Deveraux loves John’s obedience. His chest swells and his eyes sparkle. The jerk mutters the address, and John takes a sharp left, heading toward the docks rather than Deveraux’s new club.
I look out the window, focusing on the street signs flitting past us. Makes the drive a little less awkward. Earlier today, I sucked Dasha’s tits. I would have fucked her if she hadn’t left. Now, I’m sitting next to her jerk boyfriend, acting as if I don’t hunger for his girl.
Know what’s worse? I don’t feel the least bit guilty. Awkward? Sure. Guilty? No fucking way. Deveraux had a threesome with Angela and her friend, he gambled with Dasha like she’s a watch. He doesn’t deserve the loyalty of a goddess. Neither does he deserve mine.
“So,” Deveraux drops his phone, casting me a sidelong glance, “how’s my girl doing?”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“The self-defense lessons.” He flashes me a lopsided grin. “How’s she doing?”
He knows. He fucking knows, my conscience screams.
He shifts closer, his grin spreading farther. “She’s good, isn’t she?” Something tells me he’s not talking about punches and kicks.
A cruel fire starts in the pit of my stomach. I have no right to feel possessive of her. Fuck me, I do.
“She’s a natural.” And that’s the truth. She nails every aspect of life—self-defense, attitude, sex. Okay, I can’t really judge the sex part, but if it’s anything like her kisses, she was born for it.
Silence stretches between us. Thank God! I’m not sure what I’d do if he kept talking about her like that—as if she’s his sex doll, there to please him at all times.
I already spot the ships when Deveraux shifts to face me. “Remember my rule?”
“Which one?” I reply dryly.
“Never take what’s mine unless I say so?” He inches closer, his cold eyes scanning my face. “That’s especially true for my woman.”
This is either a test, or he knows. Whatever it is, I don’t blink that easily. “You mean women?” I counter, brow raised, face straight.
He slams his hand on my shoulder, gripping hard. “Look,” his voice might be soft, his expression, however, is that of a serial killer, “I understand she’s temptation walking, Boulder. I really do. But if you ever lay a finger on her without my permission…” He trails off, aware he doesn’t have to finish the sentence. I already got the message. Loud and clear.
I’d love to see his face when he hears I already had my fingers on her, but for Dasha’s sake, I keep up the pretenses. “Don’t worry.” I smack his thigh. He flinches from the impact. “I already told you, I don’t fuck other dudes’ bunnies.” Dasha, however, isn’t a bunny. She’s fucking perfection with a hint of edginess.
He throws his arm around me. “Great.” Cold, cunning Deveraux is gone. Charming, sweet Deveraux returns. “Glad that’s settled.”
“Sir,” John cuts in. “We’re here.”
Twenty-foot-high netting wire surrounds the square white building. According to the writing on the façade, it is—or was—a coast guard lair. Not anymore, though. Unless the coast guard hires a dozen dudes with Kalashnikovs to secure the perimeter nowadays.
A guard opens the iron gate. Another waves John in.
Deveraux opens his door. “I’ve got to talk to Dimitri. I won’t be long.”
He’s making me wait in the car? Asshole!
A six-foot blond dude greets him. “Sir.” He bows slightly. “Boss waiting.” His English is as broken as the vase Aunt Josie bought me for the nonexistent flowers in my apartment. No, I didn’t drop it on purpose. But I didn’t cry when it shattered either.
Deveraux follows Six-Foot Dude inside the building.
“Better get comfy.” John shuts his eyes. “This might take a while.”
“I live insanity and breathe madness.”
Shadow
What the actual fuck are they doing here? They’re supposed to be at the new club to interview bouncers. Q hacked Deveraux’s schedule to be sure. We took every precaution, and yet here they are—Deveraux and his new lap dog, Boulder.
Pizda! Deveraux is a loose cannon. Never sticks to any plan. Nikolai would hate him. Something my old mentor and I have in common. Or is it had in common? Nikolai—the very first target on my little revenge list—is rotting in some unmarked grave in Moscow, where no one will ever find him. Past tense seems more appropriate, I assume.
