Shadow

by Nadine Nightingale

  He cups her ass, lifting her silky dress an inch or two. “Maybe I missed you.”

  Didn’t look like it when he was surrounded by his harem.

  “You always do,” she replies, kissing his cheek.

  I realize two things at once. One: I’m disappointed as fuck and I have no clue why. I just met the chick; it’s not like I thought we’d ride off into the sunset. Two: Dasha is going to make my job one helluva lot harder. How am I supposed to focus on Deveraux and Shadow when I only have eyes for her?

  “Markus.” Deveraux throws his arm around her, turning her toward me. “Meet Dasha, my queen. Dasha, meet Markus Boulder, my new—”

  “Fighter,” she finishes, her hazel eyes roaming me. “We’ve met.”

  “You have?” Deveraux shoots me a nasty look. “Well, I hope he was on his best behavior.”

  She could end my mission in a heartbeat. All she has to do is mention bits and pieces of our conversation earlier. But Dasha surprises me once more when she fakes an innocent smile and says, “He was a true gentleman.”

  “He better be,” Deveraux warns, pretending to joke. He’s so serious, I can feel his hands around my neck, choking the life out of me just in case I get the idea to look at her the wrong way.

  “Will?” Dimitri stands by the door leading to the VIP room. Talk about eye-fucking. He literally undresses Dasha with his eyes.

  Deveraux cups her elbow, hauling her to the Russian. She can barely keep his pace with her killer heels, but her boyfriend doesn’t seem to give a shit.

  I stay back, watching Dimitri as he plants kisses at the edges of Dasha’s lips. He’s a little too close, a little too excited, a little too into her.

  “Boulder,” Deveraux waves me over, “what are you waiting for? C’mon.” He flashes me a wicked smile. “The party is just getting started.”

  “Killing is easy, myshka. You pull a trigger, slice a knife through someone’s heart, or deliver a deadly blow. Surviving, that’s the hard part. Outsmarting your enemies, staying twenty steps ahead—you need brains for that.”

  Shadow

  If there’s one thing my time at the SVR taught me, it’s to blend in. I can walk into a grade school, and teachers smile at me. They’d never think I’m a threat or a danger to the little ones. Or, I can find my way into the VIP room of Sin, and not a single soul will question if I belong. I’m just that good.

  Leaning against the red-lit bar, I keep my eyes on my targets. Three in one room with a single exit. For an assassin, that’s like finding a Twinkie in Zombieland—rare and very much appreciated. I could spike their drinks with poison, slice a major blood vessel while passing by them, or just straight up shoot them and the rest of the motherfuckers in here. Believe me, each and every customer of Sin deserves to die.

  All but one. Maybe.

  Dressed like a model, he sits next to the president’s son.

  An unexpected obstacle, I tell myself. Nothing I can’t handle.

  Then why is my heart going fucking crazy? I’ve never feared an enemy, and I’ve faced many. No matter how tall, big, or ruthless they appear, at the end of the day, they all bleed red. So, what is it that bugs me about his sudden appearance? Maybe it’s because he’s the only one who ever got close to catching a glimpse of me. Or maybe his sight simply reminds me of the one time I fucked up, the one time that started this downward spiral and eventually got her killed. No. I don’t blame him, if that’s what you think. I’m a killer, not a coward. I take responsibility for my own choices. Let’s face it, he didn’t ask to be saved. He didn’t plead for his life when I aimed my gun at him, didn’t even flinch when I slammed it against his temple, knocking him out cold. It’s just not who he is. Or rather, who I thought he is.

  The guy playing Deveraux’s patsy has no resemblance to the man I pulled out of that narrow hallway. His hair is still raven and his eyes the color of the desert, but there’s a cloud of snow around him. Something that reminds me of myself rather than a man ready to die for strangers.

  What was it Nikolai always said? “Killing is easy, myshka. You pull a trigger, slice a knife through someone’s heart, or deliver a deadly blow. Surviving, that’s the hard part. Outsmarting your enemies, staying twenty steps ahead—you need brains for that.” The man was smart. His advice kept me hidden and alive all those years.

