Shadow

by Nadine Nightingale

  You think I’m a hypocrite, don’t you? Seeking revenge for her death when I took the lives of so many others. Well, maybe I am. Here’s the thing though. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, expecting my end by the hand of a loved one of one of my victims. As a matter of fact, I believe that’s the most honorable death a monster like me could have. And when the time comes, I’ll take that knife or bullet like a fucking champ. Using my last breath to congratulate my killer for a job well done. Until then—

  I want their heads.

  An engine roars through the quiet of the night. Headlights stream through the front windows. A few seconds later, the car door slams shut.

  Hello, Alexei.

  I retreat to the dead couple’s bedroom. One entrance, one exit—perfect for a trap.

  The front door creaks. Heavy footsteps beat against the old wood. One pair only.

  He is alone. I love it when they follow my plan precisely.

  Alexei tries the light switch. The constant clicking sound causes butterflies in the pit of my stomach. Try all you want, mudak. It won’t work. I cut the main electricity line in the backyard.

  I savor his heavy breathing, the scent of fresh fear tingling in my nostrils. “Hello?” he shouts.

  Yes.

  “Is someone here?”

  Death.

  “Where the fuck are you?”

  Hiding. Waiting.

  “I have your money,” he goes on. “Just let my girls go. Please.”

  Did you really think it’d be that easy, mudak? That you’d show up with some dollar bills, and I’d let them go? This isn’t how the story goes. I make the rules. You fucking play by them.

  “Hello!” Impatience thickens his voice. “Where the fuck are you?”

  All it takes is one precise hit, and little Antonia cries on command.

  “Antonia?” Alexei quickens his pace. I assume he’s currently removing the safety on his Makarov pistol. “Daddy’s coming. Just hold on, baby girl.”

  I wait by the door, syringe ready.

  One.

  Two.

  The door flies open.

  I hold my place, aware he scans the room before he enters. Too bad—for him, not me—it’s pitch black in here. Unlike me, Alexei isn’t used to living in the shadows.

  “Marie?” he whispers. “Marie, are you here?”

  Antonia cries louder.

  “B’lyad’,” he barks, having no choice but to enter blind.

  He takes—

  One.

  Two.

  Three steps before he feels the needle prick the nape of his neck.

  The ketamine—a horse tranquilizer—acts quickly. Alexei sways like a candle in the wind, his knees slowly give in.

  I grab his right hand, bending it inward toward his chest. The pain in his wrist forces him to let go of his gun. He’s disarmed.

  He’s on the ground, slowly looking up. “Y-You,” he stammers, eyes wide open. “But that’s im—”

  He’s out cold.

  “Sleep tight, motherfucker.” I hope he enjoys his dreams. He’ll wake up trapped in his worst nightmare.

  “I’m an asshole.”

  Markus

  Tiffany organized an old closed-down gym on Alton Road, just a quick walk from our hotel. It’s fully equipped. A couple of treadmills, weight benches, and mats on the first floor. Locker rooms in the back. A boxing ring and punching bags on the upper floor. It’s not the American Kickboxing Academy, but it’ll do.

  I pull my red hand wraps out of my duffle bag. It’s only five a.m. If Dasha shows—Tiffany texted Deveraux the location late last night—she’ll be here in an hour. That gives me enough time to blow off some steam.

  I need it. My research on Dimitri frustrated me to a point where I almost threw Tiffany’s MacBook against the wall.

  Google paints Dimitri as a saint. He built a youth center downtown, made a fortune importing Russian specialties like caviar, and supports local veterans. There’s no dirt on him online. Not even a drunk Facebook pic. I just don’t buy it.

  I unroll the beat-up hand wraps. They are attached to a lot of memories and sentimental value. They won me my first kick-boxing title and they’re a gift from my brother, Luke. He got them for me after I took the junior championship title home.

  Enjoying the silence, I place the loop around my left thumb. The “this side down” marking covers the back of my hand. I pull the rest of the wrap to the outside edge of my hand and start covering my wrists. The trick is to keep the wrist straight so it won’t bend and break on impact. Yup, even trained fighters break bones. The hand is a delicate bitch; turning it into a weapon takes years of practice and plenty of fractures. I should know. I’ve had every finger broken. Some even twice. Luke used to tease me about my crippled fingers. I hated it. Now, I’d give my life to have him tell one of those fucked-up you-ain’t-gonna-please-the-ladies-with-those-skewed-carrot-sticks jokes again.

