Shadow
Page 15
Sooner or later, I have to talk to London. I prefer later. “Just leave me be for a while?”
Tiffany applies more pressure. The cold clenches my veins. “To soak in your self-pity?” she shoots back. “Not going to happen.”
I look up at her. “It’s not self-pity.” I had Shadow within finger’s reach, but I let him walk. I fucking failed. Like I failed Luke and his squad in Damascus. “I shouldn’t have taken this job.”
Tiffany drops down beside me, tossing the icy bag in my crotch. “Hey.” I flinch at the sensation. Dick freeze? So much worse than brain freeze. “Watch it.”
She ignores me, staring ahead. “I get it, Boulder.”
She does?
“You want to avenge your brother and his squad, make up for what you believe was your fault.” She draws a deep breath. “But you’re so busy pointing out your mistakes, you forget what you accomplished.”
“Yeah?” I sigh. “What’s that?”
Tiffany gets on her feet. “Deveraux asked you to move in with him, didn’t he?”
Actually, he asked me to move in with him and watch his back until the grand opening night of his new club. “So?”
She smiles. “That’s a win if you ask me.” Moving into Deveraux’s mansion is a lot of things, but a win ain’t one of them.
“I didn’t say yes,” I shout after her.
“You will,” she states with such confidence, even I believe her. “Now, call London before my ass is on the line.”
For my assistant’s sake, I pick up the phone and dial London. I spend the next hour answering the same question over and over. “Are you sure it was Shadow?”
“I’d bet my fucking life on it.”
And when she’s convinced I’m not seeing ghosts or engaging in wishful thinking, she congratulates me on my new position as Deveraux’s personal bodyguard.
I make another mental note: Kill Tiffany for taking away my choice by telling London about it.
“I’m okay.”
Shadow
Me: Is the package secure?
Q: Yes. What the fuck took you so long?
Me: Had to deal with an unexpected obstacle.
Q: ???
Me: …
Me: Just make sure Uncle D doesn’t find his X-Mas present, all right?
Q: Fine. By the way, Aunt Tara asks when she can go home.
Me: Tell her she has to wait till I have Uncle D’s rage under control.
Q: Will do. Are you ready for the next show?
Me: Yes.
Q: Schedule still the same?
Me: Yes.
Q: Are you okay?
Me: What do you care?
Q: Selfish reasons. Can’t lose my best asset.
Me: I’m okay.
“Revenge comes with a price tag.”
Markus
Soon, I’ll be staying at Deveraux’s, forced to witness more of his amorous adventures—threesomes and God knows what else. There’s the Dasha issue, too. I’ll probably run into her a lot. She is his girlfriend, after all.
Enjoying my last free night at the Marriott Residence Inn would be the smart thing to do. I could watch some Netflix—I hear Riverdale has new episodes (don’t judge, I’m addicted to that shit)—order pizza, and catch up on some sleep. In reality, I skim through articles about District Court Judge Hannah Meredith Parker, Commissioner Arthur Brix, and TSA agent James Hatfield—Shadow’s first three Miami victims.
Parker, Brix, Hatfield, and Alexei have to be connected. Shadow took his sweet time slaughtering them and left Masha i Medved at each crime scene.
Why?
Nothing makes sense anymore. Why didn’t he shoot me? Why didn’t he kill Deveraux, Dimitri, and his men? Why did he break into that basement?
I shove the laptop away, frustrated that I’m missing a crucial piece of the jigsaw.
What happened to the assassin after Damascus? I know he killed some rich dude in Greece, an alleged Cosa Nostra boss in Sicily, a member of the Parliament in Great Britain—Europe was his hunting ground for quite some time. Then, about a year ago, he slaughtered—in every sense of the word—the Russian defense minister. They found bits and pieces of the man scattered across Moscow’s Kremlin.
The trail went cold. Until he killed Parker, Brix, Hatfield, and Alexei, deliberately leaving evidence that would lead us back to him. Why? Why a judge, a commissioner, a TSA agent, and some Russian sleazebag? Why leave Masha i Medved?
