moment. Was she here only because he’d ordered her to be? Was it more? Did she still plan on taking him out? He didn’t trust her. Not really, yet something about her pulled at him.

  Her head tilted to the side, her eyes narrowed. “What?”

  For a moment they just stared at each other. Ian’s muscles tightened, his gut squeezed and all he saw was her, and those wicked green eyes.

  The woman tries to kill him and he finds her attractive.

  A slow grin lifted her lips, dimpling into a smile. “I’d love to know what’s going on in that mind of yours.”

  He blinked, then looked at himself again in the mirror. Turning his head one way then another. “I was thinking it was time for a trim.”

  “And a shave?” Her eyes twinkled. “Do I get the honors?”

  Should he go blond? “I wouldn’t let you near me with a razor.”

  Her chuckle danced between them and sunk straight to his groin. He shifted.

  “Darling, if I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t use a razor.”

  He needed his bag. He turned, but she blocked the doorway.

  They both stood there, staring at each other. Ian inhaled deeply and caught a whiff of something floral, jasmine and spice? His eyes ran down her. Still dressed in her turtleneck, the sweater clung to her curves. Trim belly, a rather flat chest and muscled arms. Her legs were long. Her neck graceful, seemingly longer than he remembered from her provocative sweater earlier last night. Her lips were lush, full, and that straight-lined nose tilted up just so at the end, making her almost vulnerable somehow. He stepped closer.

  She didn’t move, only continued to stare at him.

  “Why didn’t you mark me?” he asked, his voice low. He put one arm up on the other side of the door facing so she’d have to duck and go under to leave. Her eyes were wickedly pale, and this close he saw they weren’t just green, but also dusted with golden flecks.

  Her lashes swept down. “It didn’t feel right.”

  “You always do what you feel is right?” He leaned a bit closer, and noticed her shoulder muscles tighten. Definitely jasmine.

  She licked her lips, looked at him from under her lashes. “Mostly.”

  Ian leaned closer. “Good. So do I.”

  To hell with it. He leaned in and she met him halfway.

  Her lips were as soft as he thought they would be. Neither of them touched except with their lips. He shifted, standing a bit closer, just a bit more and their chests would be touching.

  She tilted her head, angling, and bit his lip. Ian sucked in his breath, his eyes darting open. Her eyes watched his and she slowly licked the spot where her teeth had nipped, her tongue warm and wet.

  He felt her smile before she ended the kiss and pulled back. One brow cocked, she said, “And I never do anything I don’t want to do.”

  As she watched, he licked his lip at the same spot she had only moments before. “That makes two of us.”

  He didn’t move as she walked away and across the dark room, back into the living room.

  John stood in the living room, looking into the bedroom, a straight line to the bathroom. His eyes met Ian’s and John only shook his head.

  What the hell was he doing? Ian hurried into the living room, grabbed his bag up and turned to head back to the bathroom.

  “The passports should be here within the hour. I need to take your photos,” Tanner said.

  Ian nodded to him and kept walking. Too much to do, too little time.

  So what the hell was he doing kissing the woman who had been hired to kill him?

  Shit.

  He was losing his mind. That was all it was. Had to be it.

  As he walked through the bedroom he glanced at the bed, saw the girl was awake and watching him. He slowed, but didn’t stop near the bed as she tensed. Ian gave her a smile and walked on.

  He set his bag down, and almost shut the bathroom door. Instead, he left it open so he could see into the room. He pulled his shirt off, draped a towel in the sink, and pulled the scissors out of the bag. Wetting his hair, he combed it. It was longer than he realized, almost to his shoulders.

  The scissors clicked, echoing in the tiled bathroom as dark locks of his hair fell into his hand. He dropped the pieces into the towel. Snip. Snip. Snip. It took several minutes, but he had most of it off.

  He heard her voice before he saw her appear in the mirror again. He paused. “What?”

  “You want to look like you cut that yourself?” She stepped up behind him. “Here, give me those.”

  His eyes met hers in the mirror and she grinned.

  “Stabbing’s really not my thing. Incredibly messy. I’d rather a gun any day.” She held her hand out. “And besides, your blokes in there would have my neck broke before you even bled out. So give over.”

  Ian slapped the scissors in her hands.

  “You’ll have to get down a bit, I’m tall but not that bloody tall.”

  Ian knelt down. “Why do I get the feeling you enjoy this?”

  “Yes, having a man on his knees before me is rather nice.” She continued to snip his hair. She paused and both their eyes shifted in the mirror to the doorway, where the girl stood, wearing a too large T-shirt of his. Her thumb firmly in her mouth.

  Her eyes only stared, she barely moved.

  Ian didn’t know how the hell to put her at ease or even how to communicate with her.

&nb
sp; Rori jerked his hair, yanking his attention back.

  “You keep moving and I won’t be responsible if you get a bad trim.” Snip. Snip. Snip.

  He kept his head straight, but his eyes on the little girl. She came a bit closer. Then a bit closer, but never completely into the bathroom.

  Ian grinned at her again, hoping to put her at ease.

  “There,” Rori said, rolling her fingers into the towel. “You’ve a head of hair on you, but I think that’ll do, no?”

  He turned his head one way, then the other. It was short, almost a crew cut, but he didn’t care. He would probably shave it off when they switched identities again anyway. He nodded. “It’ll definitely do.” His eyes met hers. “Thanks.”

  Smiling ruefully, she handed him back the scissors. “Now, if you could just find a razor, we might be ready by the time your friends arrive.”

  With that, she walked out of the bathroom, and the little girl hurried out of her way, hiding around the doorway.

  Rori stopped, asked the little girl if she was hungry, and made motions to her mouth as if eating. Then motioned for her to follow.

  The little girl looked from him to Rori. Deciding to help out. He smiled again, pointed to Rori and then gently closed the door. He wrapped the towel up, tossed it into the wastebasket and wiped the counter clean.

  Stripping, he quickly climbed into the shower and washed the last of the hair off. He shaved, redressed. Making certain the bathroom was as clean as he could get it, the tub and drain free of hair, he nodded. He opened the bathroom door, steam billowing out into the cool room.

  He almost stepped on her.

  The little girl sat on the floor, in his T-shirt, her spindly legs and bare feet straight out in front of her, pastry crumbs all over the shirt, and what looked like a bit of poppyseed filling on the top of her lip.

  “Looks as if you’ve eaten,” he said, squatting down.

  She placed the kolache on the white plate beside her and wiped her hands on her shirt.

  He didn’t move.

  She stared at him, in that straight silent way she did, the dark blue eyes wide and curious.

  Then ever so slowly, she stood, her head tilting to the side. Her little hand reached out and touched his cheek, rubbing the now smooth skin.