She pulls her shoulder up, downplaying the whole thing. “We all make mistakes.”
“Mistakes?” I bark. “Lady, I got ten people killed.”
She eyeballs the file on her desk. “Did you?” Her gaze darts back to me. “From what I read, you and the SEALS got ambushed on your way out.”
My pulse slams against my neck. “It was my responsibility to get them all back home. It was my job to rescue those hostages. I failed. How is that not my fault?” I need to take a couple of deep breaths before I lose my shit. Once I’m sure I have the fire in my soul under control, I add, “Besides, I’m certain the Secret Service has plenty of skilled agents at their disposal.”
“We do,” she replies, all confident. “But this job requires special talents, Mr. Boulder.”
“Like riding a horse backward?” I don’t like where she’s going with this, and a good portion of sarcasm always helps me forget who I truly am—a killer, trained and groomed by the government of the United States to eliminate their enemies.
“No, Mr. Boulder. Anyone can ride a horse backward.” Her dark brown eyes narrow. She’s clearly not into sarcasm or games. “However, not everyone can take out Shadow.”
My heart races like a motherfucker. Shadow? “As in the notorious assassin? The one who killed the Russian defense minister last year?” I have to be sure we’re talking about the same monster.
The ghost of a smile plays on her lips. “That’s the one.”
Fists balled, I breathe harder. Shadow is the stuff of nightmares. He’s the Boogeyman, the Hookman, the Candyman—a ghost story CIA operatives tell around the campfire. And…he’s my brother’s killer.
Remember how London mentioned we got ambushed? Well, it wasn’t a whole terror cell taking out my brother, his squad, and two hostages. It was a single man. A killer so feared some refuse to say his name. Rumor has it he has over three hundred kills under his belt. In Afghanistan, they called him Ghost. He walked into an al Qaeda lair one night and slaughtered over a dozen high-ranking members without leaving any traces behind. The weirdest part of the story is yet to come. Shadow offed them with his bare hands. Our captain said they all died from commotio cordis—a lethal disruption of the heart rhythm, occurring as a result of a blow to the area directly above one’s heart. I know murdering terrorists sounds honorable. There’s just one problem. Shadow doesn’t just kill bad guys. He kills whoever is on his list. I already mentioned the Russian defense minister, my brother, his squad, and the two hostages, didn’t I? Well, they’re just a few of many. The Russians nicknamed him Ten’, which translates to Shadow. Some believe he was SVR—short for Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service—trained to assassinate government enemies. A little less than two years ago, shortly after he killed my brother and ruined my life, he went rogue. Now, he kills for money, regardless of nationality.
“Markus?” Deputy Director London meets my gaze. “Are you still with me?”
I banish the horror stories and haunting memories to the back of my mind and focus on a more pressing issue. “Why am I really here?”
She pulls another file from the stack. It’s labeled TOP SECRET. “Take a look for yourself.”
Opening a Top Secret file comes with a price tag. I’m not sure I’m willing to pay. “Why don’t you enlighten me, ma’am?”
She furrows her brows. “So be it.” Deputy Director Jean London opens the brown paper, shoving a bunch of photos under my nose. Three corpses stare back at me. One body more mutilated than the other. “Lingchi,” she says, as I study the art of a monster. “Death by—”
“A thousand cuts.” I’m well acquainted with the slow, slicing form of torture. The Chinese used it from about 900 CE until it was banned in 1905. They took a knife and removed portions of the skin over an extended period of time, eventually resulting in an excruciatingly painful death. Lingchi was reserved for especially heinous crimes such as treason.
I glare at the pics. “Who are…were they?”
London points to the first photo—a man, about forty, tied to a chair. “James Hatfield, TSA agent at Miami International.” She moves to the other guy, floating butt naked in a Jacuzzi. “Commissioner Arthur Brix.” The last victim is female. “And District Court Judge Hannah Meredith Parker.”
A TSA agent, a city official, and a judge—all killed the same way—screams serial killer. Not necessarily Russian assassin. “And you think Shadow did this?”
London isn’t oblivious to the mockery in my tone. “I do.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” she counters.
