Shadow

by Nadine Nightingale

  Copyright 2021 by Nadine Nightingale

  All rights reserved except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system without prior written permission from the owner/publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Editing by Holly M. Kothe with Indie Solutions, www.murphyrae.net

  Proofreading by Murphy Rae with Indie Solutions, www.murphyrae.net

  Formatting by Elaine York, Allusion Publishing, www.allusionpublishing.com

  SVR Eyes Only

  Two Years Later

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  About the Author

  “When walking through the ‘valley of shadows,’ remember, a shadow is cast by a light.”

  —Austin O’Malley—

  SVR EYES ONLY

  CLEARANCE LEVEL COMPARTMENTED

  DISOBEYED ORDER, RESULTING IN MISSION FAILURE INVESTIGATION

  REF: SVR CASE 222S016

  AGENT IN COMMAND [AIC]: NIKOLAI ALEXEEV

  RE: TEN’ AKA SHADOW AKA REBENOK-SOLDAT N°1

  TRANSCRIPT: DIRECTOR NARYSHKIN, MINISTRY OF DEFENSE, MINISTRY OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS.

  AIC: Zara and Eva Elbaz.

  TEN’: My targets.

  AIC: You had clear orders.

  TEN’: I did.

  AIC: And yet you disobeyed.

  TEN’: Yes, sir.

  AIC: They were important assets.

  TEN’: So I’ve been told.

  AIC: Two hundred seventy-eight missions. You never failed, or disobeyed any orders.

  TEN’: Is there a question?

  AIC: Actually, there is.

  TEN’: I’m listening.

  AIC: What I want to know is why?

  TEN’: I was trained to kill, sir. Rescuing hostages isn’t exactly my game. But you already knew that when you sent me to Damascus, didn’t you?

  AIC: I’m the one who asks the questions.

  TEN’: And I answered them.

  AIC: Tell me why you saved the American. I want to remind you you’re under oath.

  TEN’: He was protecting my targets. The enemy combatants would have killed them if it wasn’t for him. I needed him alive. But you already knew that, too. It’s in my report, sir.

  AIC: What isn’t in your report is what happened to your targets.

  TEN’: They died.

  AIC: How?

  TEN’: I killed them.

  AIC: Why?

  TEN’: Because you told me to.

  AIC: Your mission was to bring them in for interrogation.

  TEN’: My mission was to bring them in and make sure the Americans didn’t get them. I had to make a choice. I did.

  AIC: You failed.

  TEN’: Did I?

  AIC: We’re investigating your connections to the American. You might as well tell us right now.

  TEN’: Tell you what, sir?

  AIC: Espionage is a serious crime. You will spend the rest of your life behind the walls of Black Dolphin. Unless—

  TEN’: I admit to something I didn’t do?

  AIC: Be smart, Myshka.

  TEN’: [gets up]

  AIC: Myshka, where are you going? Sit back down. Now!

  TEN’: We’re done here. [walks away]

  AIC: If you walk out of here now—

  TEN’: You’ll send your best killer after me? [laughs] Oh, that’s right. I am your best killer. And I’m done.

  Two Years Later

  Miami, Florida

  “If murder is an art, you may call me da Vinci.”

  Shadow

  Sooner or later, they all beg for their lives. It betrays their lack of originality, makes them the greatest cliché of all, but when death comes knocking, the human brain reels into survival mode. It urges them to do anything in their power to survive. Their biggest mistake? Assuming I give a fuck or two about their circumstances.

  I really don’t.

  So you have kids? Most people do. You’re a brother, a father, a son? A sister, a daughter, a mother? We all are. Whom you leave behind doesn’t interest me. Neither does your money, your status, your gender, or all the possibilities lying ahead of you.

  My job is to off folks—I’m a trained killer, an assassin, a hired gun.

  Fuck me, I’m good at what I do. The best, really. Ruthless. Unapologetic. Fearless. Stone cold. That’s me—Shadow.

  If murder is an art, you may call me da Vinci. I could be right behind you—pricking you with a needle soaked in the toxin of the poison arrow frog—and you’d never see it coming. See that reflection on the roof across the street? That’s me, aiming my Tochnost—a sniper rifle with a range of 1.24 miles—at your head, pulling the trigger when you least expect it.

  Like every artist, I have a favored technique. A fetish, if you will.
Nothing is as sweet and intimate as murdering a target with my bare hands. A single hit to the heart and it stops beating forever. A precise blow to the Adam’s apple? Deprives you of oxygen, suffocates you. Sounds painful, doesn’t it? It is. And I enjoy every nanosecond of it. The struggle they put up. The look in their eyes when they realize it’s over. The rush when they gasp for their last breath. It’s like reading a Pushkin poem—gives all the feels.