  I did my homework on Boulder. I heard he developed a somewhat unhealthy obsession with me after Damascus. He thinks I’m responsible for his big brother’s death, that I killed the SEAL squad that accompanied him on the hostage rescue mission. If I had an ounce of compassion in my dark heart, I’d probably feel sorry for the poor bastard. He has absolutely no fucking idea what really went down that night. And judging by the way things are, he never will.

  Why is he here, though, faking a smile for the president’s son? Is he back in the game? Has someone alerted him of my presence in Miami? Did he come for me? And…is he always that arrogant?

  Does it matter? You’re not here for him.

  No. No, I’m not. I like to remain twenty steps ahead, though. Which is why I’m going to find out why Markus Boulder is Deveraux’s new tool. Something tells me he isn’t after Fight Club prestige.

  The music slows, picking up a fuck-me beat. I pull my focus away from Boulder. He’s one of the best I’ve ever encountered. Yet, no match for me. Besides, I have plans for tonight. For Alexei.

  In one, two, t—

  The bald smurf pulls his phone out.

  I can always rely on Q to deliver on time.

  Sweat curves down Alexei’s forehead. Fiddling with his phone, he hides the text from his boss—Dimitri. But the scent of his fear? Man, it crawls up my nostrils like the sweetest perfume.

  The game is on, Alexei.

  I always win.

  “I am great.”

  Markus

  Deveraux brags about his new club. It used to be a hotel with a beach view. He bought it for a few million dollars, renovated it, and is currently transforming it into the next Studio 54—his words, not mine. Half of Hollywood’s elite will attend the grand opening night in about two weeks. Actors, models, producers—he makes a big fucking deal out of it.

  I, on the other hand, try my best not to stare at his girlfriend currently making small talk with the dimpled waitress.

  Dimitri’s gaze lands on me. “What do you think?”

  I have no fucking clue what he’s talking about. I zoned out at some point, and I sorta knew I’d live to regret that choice.

  I can’t admit my focus was on Dasha. Instead, I use my asshole image to get out of the mess. “I don’t give a fuck about clubbing.” Man, I hope they were still talking about the club.

  Dimitri laughs. “What do you give a fuck about then?”

  “Beating the shit out of my next opponent,” I reply, slowly rising to my feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a little break.” I put so much sarcasm in that sentence, it basically bounces off the walls.

  “I like him,” Dimitri says to Deveraux as I walk away.

  “Me too,” America’s Favorite Son answers.

  I swear I don’t want to walk up to Dasha. I had no fucking intention of locking eyes with her or mustering up a smile. I was going to stay far, far away from her.

  Except, I didn’t.

  “I already have a drink,” she says, winking at me.

  Man up, asshole. “About that…” I avert my gaze, scrubbing my fingers through my styled hair. “I’m sorry,” I choke out after a slight pause to calm my nerves. “I had no idea you were taken.”

  “I’m curious.” She studies me closely. “Are you sorry for treating me like a piece of wild meat, or for hitting on your new sponsor’s girlfriend?”

  “Both,” I answer truthfully. “But the wild meat part was pretty fucked up.”

  She bites her lower lip. “Apology accepted.”

  Yeah, but now I need to apologize again. Can’t help it, man. Dasha’s lips and tongue equal daydreams about the best blow job of my life.
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  I tell my dick to suck it up and face the crowd.

  Deveraux still talks to Dimitri. Dimitri undresses Dasha. The muscles stand in a line, faces like stone. The bald dude, the one who said he organized my next fight—I think Dimitri called him Alexei—sits in a corner, furiously typing away on his phone. Some dirty grandpa rubs his crotch against a waitress. She indulges him because what was it Blondie said? “Anything your heart desires.” Another waitress drops a whiskey glass. Some dude in a black suit yells at her. It’s like a zoo in here.

  “You never answered my question,” Dasha interrupts my sightseeing.

  I refuse to look at her. Or I might need to prepare a written apology statement I can hand her every time I fantasize about her legs wrapped around my waist. “What question?”

  She raises a brow. “Why are you fighting for my boyfriend?”

  I lied a lot. It was a necessity in my line of work. But I don’t want to sell her bullshit. So I go with half of the truth. “Because I’m good at it.”