According to this article, Judge Parker was a hard-ass. She incarcerated more monsters than any other judge in Miami. Last May, however, she was under fire for declaring a mistrial in some big human trafficking case. The police raided a nightclub and found some underage Latvian working girls. They’d entered the country on student visas, but never studied a day in their lives. Some douchebag lured them to the States, promising them education and a job. They were beaten, abused, and used as sex-workers instead. The trial was a slam dunk. The ADA presented a video to the jury of a girl being beaten and starved—brainwashed, really. The douchebag’s lawyer claimed the video impeded the jury’s ability to remain impartial. Parker agreed and ruled a mistrial. The dude deserved a lifetime behind bars. He walked free instead.
I enter “James Hatfield” in Google’s search bar. Other than his obituary, I come up with jack.
Brix’s end was of more interest to the public. The New York Times dedicated a whole page to his gruesome death: “Found naked in his Jacuzzi…” “Badly mutilated…” But I already knew that.
How are these people connected? London said they all knew Deveraux. But why would Shadow go after them just to hurt the president’s son? Besides, Alexei and Deveraux—from what I saw—weren’t that thick.
The CIA taught me to analyze every single detail—victimology, choice of weapon, was it overkill or impersonal? Victimology doesn’t get me anywhere. So let’s talk about the way they were killed. Lingchi was reserved for especially heinous crimes back in the day. Was Shadow punishing these folks for something they did? Did they fuck with the notorious assassin?
Those kills must be personal for Shadow. Revenge maybe? For what though? What did they do to deserve that kind of end?
I swear I’m missing something. The kills, Masha i Medved, the break-in, the reality he let me walk. What the actual fuck is happening here?
Only one way to find out.
I pick up my phone, search for the one contact I never thought I’d need, and key in the message I never thought I would.
Me: I’m thirsty as fuck.
Two seconds later, I get a reply.
Karl: Have a coffee waiting for you. Sunday, seven a.m. Panther Coffee, Coconut Grove. Bring me a red rose, you know they’re my favorite.
I’d make a deal with the devil to get Shadow. Karl? He’s no devil. He’s former KGB and SVR, and he owes me.
Me: Everything for you, my dear.
Karl: Don’t get cocky.
Me: Me? Never.
I shove my phone in my pocket and am about to fling myself in bed when a faint knock on my door annoys the fuck out of me. Tiffany is the last person I want to see. It’s her fault I have to stay at Deveraux’s. She just had to tell London about his offer.
“Go away,” I grumble, forehead on the door.
Another knock. She won’t leave me be.
“What do you want?” I bark, yanking the door open.
“Wow,” a smoky-as-fuck voice says. “Are you always that charming, soldier?”
Black over-the-knee boots, a short khaki dress kissing her thighs, cherry-red lips, and long fiery hair—Dasha stands in my doorframe looking like some supermodel who just jumped from the cover of Vogue.
Stop staring! “W-What are you doing here?” You stammer like a two-year-old.
Dasha pushes herself off the doorframe. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
My next door neighbor—an overweight sixty-something—passes by, gaze glued to Dasha’s butt.
I leave the door open for her, move to t
he fridge, and grab a soda to ease the dryness in my mouth.
Dasha tosses her bag on the round table across from the small built-in kitchen. “Not bad,” she says, scanning the room.
“Can’t compare to your boyfriend’s thirty million dollar estate, but it does the job.” Not sure why I just said that. Dasha doesn’t give off any gold digger vibes. Money seems like a good explanation for why she stays with a jerk like him though.
Dasha cocks a brow. “You think you have all the answers, don’t you?”
“No.” If I did, I wouldn’t have to meet Karl. “I just think you have higher standards is all.” I hold a soda under her nose. “Drink?”
She declines and plunks down on my bed.
The sight of her, on my bed, does crazy things to my heart. But after a day like this, I’m not going to engage in illusions, and I sure as fuck don’t feel like playing her games. Even if my dick, the bastard, disagrees with me. “What do you want?”