  He’s gone. The sooner I accept that, the quicker I can…Move on? Be happy? Pretend I didn’t get my own brother killed? Bullshit!

  When I’m done with the second hand, I haul my butt to the punching bag. It’s a brand new Everlast heavy bag, made of high-grade leather. No wonder the place had to close down. Those things cost a fortune.

  Starting with a basic punch combo—jab, cross, hook, cross—I forget about Shadow, Deveraux, Dimitri, and the reality that I’m supposed to train Dasha, the goddess who belongs to America’s Favorite Son.

  The harder I punch, the less I think about her fiery hair, her sparkling hazel eyes, or the way she licks her cherry lips. I’m not haunted by the dirty images I had of her, the ones where she wrapped her legs around me and I fucked her into oblivion. I don’t think of the way Deveraux assaulted her mouth. The green-eyed monster has long gone back to hell. I don’t want to bash Dimitri’s head in for eye-fucking her either.

  The energy in my fists rattles the punching bag. Sweat curves down my forehead as I put more force and precision into my punches. Mindlessly, I perform the combo over and over.

  Jab, cross, hook, cross.

  By the time my heart rate increases, I change the combo and quicken the pace.

  Jab, right uppercut, left hook, right cross.

  Every time I send the bag flying, a weight lifts off my chest. All the unwanted emotions—the bottled-up lust, the tingly feeling in the pit of my stomach—they vaporize.

  I assault the leather long enough to heat my muscles and tear my knuckles. Then I add some footwork to my routine, pivoting with every jab, then grounding myself for the following punches. I’m getting it all out of me—anger, guilt, failure.

  I do a few more combos before my arms go limp. My body screams for a break… And water. Lots and lots of water.

  Spinning around, I head for my bottle when my heart shifts into overdrive. It has nothing to do with my crazy workout and everything to do with the hazel eyes watching me from across the gym.

  Dasha wears gray yoga pants, a black sports bra with a zipper, and Nike sneakers. Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun, and there’s next to no makeup on her gorgeous face. Only a bit of mascara to blacken her lashes.

  “You look so surprised.” She smiles like the fucking devil. “Don’t tell me you thought I’d miss my first lesson?”

  I did hope she’d back out of this stupid arrangement. C’mon, I couldn’t keep my dick under control when her boyfriend was there. How the fuck am I supposed to survive hands-on mat-acrobatics?

  “Wait.” She crosses her arms, slowly moving toward me. “Don’t tell me the great Markus Boulder is speechless?”

  Don’t just stand there like an idiot! I grab a towel, wiping my sweaty forehead. “You’re early.” The round clock on the wall says it’s a quarter to six. My cock was supposed to have another fifteen minutes before it turned into fucking steel.

  She meets my gaze. “Maybe I couldn’t wait,” her tone says to see you, her lips mutter, “to have my first private lesson with the hotshot fighter my boyfri
end’s so crazy about.”

  I shall not be an asshole. I shall not be an asshole. I shall not—

  “Your boyfriend’s crazy about a lot of people.” I’m an asshole.

  Dasha ignores the side-blow. “Are we going to fight or what?”

  “You want to fight me? Now?”

  She casts me a confused look. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  I laugh so hard my body shakes. “Sweetheart,” I say, getting a grip on myself. “I admire your confidence, but I don’t think your golden boy would be happy if he had to pick you up in the ER.” Not that I’d ever hurt her, but she needs to come down from her high-horse.

  Her eyes never waver, never betray any kind of fear. “You think I’m pathetic, don’t you?” That kind of statement usually comes with anger or a tremble in the voice. When Dasha says it, it just sounds like any other question. She might as well have asked me if I take my coffee with milk and sugar.

  Closing the distance between us, I lean in closely. The scent of fresh lemons and oranges crawls in my nose. Delicious. I wonder if she showered before she came.

