In the Shadows (Metahuman Files Book 3)

by Hailey Turner

  It being June, and the summer heat a heavy weight beyond the building, the soup was a cold avocado gazpacho poured into delicate-looking porcelain cups one was supposed to sip from. A hint of cream was drizzled over the surface as a garnish. Sean wasn’t sure if he should stir the cream through the soup or just drink it as is. He opted to pick up the cup and sip the soup. His background for this cover might be one step above street trash, but he could fake manners with the best of them.

  The servers left. Sean kept up the conversation.

  “We can shore up your firmware and mainframe and ensure the security of your multiple smart building AIs. Routine penetrative tests would be included in your contract with us. Our standard operating procedure is to attempt an initial hack into your systems to locate risk areas before tailoring a security fix that addresses your individual needs,” Sean said.

  “I don’t care about the details, only that it works.”

  “We stake our reputations on making sure our products work.”

  Adrian eyed him shrewdly from across the table. “So I’ve heard. You haven’t been around very long, but your company is certainly gaining a reputation.”

  “We pride ourselves on filling a market need and doing it well. Ekaterina is an exacting taskmaster, to say nothing of her former commanding officer.”

  Sean let the bait lie between them, and sure enough, Adrian pounced on the conversational opening. “So Jamie Callahan is still in the picture?”

  Captain Jamie Callahan, once a Recon Marine and now a metahuman leading Alpha Team, was an heir to billions whose father was running for the American presidency. The national election was a high-profile distraction that had been woven into Jamie’s backstory for the January mission. For his cover, Jamie had quit the Marines two and a half years ago in order to focus on his own business ventures rather than his father’s politics. The result was Root Source, Inc., but he’d only financially backed it and didn’t own a controlling stake in it. Still, having the Callahan name linked to the company was a guaranteed in with the wealthy, something Sean had witnessed firsthand in London.

  “Jamie will always be in the picture.”

  Sean took another sip of his gazpacho, running his tongue over the back of his teeth to get rid of the film there. He looked up when the door slid open again, frowning as a pair of men dressed in suits entered the room. They looked more like guests than restaurant workers, and shouldn’t have been allowed to enter the private dining room.

  “Excuse me, this is a private dinner,” Sean said, eyeing their approach.

  Neither man spoke, their silence making Sean’s instincts snap to attention. He caught sight of a tattoo peeking out from beneath the taller man’s unbuttoned collar, and Sean felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. Peeking out on either side of the man’s neck were the intricate lines of a dagger tattooed over his shoulders, giving the illusion of the blade stabbing him through the throat. It was an old-style tattoo, one that was more popular with the American branches of the Russian mafia than that of the deadlier bratvas back in the Motherland. Sean had spent hours and hours poring over the tattoos favored on both sides of the Atlantic, committing their designs and meaning to memory. He knew what that particular tattoo meant.

  Assassin.

  Sean got to his feet so fast his chair pitched over backward, drawing the gun from his back holster with his right hand in a smooth motion. Adrian was in the way of his shot, forcing Sean to side step in order to fire. He aimed for the closest enemy, winging the man on the arm. The suppressor built into his gun masked the sound of it going off even as the bullet embedded itself in the wall. The man he’d grazed swore viciously before closing in. With two targets, Sean had to choose, but his split-second hesitation cost him. He wasn’t fast enough to stop the assassin from taking a hostage.

  Chloe was hauled out of her seat by her neck, the assassin’s hand wrapped tightly around her throat, choking off her scream. He dragged her in front of him, kicking her chair out of the way before pressing a sharp switchblade to the arched line of her throat, so close it sliced through the sheer fabric of her dress.

  “Drop your gun,” the man ordered.

  He had a Russian accent, the stresses telling Sean it was very possible Russian was the man’s first language, not his second. Sean had an excellent ear for accents and a terrible habit of not listening to the enemy.

  Which meant Sean didn’t drop his gun.