  Do you fear me?

  Don’t.

  Unless…

  Your name is on my list. Then, better make sure you enjoy the fancy meal you just paid two hundred bucks for while the homeless guy across the street starves. Fuck your lover hard and memorable. Oh, and make sure you tell those kids of yours how much you love them. ’Cause, trust me, you won’t get a second chance.

  When I’m coming for you, your days are numbered, and you will be history.

  Just like the brunette, blue-eyed hotness, currently wasting away on the bed of the La Mer Presidential Suite in Miami Beach’s Fontainebleau.

  District Court Judge Hannah Meredith Parker is forty-two, married, and has a seven-year-old daughter named Chelsea. Her favorite color is scarlet, like the figure-flaunting, sleeveless sheath dress she rocks until I ripped it off her silky skin. Meredith—she goes by her middle name—loves crusted lamb rack with rhubarb. I took the liberty of ordering it for her before I led her up to the suite. As a bon voyage gift, if you will. Her go-to drink? That would be gin and tonic. No ice, but a slice of cucumber. The bitch gulped down three glasses, spiked with enough hemlock to paralyze, but not kill her.

  You see, my job isn’t just about murder. That’s a misconception, advertised by Hollywood and Jean Reno. A good assassin spends a lot of time researching his victim. The best? The best digs up every dirty little secret to use it to his advantage. Sweet Meredith? She has a whole closet full of skeletons. Finding one that would lure her in my arms was easier than pulling the trigger of a P-96S pistol.

  Our honorable judge has a thing for role play, if you must know. I found her rape-fantasy on Craig’s List. The bitch had been looking for someone to fuck her hard and merciless. Someone who’d enjoy it if she fought him off.

  I offered her an unforgettable night.

  She came running.

  That’s how simple it is. Find their darkest, deepest desire. Then use it against them. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? She’s a judge for fuck’s sake. How many cases of stranger-danger has she judged in her court room? Hundreds, I assume. Yet, the bitch didn’t think twice when I replied to her ad. She was all game.

  Hey, I’m not complaining. Her recklessness makes my job a helluva lot easier. One more name to scratch off my list, one step closer to my end game. It’s a fucking joy ride.

  Faint moonlight streams through the massive window front leading to the private wrap-around balcony. I caress Meredith’s soft cheek, inhaling the scent of her two-thousand-dollar Clive Christian X Pure perfume. The one she put on for me, her killer.

  “Shh,” I whisper in her ear. “Won’t be long now.”

  I feel her heart slamming against her rib cage. She’s lost about thirty percent of her blood already. The hollow muscular organ in her chest desperately tries to get enough oxygen to her tissues. In about ten minutes, however, it won’t be able to maintain blood pressure and circulation. Sweet Meredith will slip into a comatose state, preceding her ultimate end.

  Wide-eyed, she gazes back at me. The hemlock in her system keeps her muscles frozen, her mouth shut. And yet, despite the poison and the major blood loss, there’s a spark of defiance in her baby-blues—Hannah Meredith Parker wants to survive.

  She won’t.

  Lingchi—death by a thousand cuts—is a slow, torturous process. Without immediate medical assistance, it’s an irrevocable one, too.

  I brush a strand of her long, brown hair out of her face. “Death suits you well, sweet Meredith.” It makes her skin paler, her eyes hazier.

  Meredith eyes move frantically. She struggles to keep focus on her goal—surviving.

  I tug her against my bare chest, relishing in her false hope. They all think they can escape my clutches. They believe in adrenalin and willpower. They all come to understand nothing can save them.

  We stay like this for a little while longer. Her, bleeding out on the expensive white sheets of the Fontainebleau. Me, bathing in her fear. There’s nothing quite as sweet and compelling as the terror of death. It makes you feel alive, allows you to savor each given moment.

  She gasps for air.

  “Would you like me to open the window?” I can do that for her. It’ll be my farewell gift before I send her to the wasteland.

  She gapes at me, hardly able to swallow.

  I take that as a yes and climb out of the king-sized bed.

  Sliding the balcony door open, a wall of dampness and heat hits me—Miami’s famous humidity. I stay in the shadows—my home—tasting the salt on the tip of my tongue.