She shrugs nonchalantly. “Can’t a girl just drop by for a friendly visit?”
“We’re not friends,” I shoot back. Friends don’t almost fuck in a closed-down gym. “So why are you here, Dasha?”
Her eyes find the cut above my eyebrow. “Maybe I wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Deveraux must have told her what went down at the old coast guard building.
“I am.” I tilt my chin at the door. “You can go now.”
Brows raised, she smiles bitterly. “Well,” she gets up, “thanks for your hospitality.”
What the hell is wrong with me? She didn’t do shit. She came by to check on me, and I treat her like shit. I’m no better than Deveraux.
“Wait.” I cup her elbow. “I’m sorry for being a jerk.”
She won’t turn.
“I had a rough day.” More like a rough two years, but who’s counting? “Can we start over?”
She jerks her elbow away, moves to the table, and takes a seat. “Hello, Markus.” She flashes me her brilliant smile. “How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks.” I offer her my best grin. “Would you like a drink?”
“Sure,” she replies, not holding my asshole act against me.
I fetch her a soda and join her at the table. “So what do I owe the pleasure?”
She fiddles with her soda can, looking unnaturally shy. “I heard what happened.” She shrugs nonchalantly. “Just wanted to make sure you’re doing all right.”
“I am.” I wiggle my cut brow. “Just a little cut. Doesn’t even hurt.” Fine, that’s a lie. My head aches like a motherfucker. She doesn’t need to know that, though.
After a moment of silence—my dick uses it to remind me who sits across from me and how badly he wants inside the goddess—Dasha looks me in the eye. “Can I ask you something, soldier?”
I have no clue why, but my heart drops to my feet, and sweat dots my palms. “What’s up?”
“Will you answer truthfully?” She doesn’t break eye contact.
I sip some soda, easing the pain in my dry throat. “If I answer,” I nod, “I’ll answer truthfully.”
“Fair enough.” She pushes the can from one hand to the other. The way she stalls tells me I won’t like the question. And I’m right. “You’re not here for the fights, are you?”
Fuck, how does she—
Doesn’t matter. I need to play cool, keep up the façade. Because if she tells Deveraux about her suspicions, I’m out. I’ll most likely never get another shot at Shadow.
You’ve got this, I assure myself. I played terrorists. I’ll be damned if I can’t play a little girl. Granted, it’s one thing to lie to a dude who’s hell-bent on bringing the apocalypse to your country. Something else entirely when divine hazel eyes beg you for an answer.
I take another quick sip and smile. “What makes you say that?” I need to test the waters, see how much she knows.
Dasha’s gaze darts to the open laptop.
Shit! She can see my research on Shadow’s previous victims.
“Will said you saved him?” Answering a question with a question, huh? Who’s testing the waters now?
“Not really.” I shrug. “The guy wasn’t really there for him.”
Dasha’s brows fly up. “You sound pretty certain.”
“Your boyfriend is still alive, isn’t he?”
“Do you know who killed Alexei?”
I say nothing.
“So you do.”
I avert my gaze.
“Redemption, huh?”
“What about it?” I reply coolly.
Dasha studies me closely. “You asked me if I believed in it when I asked you why you fight for Will.”
“So?”
A smile touches her eyes. “I might be going out on a limb here, but I think Will is your second chance.” She pauses. “You’re here to protect him, aren’t you?”
Damn, she’s smart. The CIA would gladly hire her as an interrogation specialist.
“It’s okay.” She squeezes my hand. “I won’t tell him. You can trust me.”
My pulse is louder than a heavy metal concert. “I-I have no idea—”
“You promised you wouldn’t lie.”
I did? Fuck. “Wanna tell me how you came to that conclusion?” I need to know what gave me away before Deveraux comes to the same conclusion as his girlfriend.
Dasha takes her sweet time before she answers. “Will told me everything about you. Ex-SEAL, ex-CIA. You lost your brother on your last mission and got kicked out because you assaulted your superior, right?”
Other than the assaulting my superior part? “Yeah.”
