Shadow

by Nadine Nightingale

  Markus

  What the hell was I thinking? My hands wrapped around Shadow’s throat, his eyes slowly glazing over, that’s what. The need to take the bastard’s life fucked with my mind. Didn’t let me think this through. By the time London served up my new cover, it was already too late. Tiffany, my new assistant, assembled my new wardrobe, made me wear some fancy designer suit. Then it was wheels up.

  I had two hours and forty minutes to get acquainted with the new me. Wasn’t as hard as my previous covers, considering London stuck mostly to the truth, altering only a few necessary facts. I’m still Markus Boulder, ex-SEAL, ex-CIA, but she tainted my already screwed-up file, adding a dishonorable discharge due to use of excessive force. Apparently, I tried my luck as an underground fighter after I was kicked out, quickly rising to stardom in Washington D.C. Turns out the Secret Service has excellent connections to the underground fight club scene. Within an hour or so, London found a guy who vouched for me, securing tonight’s fight in some shady club in Miami Beach.

  Why an underground fighter? Good question. Asked London the same thing. Her answer was, “Deveraux junior has a thing for underground fights. Word on the street is he’s looking for a fighter to invest in.” She shrugged the whole thing off. “We all have our guilty pleasures.” We sure do. Fight clubs and Deveraux’s boy-next-door image, however, don’t go together well.

  Anyway, I have to win tonight. Deveraux will be there, scouting. The quicker I take the other guy out, the better. At least, that’s what Tiffany said. She’s studied Deveraux for months, trying to find a way in for one of their agents. London didn’t lie when she said America’s First Son doesn’t like the USSS. He refuses protection. Hired a private security company instead. The president doesn’t want to force his son. He’d rather go behind his back, sending an undercover agent. Not sure that’s perfect parenting, but what the fuck do I know? I can’t even keep a plant alive.

  I lean back and try to relax. Easier said than done. It’s a hundred and four degrees. The AC runs on max, and I still feel the humidity and heat. For a guy who hates summer, Miami is fucking hell. I’d walk barefoot over burning charcoal if it meant I got to kill that son of a bitch who ruined the lives of countless families. Families like mine.

  Speeding down MacArthur Causeway, I watch the waves. We’re surrounded by water. A rougher sea, a slight rise of the sea level brought on by rain, and the causeway will flood.

  Today, the sea is calm. The tiny boats to my left float about, enjoying a quiet sail. Fisher Island to my right—the famous resort residential community off the coast of Miami Beach—looks as idyllic as ever. The Mediterranean-style houses sparkle under the orange sunbeams, making them look even posher. Something tells me you gotta be a hot-shot superstar or lottery winner to own one of those jewels. C’mon, boats and private docks don’t come cheap.

  Miami is a city with blazing roofs, a place where the party never ends and everyone is drilled to perfection. I fit in like a fish in the desert.

  “Markus?” Tiffany nudges me.

  “Huh?”

  “Your phone.” She smiles. “Are you going to answer it? ’Cause that ringtone is driving me nuts.”

  What’s wrong with “The Real Slim Shady”? I’d ask her, but Aunt Josie’s name flickers across my broken screen. Shit, I meant to get it fixed a week ago. Some drunk asshole picked a fight at Josie’s. I hauled his sorry as out, and my poor phone hit the edge of the pavement in the process, cracking the screen.

  “Markus.” Tiffany clearly doesn’t worship Eminem the way I do. “Please, answer the phone.”

  I’d rather not. A lecture by Aunt Josie, mixed with her Italian temper, is the last thing I need. Tiffany looks like she’s two seconds away from tossing my phone out the window. So, I have no choice but to face my aunt.

  “Markus,” Josie grumbles. “Is that you?”

  “Hey, Aunt Josie.”

  “Don’t you Aunt Josie me, young man.” She sounds like a hurricane, ready to do some major damage. “I woke up to a vague message saying you’re doing some work for the government. But you see, I know that’s got to be a mistake. The Markus I know said he was done with all that shit.”

