Shadow

by Nadine Nightingale

  “Only one way to find out.” I push the door open.

  The crowd is rooted to the spot, their jaws scattered across the floor. Their eyes glued to the video projected onto the white screen behind the DJ.

  Dimitri.

  He’s tied to a chair, crimson all over his face.

  “Did you fuck her?” the voice asks again.

  “Yes,” he replies.

  “Wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Whoever talks to him never shows his face. “Now, we established you fucked a fourteen-year-old girl,” the voice continues. “Why don’t you tell them how you sold her to your friends afterward?”

  “I’m sorry,” Dimitri cries. “I didn’t—”

  A knife pierces his thigh. “Na, na, na, don’t lie.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He spits blood onto the camera.

  A black sleeve wipes it off. “With me? What is wrong with me?” Laughter erupts. “You promise little girls heaven on Earth. Then you fuck them to the point where they’d rather die than endure your torture any longer. And yet you ask what is wrong with me? I don’t make false promises, motherfucker. And I sure as hell don’t pretend to be a goddamn saint.”

  Dimitri is still trying to get out of this. There’s hope in his bloodshot eyes. “You know as well as I do, I had no choice. You don’t say no to the minister of—”

  The same knife that just stuck in his thigh is now dangerously close to his left eye. “Stop making excuses, little bitch.”

  “But—”

  Another millimeter, and his eye falls victim to the blade. “Tell them what you and your friends did to her, what he did to her. And just so you know, I won’t ask again.”

  “We fucked her into submission, and then we sold her,” he rambles, terror raising his voice.

  “To whom,” the robotic voice demands to know.

  “Stop this!” Deveraux yells all of a sudden. “Stop this right now.”

  “We sold her to—”

  “To whom?”

  In the blink of an eye, Deveraux is next to the DJ, pressing all sorts of buttons. I assume he wants to shut the video down, but he fast-forwards it instead. What the crowd sees…what we see is—

  Crimson.

  More crimson.

  An impaled eye-apple.

  The reflection of the blade.

  Blackness.

  Not a single person moves, speaks, or breathes. We all just stare at the black screen, trying to process what we just witnessed—murder. A brutal, inhuman slaughter. The work of Shadow.

  “The best is yet to come.”

  Shadow

  Do you like what you saw?

  It’s a masterpiece, isn’t it?

  I can tell by the looks in their eyes. They are fans.

  Some hot-shot director is already taking mental notes. He’ll hunt down a screenwriter as soon as he walks out of here. The rest of them? They just glare at the screen, jaws unhinged.

  Art is supposed to do that, you know? Shock you to a point where you question your pitiful existence and realize you wasted most of your life chasing fame, prestige, and whatever else it is you desire.

  Buckle up, guys.

  We’re not done.

  The best is yet to come

  Me: Now!

  Q: Consider it done.

  “Dimitri.”

  Markus

  A doorbell rings.

  Everyone turns. Probably wondering who’d ring the bell of a club and why there was a bell in the first place. I do.

  “That’s impossible,” Deveraux whispers, all of a sudden next to me.

  I stare at his terror-stricken face, see the horror laced into his very soul. “What is?” I ask.

  “We don’t have a bell.” He swallows. Hard. “I had it removed when we refurbished the place.”

  Adrenalin bursts through my veins. Shadow is brazen enough to use the front door to announce his entry. And I’m ready to face the bastard. “Stay here,” I order Deveraux, moving straight for the entrance.

  There should be security, and a line of club-goers eager to get in.

  There are security personnel. On the pavement with gaping holes in their heads.

  There’s no line though.

  Instead, I face a chair. On it—

  Dimitri.

  Or what’s left of him.

  “Jesus Christ!” Deveraux barks. “Who did this?”

  Viktor and Bones push past me. The hammer-killer eyeballs the art of his fellow hitman. And by art I mean cut-out eyes impaled on knives sticking in Dimitri’s cheeks. Cut lips that’d make the Joker jealous. Flesh and bones, cleared of any and all skin. Masha i Medved stuffed into Dimitri’s chest, where his heart used to be. And—

  A note carved into the Russian’s head. The only part of his body still covered in skin. It reads: I’m coming for you.