I scan the gruesome canvases once more. “For starters, Shadow likes his kills clean and quick.” Lingchi is neither. “Why would he risk getting caught?” He must have spent hours, maybe even days with his victims—two of which were high-profile.
“Very good question, Mr. Boulder.” London walks around her desk, flinging herself into her queen-like chair. “The answer is we don’t know.”
I understand the Secret Service is all about secrets, but Jean London is giving me a headache with her vague replies. “With all due respect, ma’am, your men broke into my apartment. I was dragged to the airport after a twelve-hour shift, no one told me where we’d go, or why, and now you’re baiting me with a famous assassin without actually telling me why I’m here.”
“I do apologize for my agents’ rude entrance,” she says, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “But it came to my attention you didn’t exactly hear them out either.”
“And that makes breaking and entering okay?”
“Mr. Boulder.” She folds her hands in her lap. “We wouldn’t have come to you if it wasn’t important.”
I’m running out of patience. “All right, so why don’t you just tell me what’s so important you had to drag me out of my bed and onto a plane in the middle of the night?”
“We have reason to believe Shadow is in Miami,” she blurts out.
Arms crossed, I furrow my brows. “What reason?”
She reaches for the file. “We found this,” she tosses me another pic, “at each crime scene.”
I stare at the brown teddy bear wearing a polka dot scarf around its shoulders. A blonde doll with a pink dress and a pink headscarf sits on the teddy’s lap. “A stuffed teddy?” Sorry, but that sure as fuck doesn’t scream Shadow.
“Masha i Medved,” London explains. “The main characters of a Russian animation show.”
Still don’t see the connection. “And?”
“Look closer,” she urges.
I examine the pic. There’s something scribbled on the bear’s paw. Is that—
“Cyrillic,” Deputy Director London finishes my thought. “Means—”
“Shadow,” I say, ogling the neat handwriting. Yeah, I speak Russian, along with six other languages. It’s not really a big deal. Picked up most when I was deployed.
“Can you see why we believe he’s in the States?” London asks.
I’m not sure. Shadow never left any clues behind. Why start now? And why the fuck leave a teddy bear? Doesn’t make any sense. I humor her nevertheless. “Let’s say you’re right, and this is Shadow’s doing. I still don’t see what I have to do with any of this.”
She leans in closer. “Tell me you don’t want revenge for your brother’s death. Tell me you don’t care his killer is in the States. Tell me you’d rather serve tables than kill that monster.”
“I can’t,” I reply honestly. Fuck, I spent the past two years planning and executing Shadow’s death in my dreams. Killing him, making sure he’d never take the life of another brother—Christmas and Easter in one.
London’s eyes light up. “This is your chance, Boulder. I’m offering you revenge, served under the flag of the United States of America.”
“You want me to go after Shadow?” There might be a God after all.
“Not exactly.”
“Okay, now I’m confused.” Isn’t that what she just said? That I get to take out my brother’
s killer?
“William Deveraux,” she says, as if it were the answer to all my questions.
“The William Deveraux? The president’s son?” She nods. “What about him?”
London’s gaze darts to the photo of the Russian plush teddy. “You might have heard he’s opening a new club in Miami?”
“Me and the rest of the world, ma’am.” The First Son is TMZ’s favorite. His face has covered more magazines than Naomi Campbell’s. Whatever he does is front-page news.
“All victims were somehow associated with Deveraux,” she says.
A judge and a commissioner I get. But—“The TSA agent?”
London pulls her lips to one side. “They went to the same high school, long before President Deveraux went into politics.”
Rubbing my stiff neck, I sigh. “Okay, let me get this straight. You think Shadow is in Miami killing friends of our president’s son?”
“It’s just a working theory,” she admits. “But we can’t take any risks.”
“I don’t mean any disrespect, ma’am, but if Shadow is after Deveraux junior, he’s as good as dead.” No fucking around it. Unlike me, Shadow never fails.
“And that’s why we need you.”
“To do what exactly?”
“To protect the president’s son while he’s in Miami.” Looks like she’s done beating around the bush. “Look, you studied Shadow’s work for years. The CIA said you were obsessed with him.”