  The panoramic view over Miami Beach is breathtaking. It’s the perfect night for a swim under the crescent moon and the glimmering lights of the yachts anchored offshore. The perfect place to retire. Who knows, maybe when I’m done with this list—my list—I’ll find myself a place like this, never looking back. Maybe I’ll buy one of those boats, lay my weapons down, and sail off into the sunset, giving myself the happily ever after all assassins deserve. But until then—

  I return to Meredith’s side. “Close your eyes.”

  Her lips part, the hemlock losing its grip on her. Not enough to allow the bitch to speak though.

  I flash her a killer smile. “You want to know why, huh?”

  She blinks twice. That’s a yes, I assume.

  In the end, they all do. They’re looking for a purpose and reason behind their deaths. Usually, I don’t offer that kind of peace. Most of the time I have no fucking idea why they need to vanish. Someone wants them gone and I make it happen. Back in the day, the Russian government supplied me with targets. Nowadays, I get to pick my assignments. The rules are the same, though. I don’t ask questions, and my clients don’t offer explanations.

  Sweet Meredith is the exception to the rule. The bitch isn’t just any hit. No one transferred green bills to my offshore account to make her go away. Honorable District Court Judge Hannah Meredith Parker’s end is personal.

  I pull Masha i Medved out of my bag. “Remember?”

  Her pupils show no reaction. The bitch has no idea why I’m holding a stuffed animal in my hands. Not surprising. To Meredith, she was just one of many. To me, she was everything.

  I sit Masha i Medved on the nightstand, pick up the razor blade, and get back in bed with her.

  Meredith closes her eyes, savoring the feel of the cold metal on her flushed skin. I trace it over her knee, up her inner thigh. Her breathing becomes more and more ragged.

  The bitch is turned on as fuck.

  Inch by inch, I spread her legs. Her red thong hides that fuck-me-hard cherry of hers. I rip the silky fabric to shreds.

  “Look at that pussy,” I whisper, pushing two fingers inside. “So fucking wet for me.” The ghost of a smile plays on my lips. “I bet that husband of yours has no idea what a dirty slut he married, does he?”

  I pull out of her. Poor Meredith looks like a toddler deprived of her favorite toy. The bitch likes it rough, even in the end. Her end.

  I bend over her, breathing down the cuts on her neck. “Do you want me?”

  Her pupils dilate.

  “I know you do,” I say, rubbing her clit. Hard. Merciless.

  Fighting the hemlock, she arches her back.

  Her legs are on my shoulders. Her hard nipples look back at me, inviting me for a taste. I lick them, bite them. Then, I cut right across the rosy flesh, spilling an ugly shade of crimson over her flat belly.

  The bitch leaks all over the bed—blood and cum.

  This is what she wanted. A rough fuck with a stranger who treats her like the cunt she is. It’s why she came willingl
y, not telling a single soul where she’d be tonight. Hubby thinks she’s working late, giving her life to law and order. If only he knew.

  Oh, wait.

  He will.

  Tomorrow, sweet Meredith will be front-page news.

  Tonight, though, she’s my fucking masterpiece. Like all great artists, I apply the final stroke—an A-shaped cut to her femoral artery—with precision and great care. “I’ll see you in hell, sweet Meredith.”

  She’s gone in under a minute.

  I soak it all in, finding pleasure in the gruesome sight. Meredith was the fifth name on my list and, by far, the most fun. Whores like her make my job a fucking dream come true.

  The alarm I set goes off. Time to tidy up and get out. Being Shadow requires me to stay in the shadows. The reason why I don’t usually spend so much time with my kills. I like it clean and fast. Meredith didn’t deserve a quick end. I needed her to suffer like she made her suffer.

  I carry my wine glass to the sink, giving it a good rub with bleach—the all-around miracle worker of hired guns, psychopaths, and rookie murderers.

  Half an hour later, I’ve erased all evidence of my existence. Prints, hair—it’s all gone. I put my clothes back on and throw the razor blade and the bleach in my duffle bag.

  I place Masha i Medved on her pillow so the bitch has a reminder of why she deserved to die. Goodbye, sweet Meredith. May you rot in hell.

  “I could stretch my wings, shed all the guilt and misery and fly to a peaceful place. I could end it all, if only I were able to pull that fucking trigger.”

  Markus

  PTSD. Also known as posttraumatic stress disorder. According to the shrink I saw, it’s a serious condition, occurring in people who have experienced a natural disaster, an accident, a terrorist incident, war, or the death of a loved one. I can check off three of the listed criteria. Been front and center in multiple terrorist incidents? Check. Fought in a war? Check. Watched a loved one die? Double…actually, ten-fold check.