  I search the street for the monster who did this.

  I find a stray dog, howling at the moon.

  “Sometimes it requires evil to take out evil.”

  Markus

  The coordinates Karl texted me—he finally got back to me last night—led me into David T. Kennedy Park. I hope he has something useful for me. A name, a location—anything that’ll help me find Shadow.

  I’m running out of time here. Soon, Deveraux will head back to New York, and I’m not sure he’d want me around Dasha. I heard she’ll move in with him. I’d ask her if the rumors are true—that she’s giving up her life here in Miami for the asshole—but since I disobeyed Deveraux’s order not to touch her, he won’t let her come to the house anymore.

  It’s not the only reason I need to find Shadow ASAP. The last two days have been a nightmare. Angela fended off the press camping outside the Deveraux Mansion. Deveraux himself was constantly on the phone with Viktor. Dare I say the old grumpy Russian is beyond pissed about Dimitri’s end. And London gave me fucking hell. She harassed Tiffany to the point where my feisty assistant showed up at Deveraux’s doorstep pleading with me to call the deputy director of the USSS before she drove her insane.

  It’s barely eight a.m. The park belongs to joggers, dog-walkers, and a couple of stay-at-home moms taking their kiddos for a morning stroll. I’m not a fan of Miami, but I can see why Karl chose this place for retirement. It’s pretty idyllic.

  I check Google Maps. Apparently, I had reached my destination.

  I scan the park. On a bench a couple of feet away, I spot a man with a khaki fisherman’s hat, khaki shorts, and a white t-shirt—Karl Drugov. I’m not sure that’s his real name. But Karl is good people. A name won’t change that.

  I saunter toward the fragile man in his late sixties. Nothing about him screams spy, but looks can be deceiving. The old man on the bench has ninja skills. I watched him disarm a terrorist in under ten seconds, sending him to the ground by applying pressure on a weak spot at the neck. The sniper who’d aimed at Karl’s head didn’t appreciate Karl taking down his pal. He was seconds away from putting Karl to sleep when I took the shot, killing the sniper. That shot earned me Karl’s trust and gratitude. That shot is why he agreed to help me take down Shadow.

  Karl doesn’t look up when I approach him. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” His accent is barely audible. SVR agents are trained to lose them to keep their cover.

  “Yeah.” Gazing at the blue cloudless sky, I take a seat next to him. “If you dig the sun.”

  Karl laughs. “Oh, that’s right. Moy drug, hates the sun.” He makes a show of smacking his forehead. “How could I forget?”

  “No idea, man.” My lips curve into a half-smile. “I believe you heard me bitch about the sun quite a bit.”

  “Your bitching,” he shrugs, “beats death by a long shot.” He said the exact same thing when he found me in a bar a few days after I saved his life. I still don’t know how he figured out it was me—he never saw me—but I accepted a long time ago that Karl is the closest thing to all-knowing there is.

  I’m dying to hear what he has to say about Shadow. I’m not an i
nsensitive asshole though. Karl’s a friend I haven’t seen in ages. He deserves some courtesy. “How’s retirement treating you?”

  His gaze darts to a blonde playing Frisbee with a little girl. “Better than I deserve.”

  To people on the outside, it might sound dramatic or even cynical. I get it, though. Folks like us have too much blood on our hands. Getting anything other than hellfire as a reward for our sins verges on a miracle. “I’m glad you found your happy place.”

  Karl’s green eyes meet mine. “Maybe it’s time you find yours as well, moy drug.” A heavy sigh escapes him. “I’d hate to exchange my khaki pants for a black suit to attend your funeral.”

  Watching the woman and the kid play, I smirk. “Weren’t you the one who told me to live fast and die hard?” He was piss drunk when he slammed his empty shot glass on the table and declared he’d go out guns blazing because, “Death isn’t negotiable, anyway.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” He drinks in the little girl’s laughter. “In another life.” Ninja Karl has officially turned into a softy. Crazy what a little angel with pigtails can do, huh?