My index finger shoots up. “One: I’m an ex-soldier and trained killer. Not a bodyguard.” What the fuck do I know about playing Kevin fucking Costner for a spoiled rich brat? My middle finger follows suit. “And two: There’s a reason they call him Shadow. I tried to find him for years.” I lift my empty hands. “Obviously, unsuccessfully.”
London’s demeanor changes from friendly to fuck-with-me-and-I’ll-make-sure-you-pay-Guantanamo-Bay-a-visit. “I’d ask your brother.” She taps her temple and grins. “Oh, right, Shadow killed him.”
A black cloud of anger rises from the pit of my stomach. How dare she use my dead brother to play some fucked-up mind game? Does she really think I’ll fall for this? I was trained to withstand torture and waterboarding. Who the hell is she to think she can break me?
London blows out a long, frustrated breath. “C’mon, Boulder. This is your chance to save someone’s life.” Rather than take it, she means. “To take your brother’s killer off the streets and…to find closure.”
I don’t care about closure. My life is fucked, and I’ve come to terms with it. Ending Shadow, however, is something else entirely. I swore I’d never touch a gun again, finished killing for my country. But London is right about one thing. Taking this job, protecting the president’s son, and killing the murderer of my brother could be my ticket to redemption. Or at the very least, it would be sweet, alluring revenge.
“What do you say, Markus?”
Fuck it! “When do I start?”
She grins like she won the goddamn lottery. “As soon as we brief you on your new identity.”
“My new what?” The Secret Service doesn’t do new identities. The CIA does.
London gets up and leans against the desk in front of me. “I told you, we need a man with a special skill set. Someone who has undercover experience.”
“Un—”
“Let’s just say William Deveraux isn’t exactly a fan of the Secret Service,” she goes on. “That’s why we need an inside man. Someone who can pose as a friend rather than a bodyguard.”
“A friend?” I laugh. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be the First Son’s friend, ma’am.” He hangs with movie stars and models. Not fucked-up ex-agents slash waiters.
She waves my comment off. “Don’t you worry. We’ve got it all sorted out.”
She presses a button on her phone.
A woman answers. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Send Tiffany,” London orders.
I gawk at her, wondering if maybe she’s gone mad. “Relax,” she says. “Tiffany is a doll. She’ll accompany you to Miami as your personal assistant.” London shrugs. “All famous underground fighters should have one, don’t you think?”
Famous what?
“Tonight, I’m not here for Alexei. Tonight, I’m here to learn everything about his Achilles’ heel.”
Shadow
An Achilles’ heel. We all have one. Yes, even monsters like me. The difference between us? You go above and beyond to cover it up, afraid it could cause your downfall. I, on the other hand, embrace mine. Face your demons, darling, and weakness becomes strength. The poisoned arrow, lodged into your heel, will no longer kill you, it’ll make you stronger. Invincible.
But your bravery also makes my job a whole lot harder.
And I kind of like easy.
As easy as Alexei Sokolov. A man made of greed and lust.
Alexei is forty-four. Born and bred in Sochi, a city in Krasnodar Krai, Russia, he’s a brigadier of the Bratva. In other words, the captain of a small group of men in the Russian Mafia. He came to Miami after the execution of Aslan Usoyan, the reputed boss of the Bratva. The mobster’s death caused chaos in the criminal world, leaving behind a power vacuum Alexei hoped to fill. Sokolov, however, isn’t the brightest bulb. The reason he never made it farther than brigadier. The American dream isn’t for everyone.
Anyway, he and his crew run a few private Russian-speaking nightclubs on Washington Avenue. They focus on money laundering, tourist scams, and girls. The latter is Alexei’s favorite hobby. He talks girls from Russia, Latvia, and Estonia into coming to the States, promising them a job and money to feed their families. Needless to say, what they get is anything but glamourous. They’re enslaved, sold, and used to fill the Bratva’s pockets.
They never stood a chance.
Just like she never stood a chance.