  Did I mention she’s the only family I have left? I’d rather lose my legs than her. The thing is nothing I say will make her less angry or disappointed. But I still have to give it a shot. “Aunt Josie, I—”

  “You’re an idiot, Markus.” She blows out some steam. “Hasn’t your family sacrificed enough?”

  “I’m not going back to war,” I try to appease her.

  “No. No, you’re not.” Her confidence scares the living shit out of me. “What you’re going to do is come back home. Now!”

  I love Josie like a mother. She spoiled me rotten when I was a kid, offered me a job when I had nowhere to go but an asylum maybe. Going back to Chicago means giving up on Shadow and wasting my shot at redemption. I can’t do that. I’m tired of living with ghosts. I have to put them to rest. “I gotta do this, Aunt Josie.”

  “Why, Markus?” She pauses. “What has the government ever done for you?”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “No,” she barks. “You don’t understand. 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.”

  I never said there’s honor in killing. I, of all people, know best that murder—even when sanctioned by the government—is still murder. I also get why Josie is so anti-government. Her family is from Sicily, where most politicians are in the pocket of the Cosa Nostra. She had plenty of bad experiences. “I’m sorry.” For failing you, again. She’s lost enough. Putting her in a tough spot wasn’t my intention.

  “You’re a stubborn son of a bitch,” she mutters. “You better come home in one piece. Or I’m going to feed you to the ducks. You hear me?”

  “I hear ya.”

  “Call me.”

  “I will.”

  I shove my phone in my pocket when I catch Tiffany’s broad grin. “What?” It’s not fair to bark at her, but I need to release some of the darkness nesting in my heart.

  “Nothing.” She gazes out the window, covering her lips to hide the grin. “I just think you’re adorable.”

  Adorable, huh? I inch closer. “That’s not what the ladies call me when I’m done with them.”

  Tiffany looks me straight in the eye. “Oh, please.” Sounding rather bored, she shoves her big rock under my nose. “I already fell for that line. And you know what they say. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…” She winks at me.

  I sorta like this girl.

  • • •

  Gotta admit, this is not what I had in mind when London mentioned a shady nightclub in Miami Beach. For starters, the place is crawling with Armani, Gucci, Hugo Boss, and Prada suits. Most dudes wear gold Rolexes, most women, big fat diamond collars

  We move over the red carpet leading to a small reception desk. Tiffany insisted I wear the black silk tie she picked for me. I told her the thing suffocates me, that I feel like I’m carrying a boa constrictor. She didn’t budge. Said something about “keeping up the image” and “attracting Deveraux’s interest.” I fail to see what my clothes have to do with fighting. Yet, I indulged her. Hey, she drives a hard bargain. It was either the black tie, or a pink one. Some dudes can pull off the lady color. I’m not one of them.

  “Remember what I told you,” Tiffany whispers as we approach the blonde chick behind the desk.

  “How could I forget?” Deveraux likes confidence. Be a player and you’re golden—that’s a direct quote by the way. I pretended to be a traitor to infiltrate a terror cell. I think I can fool TMZ’s favorite cover face.

  “Welcome to Sin.” Blondie flashes us a brilliant smile. “How can I help you tonight?” Her gaze lingers on me. Ten bucks say she’s fucking me in the storage room. For the record, I’m not arrogant. I learned to see ri
ght through folks, assessing their wants and needs to use them to my advantage.

  Tiffany takes the lead. “We’re here for the fight.”

  “Excuse me?” She plays dumb.

  My fierce assistant doesn’t take shit. “TJ sent us.” She tilts her chin at me. “He’s your new fighter.”

  The instant she hears TJ, her body language changes. She still wants to fuck me in the storage room, but she’s also a little scared. I don’t blame her. London went above and beyond to build my reputation. “Markus Boulder?” Blondie’s eyes go wide. “The Markus Boulder?”

  Tiffany rolls her eyes. “If you’re done eye-fucking my boss, we’d like to see the locker room.” She tilts her head at me. “He needs to change.”

  Blondie smacks her forehead. “Of course.” She draws back a black velvet curtain. “Follow me.”

  What the—

  Sin, huh? Let me tell you, this club sure as fuck lives up to its name. “S&M” blares through the speakers as waitresses wearing black lace lingerie, Venetian masks, and killer heels serve drinks.