  Silence stretches between us. We both enjoy the Frisbee game. When mother and daughter drop onto the grass, taking a break, Karl pulls two brown envelopes out of his tote bag.

  “Everything you need to know about Shadow is in there,” he says, placing them between us.

  “Everything?” Sounds too good to be true.

  He nods. “Everything I could get my old contact to share with me.”

  “A name?” Hey, a guy can dream.

  He frowns. “Ten’ has no name. Not anymore, Markus.”

  I reach for the envelopes, but he’s holding on to them. “There’s something else you need to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your boy, Deveraux?”

  “What about him?”

  Karl pulls his mouth to one side, the lines around his eyes deepening. “He isn’t as innocent as everyone likes to believe.”

  I already figured that much. Whatever Deveraux’s business with those Russians, I don’t think it’s legal. “He’s doing business with some Russians.”

  “Some Russians?” Karl breaks into a lusty laughter. “They aren’t just some Russians. They’re Bratva.”

  “Bratva?” I shake my head, unable to process what Karl just said. “As in the Russian Mafia?”

  He simply nods.

  Is that why Dimitri called Viktor Papa? Papa, as in the highest-ranking member, the one who calls the shots? Viktor’s ring flashes before my eyes. The crest—I knew I’d seen it before. But if Karl is right, that would mean Deveraux—the son of our goddamn president—is running with the Russian mob. That borders on insanity.

  Karl opens one of the envelopes. “Here.” He pulls out a few pics. “Look for yourself, but,” he presses the pictures against his chest, “don’t say I didn’t warn you, all right?”

  The Bratva is bad news. Really. Fucking. Bad. News. So I brace myself for gore and mayhem. And gore and mayhem is what I get.

  Mutilated female corpses stare back at me. All of them disembodied, bruised, and decayed. Had I had breakfast, I’d throw up.

  “Go on,” Karl urges. “There’s more.”

  More images.

  More blood.

  More dead girls.

  Sickening.

  “Dimitri is dead?” Karl asks after some time.

  I don’t even want to know how he heard of Dimitri’s demise. The media never mentioned the victim’s name. “Shadow killed him a couple of days ago,” I confirm. “Made a big fucking show out of it, too.”

  He grins. “I hear Ten’ ruined the opening of Deveraux’s club?”

  “He pretty much turned it into a real-life horror flick.” Some of the guests, especially the ones who caught a glimpse of Dimitri’s mutilated corpse, had to get counseling. Something tells me the eye-apples stuck in his cheeks will haunt them for the rest of their lives. Or maybe the flaying. Who knows?

  “Can’t say I blame him.”

  “Shadow?”

  Karl nods.

  “And why’s that?”

  He tilts his chin at the pictures in my lap. “That’s Dimitri’s handwriting.” He exhales sharply. “In my humble opinion, the bastard got what he deserved.”

  I think it all through. The Bratva, Deveraux, the dead girls, Shadow—yet, I fail to put it together, to see the whole picture. Karl clearly has. “Let me get this straight, you’re saying the Bratva, or Dimitri, killed those women. Deveraux, the son of the president of the United States of America, is somehow involved with the Russian mob, and Shadow is…” I laugh. “Delivering justice?”

  Karl rolls his neck. “I’m saying the Bratva lured those girls to your country, promising them education and a job to feed their families.” He pauses, tightening his grip on the bench. “What they really got was hell on Earth. Abuse, slavery, rape—you name it, they lived through it. The lucky ones got sold to some rich Americans or work the Bratva’s clubs. The not so lucky ones,” he points at the pictures, “you get the idea, don’t you?”

  “Human trafficking.” I already toyed with the idea when I saw the video of Dimitri’s death. The mechanical voice—Shadow—said the same things before he skinned Dimitri alive.

  Karl exhales sharply. “Yes, moy drug, I believe that’s the term for what they’re doing to those kids.”

  “And Deveraux?” I ask. “How is he involved?”

  “Let’s just say,” Karl cocks a disapproving brow, “young Deveraux really likes what the Bratva sells.”