  “Get your hands off my wife!” Adrian yelled, half-rising out of his seat. “Someone get security in here!”

  Sean knew the private dining room was soundproofed, something Adrian seemed to have forgotten. The man Sean had shot at earlier shoved Adrian into the chair, putting a gun to the back of his head. The tear on the man’s suit jacket was damp with blood from the bullet graze, a stained white shirt sleeve peeking through the opening.

  “Shut the fuck up,” the newcomer snarled.

  Sean kept his gun aimed at the man holding Chloe. Her broken little sobs were only cut off when the man Sean mentally labeled as Tattoo tightened his fingers around her throat, making her gag.

  “We’re here to deliver message,” Tattoo said to Adrian, tapping the switchblade against Chloe’s throat to better enforce his threat. He didn’t seem bothered by the fact Sean hadn’t lowered his gun yet. “My boss warn you about coming back. New Miami has no room for your business.”

  Adrian twisted his head around, mouth working angrily, but he didn’t say anything as the other man shoved the gun hard against his skull in warning.

  “Drop your weapon or I’ll blow his fucking brains out for your third course,” the second man ordered. Blond, blue-eyed, he had a drawl that pegged him as being raised in the South, possibly Atlanta, a hotbed of homegrown Russian mafia activity.

  Sean didn’t have a photographic memory, but mission details were hard to forget, even years after it was over. He hadn’t worked very many Russian cases while with the CIA, but he’d kept up to date on their activities as the agency required. If the man with the gun was from Atlanta, then there was a good chance Sean was dealing with a Russian-American mafia group. In which case, Tattoo was still the outlier, unless he was a foot soldier on loan from a different bratva.

  Sean stared down the barrel of his gun at Tattoo. Ignoring the adrenaline pounding through his veins, he said, calmly, “The Wolcotts are clients of mine. My boss will be highly displeased if she has to cut short her meeting with Stanislav Pavluhkin because of a fucking territory dispute that should’ve been dealt with in the boardroom, not with second-rate enforcers.”

  The way Tattoo jerked at Stanislav’s name told Sean he was definitely of a bratva background. Working that angle could possibly get them out of this mess alive.

  “You not know Pavluhkins,” Tattoo scoffed after a tense pause.

  “You think I’m lying? You want to test that theory? I hear the Presnenskaya Bratva doesn’t like it when others start encroaching on their territory. We’re big on client confidentiality, but you better believe we’ll inform them of your interference.” Sean cocked his head to the side. “What are you? Troitnenskaya Bratva? Koptevskaya Bratva? You really want word to get back to your higher-ups you fucked with someone who has favorable ties to the Pavluhkins? That’s really not good for your business out here. Be worse back home.”

  With each Russian mafia group Sean named, Tattoo seemed to get more agitated. He had to wonder if it was out of character for the man, because his partner said, “Just fucking cut her throat!”

  Sean tensed, knowing there was no way he’d be able to stop Tattoo from killing Chloe. A bullet was fast, but the other man was using her as a human shield. Sean knew he wasn’t a good enough shot to take him out without hurting her in the process.

  “Nyet,” Tattoo said, looking at Sean through narrowed eyes. “If what he say true—nyet.”

  “We didn’t come here to bargain!”

  Tattoo ignored his partner, keeping his attention on Sean. That was all Sean needed to see f
or him to figure out Tattoo was the one in charge. “Drop weapon. We not kill.”

  “Somehow, I don’t believe you,” Sean coolly replied.

  “Not kill. If what you say is true, our boss needs to hear. Was only supposed to deliver message to that one,” his eyes flicked toward Adrian, “but now we take you with us.”

  Sean could not believe he’d walked into the middle of a territory dispute. Some days, Sean missed the deep well of intel the CIA could access. The MDF’s intelligence division was good, but it was primarily focused on threats relating to metahumans and Splice, not potential criminal business relations gone south.