  They wink at me as we pass them. I barely manage a smile.

  Crossed whips decorate the dark red walls. Rich dudes occupy the big black sofas, admiring the waitresses’ stockings while they feel up their…girlfriends? Wives? Extra-marital affairs?

  Tiffany elbows me. “What’s up, tough guy?” She smirks. “Never seen a girl in lace panties?”

  My gaze darts to a woman chained to the wall across the bar. She’s on her knees, wagging her ass like a dog wags its tail. “Let’s just say this isn’t my scene.”

  Tiffany laughs. “I didn’t think it was.”

  Blondie draws another curtain. “This way.”

  We leave the smell of sex and excitement behind. The narrow white hallway is easier on the eyes and much less distracting.

  Rounding a few corners, we stop in front of a blue metal door. Blondie swings it open. “You can change here.”

  It’s not exactly a locker room, but it’ll do. “Thanks.”

  She nods. “I’ll come get you when it’s time.” The spark in her eyes, the way she licks her lips tells me she’s got something else to say. Tiffany has no interest in hearing it. She slams the door shut in her face.

  My assistant tosses me my gym bag. “Ready, Mr. I’m-not-adorable?”

  I frown. “Can I have a minute?”

  “Whatever you need, boss.” Sarcasm seems to be her mother tongue.

  Once I’ve exchanged my suit for black shorts and my Breitling—courtesy of the USSS—for hand wraps, I move to the sink.

  Avoiding my reflection—I don’t need a reminder of what I’ve become—I splash some cold water in my face, assuring myself I can do this. I’ve been fighting all my life, as a teenager in kickboxing competitions, as a SEAL in war, and as a CIA agent for my life. I have no doubt I can take out whoever they chose as my opponent. Yet, I can’t shake that sick feeling rising in the pit of my stomach.

  “Boss?” Tiffany sings outside the door. “It’s time.”

  “I’ve got this,” I say to the man in the mirror. But he already knows. He’s got that cold killer look in his eyes. The one he wore every time he took someone’s life.

  • • •

  The crowd—the same ladies and gents who sipped champagne on big black sofas earlier—goes completely nuts as I step away from my bleeding, unconscious opponent. The poor guy will have a major headache for the next few days. He should probably see a plastic surgeon, too. His nose will thank him later.

  “I’m impressed,” Tiffany says, tossing me a towel. “You knocked him out in—”

  “Less than a minute,” I say, deadpan. Nothing to brag about. “The guy was a rookie—no cover, and rotten footwork.”

  Tiffany’s brows fly up. “Dude, he’s a head taller, and built like a tank.”

  I rest my hand on her shoulder. “Has no one told you?” I flash her a wicked smile. “It’s never about the size.”

  “Oh, someone told me.” She cocks a brow. “He lied.”

  The chick cracks me up. Partly because I can’t be sure if she’s serious or not. Mostly because she’s got an answer for just about everything. Maybe I should ask her about the sense of life.

  Some dude walks up to us. “Markus Boulder?”

  Confident player. I raise a brow. “Who wants to know?”

  The twenty-something Wall Street banker with a gel addiction pulls a black business card out of his pocket. “Call this number if you’re interested in more fights.” He shoves it in my palm and mingles with the crowd.

  Tiffany ogles the golden phone number. “You know what that means, right?”

  “That I get to see the inside of Charlie’s chocolate factory?” I reply dryly.

  She smacks me. “No, you idiot.” Her eyes light up. “It means we’re in,” she squeaks, about to do a happy dance.

  “All right, Phoebe Buffay, how do you know this,” I hold the business card under her nose, “is Deveraux’s number?”

  She slams her hand on her hip. “How do you not know?” I stare at her. “Black and gold?” she tries to jog my memory.

  “And?”

  That earns me a full-blown WTF glance. “March’s GQ edition?”

  “Nope, still no clue.”

  Tiffany shakes her head. “Deveraux gave an interview. Amongst other questions, the reporter asked him about his favorite colors.” She snatches the card out of my hand. “Guess what?”

  “Black and gold,” I grumble.

  “Yay!” She hits me on the back. “We have a winner.”