  Girls. Deveraux likes girls. In a disturbing, horrific way, it all makes sense. The suicide, the conversation I’d overheard about Deveraux fucking that girl so relentlessly, she hung herself in Dimitri’s bedroom…The girl was merchandise, and according to Shadow, only fourteen.

  I swallow the bile rising up my gullet. “What about Judge Parker, the TSA agent, and Commissioner Brix?”

  “They were in on it.” Karl’s gaze is trained on his little girl. “Hatfield made sure the girls got through all checks, Parker,” his face hardens, “she liked girls. Secured herself nice little slaves when she ruled a mistrial in that human trafficking case. According to my source, she’d rented an apartment downtown for her slaves. And Brix? He was a customer. Plain and simple. Fucked every girl before they were sold off, to test quality.”

  Fuck, I feel sick.

  “We like to believe our countries are built on values.” Karl pats my shoulder. “But at the end of the day, law and government are human, and humanity, moy drug, is rotten to the core.”

  My father, my brother—they died for this country. I would have, too. How am I supposed to just accept that the very people who swore an oath to protect and serve—Parker, Brix, Hatfield—are the ones enslaving little girls? And if all of this is true, then what does that say about Shadow? Sure as hell makes me question who the real monster is. The killer I’m hunting, or the predator I’m protecting?

  “What’s Shadow’s role in all of this?” He’s not the heroic kind. He’s a goddamn killer. Whatever his reasons, it isn’t the greater good.

  Karl pulls a Cuban from the pocket of his shirt. It’s an odd habit of his. Rolls them between his fingers. Smells them. Never smokes them. “In some ways, our government is like the mob. You fuck with them,” his gaze darts to his little girl, “they fuck with the people you love. Sometimes they go above and beyond, not afraid to make a pact with the devil.” Our eyes lock. “Or the Bratva, for that matter.”

  It takes a lot of self-restraint not to laugh. Shadow and love? That’s like Satan rescuing puppies from the shelter—absurd. In some weird way, though, it makes sense. I always figured those kills were personal for Shadow. The girl who hung herself? She must have meant something to the notorious assassin. At fourteen, she’d be too young to be his girlfriend. Family, then. The Bratva is responsible for the death of a family member of Shadow. “What was the kid to him?” Sister? Cousin?

  “This is
what I got on Shadow.” He shoves the other envelope my way. “Read it.”

  The weightless paper makes my heart heavy. Don’t ask me why, but I dread reading its contents. It could make the monster I’m hunting human.

  “Thanks, Karl.” I get on my feet. “We’re beyond even.”

  “Moy drug?” He seizes hold of my shirt. “A word of advice?”

  Karl survived a business that’s built on death and mayhem for longer than anyone else I know. His advice is and will always be appreciated. “Sure.”

  “Let fate run its course.”

  My brow shoots up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sometimes it requires evil to take out evil.” He eyeballs his daughter. “And sometimes the pretentious good ones deserve what’s coming for them.”

  Wait. Is he asking me to—“You want me to stand by and watch Shadow kill Deveraux?”

  He rises from the bench. “I want you to ask yourself what you’d do if one of those girls was your daughter, sister, or mother.”

  He wants me to let the bastard continue his bloody rampage? That’s fucking madness. Insane. Impossible. “Shadow killed my brother.”

  “Did he, though?” That said, he walks toward his family, leaving me to wonder what the actual fuck he means.

  “Daddy’s little darling angel.”

  Shadow

  Sneaking around with Bones, are we, William?

  A hitman? Na, na, na, that is no company for the POTUS’s son. Yet you met him for lunch at the Ritz Carlton. Paying next to no attention to the looks you get for hanging with a guy like him.

  It must be important then.

  Why wait till your bodyguard was gone, though? Going behind Boulder’s back, are we?

  Doesn’t surprise me, you son of a bitch. From all the names on my list, you are the ruler of hell. Dimitri, Alexei, Nikolai—they were rotten to the core. But at least they never pretended to be the golden boy. Daddy’s little darling angel. A fucking saint.

  You lean in closer, whispering.

  I might not be able to hear you. Your body, however, tells me everything I need to know. Stiff, on edge, nervous—plotting something, are we? Could it be my end?