Take a deep breath and think!
I eyeball Alexei. He’s in the trunk, his hollow, glazed-over eyes stare back at me. If he told the truth—pretty sure he did—they’ll ship the merchandise tomorrow.
Aborting the mission is not an option. Once the merchandise leaves the old coast guard building, I won’t get my hands on it. If I want to fuck with Dimitri, I need to take what’s his. And, boy, do I want to fuck with the mudak.
“Always stick to the plan, myshka,” Nikolai used to say.
“What if I can’t? What if something unexpected happens?” I asked him once.
He lifted a brow and pierced me with those stone-cold gray eyes. “There’s no such thing as unexpected, myshka. There’s only lack of preparation.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Which will most likely result in your death. So make sure to cover all your bases. And always have a backup plan.” In retrospect, it sounds like decent advice.
All right. Backup plan. What’s my backup plan?
There are twelve guards securing the perimeter. They won’t cause me any trouble, not if my diversion works. And it will. I can easily take out the three guarding the merchandise. But—
I look back at Deveraux’s car. Boulder. I’ve seen him in action. He’s smart and cunning. Pretty sure he’ll see right through my diversion. Maybe I should take him out. Pull the trigger of my Tochnost and send him to wherever it is guys like him go. It’d be morbid—saving him just to kill him. Let’s face it, though, morbidity comes with the job description of an assassin. Death is, after all, my daily bread and butter.
But then she died for nothing, a quiet voice whispers in the back of my mind.
Saving Boulder is what got the ball rolling. That split-second decision I made to pull him out of that narrow hallway and leave him for his CIA pals to find had immense repercussions. If I off him now, it was all in vain. But if I don’t…I risk the mission.
So maybe I should—
No. I can’t do that. I’m still not sure why he’s in Miami fighting for Deveraux. Researching him turned out to be more difficult than I expected. The man has more layers than an onion; peeling them will take some time. What I do know—or assume—is he has no clue what his sponsor is up to. He’s too virtuous to be part of it. Which brings me to reason number two on my why-I-can’t-kill-Boulder list. She died because for once in my life I lived up to the pedestal she put me on. I was a hero, not a killer. I can’t stand the thought of her looking down at me from above, realizing I’m anything but.
Okay, so how am I going to play this?
I could take Deveraux and Dimitri out. End this once and for all. Right now. Right here. Fuck, I could do it with a single bullet if I pleased. Just the thought makes my stomach cramp. A bullet is too quick, too sweet for the bastards. I need them to feel the same pain she did. Take everything they treasure and love away to make them my bitches. I owe her that much.
I stood over her coffin and watched as she was lowered into the cold ground, her grave marked “Jane Doe.” I swore I’d make them pay for it, cause them the same pain they caused her. My fucking sanity depends on making good on that promise.
So what are you going to do then?
I’ll stick to the initial plan. I’ll walk in there, steal the merchandise right from under their noses while they have a chat about the latest pussy they tasted. It’s fucking madness to do so with Boulder present. The thing is I live insanity and breathe madness.
Gazing through the sight of my rifle, I scan the area one last time. The door to the small cabin next to the gate is locked. According to Alex
ei, that’s where they keep the heavy artillery—grenades, machine guns, bazookas—shit that can do some massive destruction. They won’t have time to get to it. By the time they do, I’ll be long gone.
Tucking the rifle away, I text Q.
Me: Show’s about to start. Your guys ready?
It takes less than a second for her to reply.
Q: Let’s rock ’n’ roll.
I gather my preferred weapons. The PSS pistol—a silent pistol developed for KGB assassinations—goes in my holster. Two automatic knives are tucked away in my waistband. The karambit—a folding knife with a curved blade—is secured on my belt, along with a neck blade and brass knuckles. And the fixed combat knife rests in my thigh holster, ready to be accessed and used.
In the words of Q, let’s rock ’n’ roll.
“Peach.”
Markus
Be right back, my ass. It’s been half an hour and still no sight of Deveraux. My curiosity, on the other hand, grows steadily. Come on, you don’t have to be Einstein to tell something isn’t right about this. What merchandise needs guards with Kalashnikovs for Christ’s sake?