  “Honor among thieves and all that shit, I take it?” Sean asked.

  Tattoo smiled, revealing uneven teeth. “Da. If you like.”

  He didn’t, but there didn’t seem much of a choice. As a last resort, Sean could phase and save himself, but that would tank the mission, along with the one concerning the Pavluhkins, and he’d put almost a year into that one already. He wasn’t keen on losing what ground they’d gained.

  Taking his finger off the trigger, Sean thumbed the safety on and set the handgun on the table. The biolock was already engaged, so even if they tried to use it, the gun wouldn’t shoot without his print signature on the grip and trigger. Tattoo jerked his head at his partner in an obvious gesture of command. Sean was glad he was in charge and not his trigger-happy friend. Tattoo’s partner shifted position, keeping his gun trained on Adrian even as he grabbed Sean’s off the table. Sean caught a glimpse of a black spade tattoo with the number 3 beneath it on his wrist—definitely from Atlanta.

  Tattoo let Chloe go and closed the switchblade with a snap of his wrist. He turned her around and gently patted her tear-stained face, tsking at the smeared mess of her makeup before he handed her a cloth napkin from the table.

  “Dry your face. We walk out of here one nice big group, da? No crying, no screaming, no running. If you run, we shoot.”

  Tattoo looked over at Sean as he spoke, not giving Adrian the time of day. Sean shifted his attention to Adrian, who still only had eyes for his wife.

  “Adrian.” The casino magnate jerked his head around at the sound of his name. “We’ll go quietly.”

  “My security—” Adrian snarled.

  “Is occupied,” Tattoo cut in. “You think we not know you have them?”

  Adrian worked his jaw, hands clenching into fists. Sean knew from experience that rich people thought they were immune to anything, that their money and name could get them out of all kinds of problems. If Adrian was looking to move into Russian-held entertainment districts here in New Miami, he should’ve known his attempts would’ve been unwelcomed. New Miami had limited land due to sea levels that had risen generations ago. The Russians and Russian-Americans had been sinking their money into Miami County real estate and businesses starting back when it was once known as Miami-Dade County, and there were homes and a national park where the New Miami Bay now resided.

  Buying property in New Miami was business for the rich, yes, but newcomers weren’t looked upon favorably by the Russians and the Cubans who claimed this city as their home. Those two groups had an uneasy truce going on right now that a third party could very easily upend. Adrian really should’ve done his homework.

  “Adrian,” Sean said warningly.

  The look in the older man’s eyes was pure, unadulterated rage, and all of it was directed at Tattoo. “Fine,” he gritted out. “We’ll go quietly.”

  Sean only hoped he meant it.

  Adrian got to his feet and took a step toward Chloe before he was hauled back by the man with the guns. The guy tucked Sean’s gun into his pants at the small of his back before swiftly patting Adrian down for any hidden weapons, coming up empty. For all that Sean knew Adrian’s brother was ex-military and probably always carried a weapon, Adrian didn’t seem to be of the same mindset.

  Then it was Sean’s turn to get patted down. He inwardly sighed as the man found his second gun strapped to his ankle. Sean wasn’t carrying anything else because he hadn’t thought he’d need more than his usual gear for a mission that was less than twenty-four hours long.

  He caught Adrian looking his way and offered up a shrug. “Habit. Unlike you, I don’t always have bodyguards.”

  Tattoo’s partner jabbed him in the back with the gun, right against his spine. “Shut up.”

  Sean did as he was told. Chloe had managed to stop crying, even if she couldn’t stop breathing heavily, as if she would start sobbing all over again. Her face was mostly clean of smeared makeup. Tattoo put his arm around her shoulders, which made her shudder violently. It wasn’t the first time Sean had put an innocent person’s life in danger while working undercover, but it never got any easier to watch.

  “Let’s go,” Tattoo said.