  Focus, Boulder! Right.

  “Lesson one,” I whisper, lips on her earlobe. “Don’t ever get cocky.”

  She’s about to come back at me with some retort, but I push my leg between hers, grab her by the shoulders, and take away her balance with my foot. She’s on the floor in a heartbeat.

  “You play dirty,” she grumbles, getting back up.

  I shrug. “Like the rapist waiting around the corner.” The whole point of self-defense is to be prepared for the unexpected. It differs from a fight. You never know when a sicko will attack. She needs to understand that.

  Dasha stretches. “Let’s do this.”

  For the next hour, I teach her the basics—posture, cover, and a simple punch combo. She’s a quick study. Her moves are precise and fast. She’s petite, but her eye for technique can outweigh that disadvantage. The bad news is nothing can outweigh my disadvantage. My cock wants her, and no matter how hard I think about granny-panties, I can’t get the need out of my system. Machine and I will have to have a long talk in the shower about this. Maybe some Dasha fantasies will cure him.

  “Not bad,” I say, tossing her a fresh water bottle.

  She unscrews the cap and takes a large gulp. “Likewise.”

  We sit on the floor quietly. Her staring at the shabby walls, me trying not to stare at her. Every now and then, I fail. I’m only human. Wouldn’t we all be drawn to the countenance of the divine?

  Dasha is the first to speak. “Are you ready for the fight tonight?”

  Tiffany sent me a dozen videos of my opponent—Dark Ice. He’s an ex-MMA fighter, never lost a fight, and from what I saw, his technique is meticulous. His only problem? He’s too confident, giving up cover every now and then to face the cheering crowd. “I’m good.”

  “Awesome.” She smirks. “I’d hate it if I had to find a new teacher so quickly.”

  I scan her angelic face. “Why are you so hell-bent on learning self-defense?”

  “The world is a fucked-up place,” she replies, eyes growing distant.

  I’d drink to that. Still, Dasha lives the good life. It’s not like she has to walk through South Shore every night. “C’mon, you’re the girlfriend of America’s Favorite Son,” I tease. “What do you know about hardship?”

  “I see.” Her eyes narrow. “I’m not an ex-soldier so I have no idea what the real world is like, huh?” She lifts herself up. “Man, how stupid of me.”

  Damn! I truly am an asshole. “Dasha.” I walk after her, catching her arm before she makes it through the door.

  “What?” she barks, ogling my hand on her arm.

  I sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t judge you.”

  She yanks her arm out of my grip. “Damn right you shouldn’t.”

  She’s gone.

  I make a mental note to slam my head against the wall next time I feel the need to open my insulting, jealous mouth.

  “Says the guy whose file is blacker than the Kennedy assassination.”

  Markus

  I fucking loathe heat. Call me a crybaby or pathetic. I. Don’t. Care. There’s a limit to how much sun I can endure. Miami pushes the boundaries. Hard.

  Tiffany smirks. “You look like someone ruined your favorite shoes.” She dragged me out of the comfort of my hotel room, three hours before I faced a dude who put his last two opponents in the ER, to get a fucking coffee at Starbucks. What does she expect? An Amazon gift card?

  “I don’t have favorite shoes,” I shoot back.

  She ogles my beat-up Nike sneakers. “Uh-huh, right.”

  I’m not going to justify my footwear. We’ve got more important shit on our plate. “Have you heard from London?” When my search on Dimitri came up empty, I asked Tiffany to get some background info on the Russian. The USSS, just like the CIA, has everyone’s life story at hand. It shouldn’t take long.

  Tiffany sighs heavily. “She called me while you were at the gym.” Judging by her tone, she either has bad news or no news at all.

  “And?”

  She pushes the glass door open, waiting for me to join her inside. I enter quickly, breathing a sigh of relief as the A/C chases away sweat and fire. We order two iced coffees and pick a spot near the shop windows.

  “London didn’t give me much,” she finally explains, playing with her straw. “She mostly confirmed what we already knew.”

  That Dimitri is a saint who loves American kids and soldiers. “There’s gotta be more.” You don’t organize underground fights when your slate is clean. “He’s got shady written all over him.”