  “I’ve heard,” she says, deadpan. “Why Miami though? You’re not from here, are you?” Damn, that girl asks all the right questions. The kind that could get me and the mission in some major trouble.

  Just be cool. “Needed a change of scenery.”

  “Right.” Her grin is wicked.

  “What about you?” I have to put the attention away from me. “Where are you from?”

  Her brows fly up. “Miami.”

  “Originally,” I add.

  “I was born in Moscow, but grew up in Miami.” She sighs heavily. “What gave me away?” I get the feeling not many people notice she wasn’t born in the States.

  I shrug. “You have a faint accent.”

  “And you have great hearing.”

  I flash her a smile. “I am great.”

  She rolls her eyes, but I’m not oblivious to the grin she hides.

  A few quiet moments pass. “So, Mr. Greatness, are you a great teacher, too?”

  A great what?

  “Are you trying to get my new fighter to teach you some self-defense lessons?” Deveraux cuts in. Jesus, where did he even come from? And what the hell does he mean with self-defense lessons?

  “You know me.” Dasha laces her fingers through his, pulling his hand to her lips for a quick kiss. “Always looking for opportunities, always seizing the moment.”

  Okay, what the hell are they both talking about?

  Deveraux catches my confused expression and finally enlightens me. Or, should I say, he makes me an offer I should decline. “Dasha is taking self-defense lessons downtown. Her teacher,” his face hardens, “gives her a hard time, and she’s been looking for a new one for a while now.” He looks me right in the eye. “And who better to teach her than my champion?”

  Is he kidding me? He made it perfectly clear how he feels about touching what’s his. Now he wants me to teach the goddess self-defense? She’s temptation in a dress. She’d be irresistible in a sports bra. “I…” Think of an excuse, Boulder. “I’m a fighter. I don’t teach little girls.” Okay, that came out harsh. Yet another thing to add to my apology.

  Deveraux doesn’t like my answer. “You know I’d pay you, right?”

  “It’s okay,” Dasha says before I can reply. “He’s probably just scared to get his ass handed to him by a girl.”

  What did she just say?

  Deveraux cracks up. “God, I love you.”

  Her hazel eyes meet mine, but she talks to Deveraux. “Some guys just can’t lose to a girl.”

  Lose to a girl? Is she on crack? There’s no way in hell she could knock me on my ass after a few self-defense lessons. “Tomorrow, six a.m.” I turn to leave. “I’ll text your boyfriend the location.”

  Jesus fucking Christ. What the hell did I just do?

  • • •

  “You did what?” Tiffany barks, hands on her hips.

  She was waiting on me when I got home, pressing every little detail out of me. Including the reality that I agreed to train Deveraux’s girlfriend. “Relax.” I’m not sure if I’m telling her or me. “Just find me a location and text it to Deveraux.”

  Tiffany’s eagle eyes roam my face. “On a scale from one to ten, ten being mind-blowingly sexy, how hot is she?”

  “Two,” I reply, facing the window.

  “So she’s an eleven, huh?” The girl really can smell lies.

  I drag out a long exhale. “Just book the location.” She furrows her angry brows. “Please?”

  “Fine.” Tiffany shakes her head. “But I’m telling you, this is a bad idea.”

  I agree.

  “I want their heads.”

  Shadow

  Fuckers like Alexei Sokolov—arrogant, overly confident bitches who think they’re the boss just because they run errands for some big-time mobster—are careless and dumb enough to walk right into a trap. Dangle a piece of meat under their noses, and like any dog, they won’t be able to resist. It’s in their nature. Like murder and mayhem is in mine.

  I have two yummy pieces of meat for the fucker. Young mothers oughta be more careful when they head home after nightfall. The universal misconception amongst women—shit like “that only happens to others, never to me”—gives them a false sense of security, making them easy prey for predators like me. Sure, Mariposa’s love for her sick grandmother is commendable. She could have…no, she should have picked up Granny’s prescription in the afternoon, though. Daylight is more often than not a woman’s safety blanket, keeping thugs and psychos at bay. Anyway, I’m not complaining about her recklessness. Hell, I’m grateful as fuck. Still, there’s a lesson in there, don’t you think?