Oh, yes. Did I mention Alexei Sokolov happens to be the sixth name on my list? No? Well, he is. The bastard’s about to pay for what he did. And he has no fucking clue what’s coming for him.
Which brings me back to Achilles’ heels. His Achilles’ heel, to be specific.
Like clockwork, Alexei sneaks through the backdoor of the Idol club. Inside, the party continues to rave. Some chicks are looking for a sugar daddy. Some poor sons of bitches are overcharged for drinks and whatnot. Outside, Alexei gets ready for his own night of fun. The bald Smurf is dressed in a white button-down and fancy designer pants. He wears his cheap Russian cologne—a too-strong mixture of amber and citrus—like a shield. Got to give it to him, his tactic works. No one in his right mind, treasuring his scent, would dare come too close to him.
Paranoid, Alexei peeks over his shoulder, checking the darkness for an enemy. By the time he’s certain no one’s going to put a bullet through his tiny brain or slice his ugly throat, he moves around the club and heads down Washington Avenue toward Espanola Way.
Alexei, like most humans, is a creature of habit. I don’t need to tread on his heels to know where he’s going. I stay in the dark, allowing him to bathe in false security while I plot his murder.
• • •
Havana 1957 is a popular spot amongst locals, serving the best Cuban cuisine in town. Alexei and his Achilles’ heel sit in the love booth, a red leather bench in the corner of the busy restaurant. I can see his bald head from outside.
A young beautiful Latina flashes me her best come-on-in smile. “Table for one?”
“Yes, please.” The rules when engaging people are simple. Be friendly, but not friendly enough to leave an impression. Never avoid eye contact. Makes you look suspicious. Always wear contacts. You’d be surprised how remarkably well people remember eyes. They can be the Achilles’ heel of every assassin. And last but not least, don’t ever make a scene. Nothing makes you more memorable than drama.
She grabs a menu. “Follow me.”
I’m seated at a table for two, on the opposite side of the restaurant. It’s the perfect spot to keep an eye on Alexei without him noticing me.
/> “Can I get you a drink while you look through the menu?”
“Water.” She casts me a weird look, and I immediately add, “And a Spicy Cuba Libre 11.”
She’s back to all smiles. “Coming right up.”
One eye on Alexei, I check out the menu. Mrs. Sunshine quickly returns with my drinks, and when I place my order— sopa de pollo and ensalada Cubana—I have about twenty uninterrupted minutes to assess Alexei’s Achilles’ heel further.
She goes by the name Marie, short for Mariposa. The long-legged, black-haired beauty is barely twenty and lives with her ninety-year-old grandmother, not far from Havana 1957. Alexei met her when she auditioned for a dancer job at Idol. Dancer is another description for becoming one of the Bratva’s scamming whores, in case you wondered. Anyway, the instant Alexei saw her, he became obsessed with the girl. Can’t say I blame him. She’s the prefect mixture of a young Catherine Zeta Jones with the body of Jennifer Lopez. And Alexei? He’s just a man with a cock, eager to conquer sweet pussies like hers.
A waiter brings two large plates to their table. Alexei doesn’t even look at him. Mariposa offers the young man a sweet smile. One Alexei doesn’t appreciate. His eyes narrow, his shoulders stiffen—I watch his transformation into a caveman.
Mariposa senses it, too. It’s why she squeezes the asshole’s hand, reassuring him she only has eyes for him.
I’m in the midst of spooning my soup when Alexei gets a call. Don Juan’s face pales. Gone is the captain. The soldier has arrived.
In a heartbeat, he’s on his feet. Phone jammed between shoulder and ear, he tosses two hundred dollar bills on the table.
Mariposa doesn’t even flinch. She’s used to Alexei’s quick escapes.
He kisses her on the forehead—yes, even scum like Alexei can fall in love—and rushes back out into the night.
Me? I stay. Tonight, I’m not here for Alexei. Tonight, I’m here to learn everything about his Achilles’ heel—beautiful little Mariposa.
“You don’t protect the people of this country. You’re protecting a government. Dirty politicians waging war to get what they want. There’s no honor in killing. And, sure as hell, no honor in dying.”
Shadow Page 3