“Dude.” John casts me an annoyed glance. “He isn’t going to come out faster just because you assault the back of my seat.”
I didn’t even realize I was rocking my knees against it. “Sorry.”
He rolls his eyes, letting his head fall back against the seat. “Just relax, all right?” He shuts his eyes. “He won’t be out for another thirty minutes or so.” Considering how often John has to wait for America’s Favorite Son, I believe him.
A knock draws my attention. One of the guards—as blond and brawny as the others, but slightly shorter—stares at the tinted windows.
“Awesome,” John mumbles, putting the back window down.
“Markus Boulder?” The Russian’s accent is so thick, I barely recognize the sound of my own name. “Boss,” he tilts his chin at the entrance, “wants talk to you.” This isn’t a request. It’s an order, and I don’t like it.
I’d love to tell him to fuck off, but London would kill me.
“Hurry,” he barks, yanking the door open.
Swallowing the need to punch him in the face, I cross my arms. “Where are they?” The edge in my voice is sharper than a blade.
“Boris?” He waves another blond over. “Take to boss.”
Boris—a middle-aged dude with a crooked nose and muscles the size of a Hummer—marches toward me. “Come.”
Teeth gritted, I follow him inside.
We proceed down a shabby hallway. The paint peels from the walls and ceiling. Torn lifeguard images are scattered across the floor. I really can’t see why someone would guard this nightmare with a small army. But if the navy and the CIA taught me anything, it’s that the shabbiest lairs hide the greatest treasures. We found pure gold in caves.
Boris moves through door after door, stopping in front of a red one. “Go,” he orders. “The boss is waiting for you.”
I knock. Then move inside. Dimitri sits behind a desk, smoking a cigar. Deveraux skims some files. “You wanted to see me?”
“Markus.” Dimitri’s eyes light up. “How are you, my friend?”
Annoyed as fuck. “Good, thanks.”
Deveraux shuts the files, hiding them under a stack of papers. I’d pay decent money to get a glimpse of what’s inside. “Take a seat,” he says, pointing to the chair next to him. “We need to talk about Sunday’s fight.”
Dimitri takes a drag of his cigar, exhaling the smoke in my face. “I just need to make sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. Tankovyy has never been beaten.”
“There’s a first for everything.” I should know. I never failed a mission. And then I did.
Deveraux cocks a brow. “There will be lots of money involved, Boulder.” He points to Dimitri. “We just need to be sure we’re betting on the right horse.”
A cocky-as-hell grin crosses my lips. “If I remember correctly, he,” I look at Dimitri, “always bets on the right horse.” I watched his prize handing her pussy over.
Laughter roars through the small office. “I like him, Will. I really fucking do.”
“Me, too.” Except Deveraux’s eyes say something else. There’s a hint of annoyance and envy flashing across them. Crazy. He’s got everything. Why he’d be jealous of me is a mystery.
Dimitri props his elbows on the desk. “So we’re good?”
“We’re good.”
Deveraux looks me in the eye. “You’ll win?”
“I’ll win.”
They both nod.
“Is that all?” I need to get away from them. There’s only so much sleazebag I can stomach. Dimitri and Deveraux together push the limits. Hard.
“Yes,” Deveraux says. “You can wait in the—”
RATATATA…RATATATA…RATATATA.
Deveraux flinches. “What the hell is that?”
I jump up. “Get on the floor,” I yell at Deveraux.
He stares at me as if I told him to suck my dick. “What the—”
RATATATA…RATATATA…RATATATA.
“Gunfire,” I bark. “Get on the floor. Now.”
RATATATA…RATATATA…RATATATA. RATATATA…RATATATA…RATATATA. Damn, it won’t stop. I have to get Deveraux out of here. Alive.
“Listen,” I face Deveraux. “I’m going to see what’s happening out there. You,” I haul him around the desk, “stay down there and don’t come out unless you hear me say ‘peach.’ ”
He squints. “Peach?”