  Hurray.

  “Nothing bugs a man in power more than turning your back to him. Nothing except for being ungrateful.”

  Markus

  Phoebe Buffay, aka my all-knowing assistant Tiffany, was…well, all-knowing. Turns out the number on the business card was Deveraux’s. I waited until the next day to call him. That’s what players do, right? They make you wait.

  Deveraux mentioned my fight, said he had a business proposal, and invited us to his twenty-six-million-dollar estate located at South Beach. I didn’t show any excitement. Instead, I made him wait a couple of hours before I agreed to a meeting.

  He likes interesting, Tiffany had said. C’mon, what’s more interesting than a dude who doesn’t jump the second America’s First Son offers an audience?

  Deveraux’s driver—name’s John, according to Tiffany—pulls into the driveway. The estate is surrounded by a massive wall, about ten feet high, and guarded by seven heavily armed men. They carry Steyr AUGs—standard British military rifles.

  Tiffany gasps. “Oh, shit.”

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s one thing to see that,” she gestures at the estate, “on TV. Something else entirely to face the real deal.” I can’t tell if she’s impressed by Deveraux’s wealth or shocked by it.

  Either way, she needs to get a grip. “You’re not going to scream and faint when you see him, are you?”

  She elbows me in the ribs. “Shut up.”

  I hold my hands up. “Just saying.”

  “A girl can appreciate beauty,” she retorts. “Doesn’t mean she’s going to drop her panties.”

  Fair enough.

  The engine is still running when security yanks my door open. “Markus Boulder?” he asks, voice low.

  I simply nod.

  “We need to frisk you.” Judging by his accent, his rifle isn’t the only thing that’s British. “Get out of the car.”

  I remain seated. “Please.”

  He squints. “What?”

  I draw a deep breath. “Get out of the car, please.”

  He didn’t expect that, which is exactly what I wanted. Guys like him think a uniform and a rifle miraculously turn them into Steven Seagal. He fails to understand that it’s the man who makes the uniform, not the other way around.

  He holds the door for me. “Get out of the car,” he rolls his eyes, “please.”

  “Better,” I tease him, climbing out
.

  He frisks me down, forgetting to check my ankle. I could walk right in and shoot Deveraux, for fuck’s sake.

  “All clear,” he shouts, waving a brunette bombshell over.

  The girl approaches us, her smile so perfect it can only be fake. And that’s by far not the only fake thing about her—nose, tits, ass—she’s a walking, talking plastic surgery advertisement. “Welcome to Deveraux Mansion,” she greets us. “My name is Jennifer, and I will give you a quick tour of the house before I take you to Wi—Mr. Deveraux.” She was gonna say Will. Know what that tells me? Jennifer is a bunny in the Deveraux Mansion. I’m sure good old Hugh would be proud of his protégé.

  “That’s very kind,” Tiffany says. “We,” she shoots me a killer look, “appreciate it.”

  Yeah, speak for yourself, sweetheart.

  Ever wonder what almost thirty million looks like from the inside? Italian marble, African blackwood, golden doorknobs and faucets, expensive artworks (I’m talking Picasso and Monet), a pool the size of Buffalo Grove, ten bedrooms, eleven full bathrooms, two partial baths, a private beach with a dock overlooking Biscayne Bay, and lots of half-naked women adoring the whole thing.

  Tiffany needs to pick up her jaw from the floor before we head into Deveraux’s office. She looks more and more crazy-fan-girl and less professional assistant. “You good?”

  She straightens her black skirt. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  I could think of a reason or two, but now is not the time.

  Jennifer knocks, swings the door open, and—

  Hello, Sin City.

  Across the room, behind a fancy desk, is Deveraux. He’s not alone. Another brunette sits on his lap, backward cowgirl-style. She dry humps him like a dog.

  Tiffany coughs, probably trying to tell the two they have witnesses.

  The thing is the chick doesn’t care. She rides him, guides his hand to her left tit, but her eyes are on me the whole time. And Deveraux? He peeks over Cowgirl’s shoulder, flashing us his famous, loved-by-mothers-and-daughters-alike, boy-next-door grin.