  The secluded farmhouse in the Everglades is wrapped in darkness. The only source of light comes from silvery beams of moonlight streaming through the windows. I sit on the polished hardwood floor, basking in the midnight sun. Enjoying the familiar dullness, I wait for Alexei to come barging in.

  Pride seeps into my chest as I drink in the location I chose for the fucker’s end. The elderly couple who lived here until two weeks ago died in some freak accident. Something about an alligator and their cat. They have no next of kin, and the house isn’t yet on the market. No one will walk in on us. I can torture him—Alexei has intel on Dimitri’s merchandise. Info that’ll come in handy—and no one will hear a thing. The next neighbor is miles away.

  Mariposa’s phone vibrates on the floor.

  Mi Amor: I’m on my way. Got your money. Just don’t hurt them.

  Resisting the laughter crawling up my throat, I toss the phone. Alexei is dumber than dumb. C’mon, who in his right mind would fall for the ransom story Q served him? The text she wrote, from a burner she already got rid of, wasn’t exactly art.

  Q: Got your girls. Want to see them again? Bring $58,246 in small, unmarked notes to 1 Plantation Parkway in the Everglades. Come alone, or you can carry them home in plastic bags.

  His alarm bells should have gone off the instant he saw the amount Q requested. It’s so fucking specific anyone with a brain would question it. Like the investigators in the JonBenet Ramsey case, better known as the Beauty Pageant Murder, he clearly has none. I mean he should have known what that amount mounted up to. Why Q asked for fifty-eight thousand, two hundred and forty-six dollars. It’s what her life was worth to them, after all.

  He didn’t know. Instead, he replied: How do I know you’re not lying?

  Q: You don’t.

  Two minutes later, Q forwarded another text from Alexei to my phone.

  Alexei: Need time to gather the money. Be there in four hours. DON’T HURT THEM!

  Q is smarter than most people. She grew up around hard negotiations and knows better than anyone to never let your opponent set the rules. So she sent him one last message.

  Q: Be there in three, or your darling daughter will have a meet and greet with the alligators.

  After that last text, Alexei left the nightclub in a hurry. Dishing his boss some lies about stuff he needed to take care of, he
drove to his apartment, emptied his safe, and headed straight to his death.

  No, I didn’t watch him. When I walked out of Sin, I came straight to the farmhouse to prepare for Alexei’s arrival. I do, however, know my targets inside out. Plus, Q did a bang of a job. There’s a reason I let her handle my shit. She was my first client when I moved my killer business to the United States. Hired me on the dark net to take out some drug dealer selling bad heroine on her turf. I cut the dude’s head off, spiked it on an iron bar, and decorated his buddies’ garden with it.

  Q was so impressed with my artwork, she offered me a permanent position as her go-to assassin. Since then, I’ve taken out a dozen of her rivals. In exchange, she gets me other gigs. The dark net has become too dangerous. Feds and other law enforcement agencies started to infiltrate the Nirvana of all monsters, looking for the worst of the worst. And me? I qualify as the emperor of all things evil.

  My gaze darts to the cat-shaped porcelain clock on the fireplace. Alexei should be here in twenty-five minutes. More than enough time for me to catch a breath. The art of murder is a tiring business. Creating a masterpiece comes with many sleepless nights. Do I have enough blades? Shall I cuff him or tie him up? Did I pack a snack? When is the real estate agent going to show the house? Those are the kinds of questions keeping me up at night. Every little detail I miss could ruin my work. I’m known for my precision. I’d like to keep it that way.

  I rest my head against the flowery wallpaper. Masha i Medveds sit on the ebony coffee table casting me reproachful looks. If they could speak, they’d tell a tale of guilt and failure—my guilt, my failure.

  I left her unprotected.

  I screwed up in Damascus.

  I walked away from the SVR, well aware of the consequences.

  She died.

  End of story.

  Any “buts” or “ifs” would be lies. In my line of work, we don’t deal well with the currency of self-deception. We are what we are, and we deal with the things we did. No excuses, no tossing around the blame. So, yeah, they killed her. But I was the one who let them.