“It’s a safe word,” Dimitri explains, obviously aquatinted with the technique.
“Whatever you do,” I shove the two men under the table, “don’t crawl out from under there. Got it?”
RATATATA…RATATATA…RATATATA.
“Y-Yes.” Deveraux’s jaw is clenched, his eyes filled with terror.
I’m halfway out the door when Deveraux stops me. “Boulder?” I look over my shoulder. “Get me out of here alive, and I’ll give you a gift.”
I don’t want shit from you, asshole.
Truth be told, I wouldn’t even bother saving him if this wasn’t my shot to make peace with the past. “Cover your heads,” I order, slamming the door shut behind me.
“I’m not the hero of this story.”
Shadow
Surprise, surprise, my plan works. Gunshots roar through the sky. The sound always takes me back to our farm vacation. Dad took us to the countryside to enjoy a few days away from crowded Moscow. It rained a lot. At night, when I lay in my bed, I’d listen to the hard rain bouncing off the roof. It was so fucking relaxing. But…I don’t have time to relax now, do I? My time window is very limited. I better get going.
Pulling my hood over my head, I head down the stairs.
Someone should have told Dimitri’s monkeys the smart ones never take the front. They sneak in the back and move with the shadows. Not that I’m complaining. I just loathe stupidity.
The first alarm pad is at the end of the stairs. I punch in the code Alexei offered—Dimitri’s birthday. The asshole is either so arrogant he believes he built Fort Knox, or he’s simply dumb. Even a two-year-old knows better than to use personal, meaningful dates as passwords.
A green light flashes. Then a buzzing sound. Et voila, I’m in.
I keep going, aware Boulder will get to the bottom of my diversion any time now. Two more alarm pads, twice the same code as before, and I finally reach my destination.
Three guards aim their Kalashnikovs at me. If I had more time, I’d teach them how useless those AK-47s are. Instead, I remove three knives from my belt and throw them. They pierce right through their eyeballs. Precision, baby. Fucking precision.
The metal door squeaks as I push it open. The air is damp and moldy. I try not to breathe the shit in as I head to the single light bulb in the center of the makeshift dungeon and demolish it with a precise uppercut.
I double check the cameras. Yup, they’re out of service. Good. Alexei got Q everything she needed
to get into Dimitri’s system, but I was still a little worried. The only way I can be Shadow is if I remain a shadow.
Once I scan the whole place, I breathe a sigh of relief. No one’s here. No one can stop me from taking—
Whispers echo off the walls. Sobs ring in my ears. Shit, how did I not hear them before? Does it matter? There’s no time to dwell on the fear and terror of Dimitri’s merchandise. Not if I want to get them out of here in one piece.
Yeah, you heard that right. Today, I’m wiping out some of the red in my ledger. But don’t get confused. I’m not the hero of this story. I’m the monster who uses their cries and whimpers for revenge.
“I’m going to put a bullet in the brain of my brother’s killer.”
Markus
Boris and the other guards riddle a blue minivan with bullets. The car drove right through the gate, tearing it off its hinges, stopping midway.
They keep on emptying their magazines. Fuck, the car looks worse than Bonnie and Clyde’s.
Don’t these idiots know shooting isn’t always the answer? Sometimes you gotta use your goddamn brain and ask some questions before you pull the trigger. Questions like who the hell would drive a minivan through a gate guarded by Kalashnikovs? Certainly not a soccer-mom, and sure as fuck no enemy. They’d go for a Hummer.
“Cease fire,” I yell.
They reload instead.
Fucking awesome. “Hey.” I approach Boris, careful not to startle him. I have no intention to look like the van. “Hold your fire.”
He casts me a sidelong glance, still shooting. “What?”
“Stop shooting,” I shout, louder.
He does. His pals don’t. “Who are you to tell me what to do?”
I grab him by the collar of his shirt, my tolerance visibly low. “Tell your motherfuckers to stop shooting and check out the driver’s seat.”
His gaze darts to the empty seat and lightning hits. “Prekratite ogon’!” He has to repeat it several times before the idiots take their fingers off the triggers.
Shadow Page 13