  “I agree.” She takes a sip of her iced drink. “But that’s all London has for us.” Tiffany isn’t one to avoid eye contact. She’s so focused on not meeting my gaze, it raises several flags.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Tiffany?” There’s something, and it makes her twitchy and uneasy.

  “I’m not really supposed to say.”

  What the fuck? They dragged my ass to Washington, convinced me to work for them, and now they want to keep me in the fucking dark? Yeah, not going to happen. “Tiffany.” My voice is low and threatening. “You better tell me what London said, or I’m going to lose tonight’s fight, and you can find yourself a new patsy.”

  She cocks a challenging brow at me. “You won’t lose.”

  “Says who?” I counter.

  “Me,” she replies. “You’re too competitive to get your ass kicked by a dude who calls himself Dark Ice.”

  I am competitive, and I’d hate to throw in the towel to inflate the dude’s ego some more. I’d do it, though. I swear I would. “Fine. Don’t tell me then.” I gaze out the window, watching an elderly woman walk her tiny dog. “But don’t you dare say I didn’t warn you.”

  Studying my calm and serious expression, the wheels in her head start turning. She might think she knows me, but she isn’t sure if she can take the risk. “London wants me to drop my Dimitri research,” she blurts out. “And before you ask why,” she shrugs, “I have no fucking idea. All she said was, ‘It’s an order, Vaughn.’ Case closed.”

  “I don’t get it.” London wants Deveraux safe. Why would she have an issue with Tiffany researching his friends? Anyone—and I mean absolutely anyone—could be Shadow. Okay, Dimitri doesn’t strike me as a man who could deliver a deadly roundhouse kick to the temple or fight off six terrorists at once, killing them all with a single blow to the heart, but still. You just never know, do you?

  “Me neither.” Tiffany bites the straw, staring ahead absently. Looks like I’m not the only one questioning London’s decisions.

  I lean back, shoving my coffee aside. “So that’s it then? We have to fly blind?” Bats might be able to pull that shit off, but generally, obscured sight leads to major, fatal crashes.

  “I said London ordered me to drop my research.” The ghost of a smile tugs at Tiffany’s lips. “I didn’t say I would.”

  Se
e, I do like that girl. That is when she’s not driving me fucking crazy.

  “What if you get caught?” The last thing I need is more guilt from ruining yet another innocent life.

  “Caught?” She shakes with laughter. “Oh, Boulder. How do you think I got this job in the first place?”

  “By applying?”

  She flashes me her teeth. “If that’s what you want to call an NSA hack.” She shrugs. “Then, yeah. Sure.”

  Whoa, what? “You hacked the NSA?”

  “NSA, CIA, NASA.” She waves it off. “Not a big deal.”

  She dresses like a model and looks like a movie star. Doesn’t scream villain hacker if you ask me. Then again, a ten-year-old boy and his mom don’t look like terrorists either. If my bullet hadn’t stopped him, he’d have blown us all to hell. “You’re full of surprises, huh?”

  “Says the guy whose file is blacker than the Kennedy assassination,” she spits back.

  “You hacked my file?” Why does that not surprise me? Tiffany isn’t all-knowing for no reason. She treasures information and details as much as her Michael Kors handbag.

  “My husband likes to know whom I’m working with. Too many psychos out there.” She tilts her chin at the busy street.

  “So you hacked my file to make sure I’m not the next Dahmer?”

  Tiffany looks me in the eye. “Wouldn’t you?”

  If I knew more than how to switch computers on and Google shit? Hell, yes. Still, she’s been snooping around in my dirty laundry, and I can’t say I like it. “Next time,” I say, “just ask me if I get off on murdering fashion victims, all right?”

  “Dramatic much?”

  I won’t grace that comment with a reply. I just won’t.

  We sip our drinks quietly. Both lost in our own worlds. Until—

  “Hey.” Tiffany slams her hands on the table, startling me. “I never asked how your first lesson went.”

  Yeah, and I’d be happy if she never had. Because now I’m thinking about black sports bras with zippers and little drops of sweat curving down the softest skin I’ve ever had the pleasure to touch. Hey, kick-boxing is a full-on contact sport, and good teachers are hands on.