“Your brother’s killer,” she averts her gaze, staring at the wall behind me, “you think it’s the same guy who killed Alexei, don’t you?”
This woman is a genius. Unlike me, she’s totally capable of putting the pieces together. Question is what am I going to do now? Lie? Pretend she’s crazy? Or do I put my trust in her?
“It’s okay.” She stares at her soda. “You don’t have to—”
“You’re right.” No point in lying. “I was hired by the Secret Service to protect your boyfriend from a hitman.” I sigh. “The same hitman who killed my brother and his squad.”
Her expression hardens. “You seek revenge?”
“Justice,” I shoot back. “I seek justice.”
“An eye for an eye.” Our gazes lock. “That’s not justice, soldier. It’s age-old sweet revenge.”
“The monster who killed my brother,” I say, voice trembling. “He slaughtered hundreds of people, Dasha.”
She holds my gaze. “And you haven’t?”
Yes. “No.” Not for money, I haven’t.
She casts me a look that says don’t lie to me, I’m not dumb. “You want me to believe an ex-SEAL never killed anyone?”
I did kill. Amongst my victims, a ten-year-old boy and his mother—two faces I’ll never forget. “It’s different.”
Her hazel eyes look straight into the abyss I’m so desperate to hide. “How so?”
Propping my elbows onto the table, I lean closer. “I killed to save lives.”
“A killer is a killer,” she retorts. “The circumstances don’t matter.”
She’s wrong. Circumstances always matter. “I watched the light go out in my brother’s eyes when he hit the ground, his face frozen with pain.” The scene flashes before my eyes. “That monster ambushed us. He killed my brother and his squad just because he could.” My chest tightens. “He needs to be punished.”
“I lost my sister,” she blurts out, startling me.
Damn, I had no idea. “I’m sorry, Dasha. I didn’t—”
“It’s okay.” She waves it off as if it’s not a big deal. Her glazed-over eyes say differently. “I didn’t tell you for sympathy. I just want you to know I get it. If she was murdered, I wouldn’t be able to let her killer walk either. But,” she gets to her feet, “revenge comes with a price tag, soldier. You have to ask yourself if you’re willing to pay it.”
My pu
lse spikes.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, hand around the doorknob.
She leaves me with a dropped jaw and a single question.
What the fuck was that?
“L’Enfer.”
Markus
Being Deveraux’s unofficial bodyguard sucks ass. Sure, the room he gave me is thrice as big as my apartment in Chicago. The attached bathroom features a Jacuzzi and a step-in shower the size of my hotel room. The downside? I’ve been here less than two hours, and I am already forced to endure Dasha and Deveraux. Together. I can barely keep the green-eyed monster in check.
“Boulder?” Deveraux holds open the car door. “You ready?”
Ready to climb in the backseat of his Mercedes with him and Dasha? “After you.”
Dasha sits sandwiched between us. Her thigh bumps against my leg, sending an electric current straight down to my dick. Our make-out session at the gym feels like a lifetime ago. Now, she’s so close, the memories come flooding back. Rosy nipples, soft skin, the way her lips felt on my neck. Jesus, I’m beyond fucked. I can’t even ride in the same car with her; how am I supposed to get through my assignment?
“Are you sure you can’t join me, later?” Dasha bats her thick lashes at Deveraux. “Shopping sprees are so much more fun when someone carries the bags.”
“Sorry, babe.” Deveraux offers her an apologetic smile. “Angela and I have a meeting. We have to find vendors for the club.” Even if he didn’t grin like the motherfucker he is, I could tell he’s lying. Not about the “meeting Angela” part. But vendors aren’t on the schedule. Unless they discuss them while she’s riding him backward to Nirvana.
The insidious voice in the back of my mind questions why the fuck I’m protecting an asshole like Deveraux. I remind myself this isn’t about him. It’s about catching—preferably killing—Shadow.
Dasha rolls her eyes. “You’re no fun, Will.”
He winks at her. “That’s not what you say at night.”
My gaze darts to the door, the prospect of hitting asphalt at sixty miles per hour suddenly very tempting.