  He escorted Chloe out of the private dining room while Sean and Adrian followed behind him. Sean was intensely aware of the man with the guns at his back. He had no way of knowing when or if the guy would pull the trigger. Phasing would keep Sean alive but blow his cover. He bit back a frustrated sigh, reminding himself that he’d been doing stuff like this for years before he got turned into a metahuman.

  Sean was good at surviving while undercover.

  He would survive this.

  I’m going to tell the director he needs to hire more analysts and agents for my division, Sean thought sourly as they made their way through the dining room, ignoring the stares of the people closest to them that they passed. Congress really needed to dole out a little more money for the MDF during the next round of budget negotiations.

  They’d almost made it to the elevator lobby when the front house manager caught up to them. “Sir! Mr. Miller! Is something wrong? You’re leaving early.”

  Sean turned to greet the man, ignoring the warning glare Tattoo sent his way. “I’m sorry, but Mrs. Wolcott just got some terrible family news. I’m going to see them to their room. Go ahead and bill my account for the full dinner.”

  Their abrupt departure probably wasn’t even in the manager’s top ten weird shit he’d seen in this city. He waved them off with some bland well-wishes that Sean tuned out.

  “Good call,” the man at his back muttered as they waited for the elevator.

  Sean didn’t engage him in conversation, more interested in eyeing the embedded security camera in the corner. At some point, someone would run a traceback on his whereabouts if he went missing. They’d place him at The White Squall pretty easily.

  It was after that Sean was uncertain about.

  He couldn’t call in without tipping Tattoo and his partner off. But contacting headquarters was a dead giveaway that Sean wasn’t who he said he was, and the MDF still needed to keep their covers intact. Which meant Sean had to be Riley for just a little longer.

  The group took the elevator down to the ground floor and headed at a brisk pace toward the main entrance to the resort. Tattoo was muttering under his breath, probably calling for their ride. People stared, mostly at Chloe, who was hiding her terror behind one shaking hand over her face in a play at grief. The sobs helped. Sean kept his own expression one of faint worry, not fear, making sure not to catch anyone’s eye as they left the resort.

  Outside, the night air was disgustingly muggy. The resort’s biodome didn’t extend this far out, and its environmentals ended at the doors closing behind them. Adrian tensed, and Sean reached out automatically, grabbing his wrist to keep him from doing something stupid.

  “Don’t,” Sean said quietly, staring straight ahead.

  Adrian’s wrist flexed against Sean’s tight grip before going lax. Sean let him go, hoping Adrian would stay put.

  Tattoo rebuffed the valet’s assistance. Moments later a black SUV pulled up to the curb. Tattoo ushered Chloe off the sidewalk and to the vehicle, opening up the front passenger door and helping her inside.

  “Ladies first,” he said with a mocking smile.

  Sean climbed into the row of back seats, unsurprised when Tattoo
got in after him. Adrian and Tattoo’s partner took the middle seats, with the latter passing back a gun to Tattoo once the doors were shut. Sean hoped Adrian didn’t do anything stupid, like try to be a hero, on the drive to wherever they were going. He also hoped they weren’t heading for the swamp or the New Miami Bay for a body drop. Those were always messy.

  “Electronic jammers up and running,” the driver said as he pulled into the street.

  Tattoo grunted a wordless reply.

  At 1830 on a Tuesday night, the streets weren’t packed like they were on the weekends with partiers looking for a good time in skimpy outfits and way too much booze in hand. Sean turned his head fractionally to the left, looking out the tinted plas-glass windows, trying to orient himself to the map of the city he’d memorized that morning.

  “Where are we going?” he ventured to ask.

  The answer wasn’t one he liked.

  Tattoo pistol-whipped Sean in the face with the gun hard enough that his vision went black at the edges. Hot pain stabbed through his face and jaw with an immediacy that burned through his nerves. Fingers tangled in his hair before Tattoo viciously slammed his head against the window. Black spots erupted across his vision as pain exploded across his head and face in hot waves. The pulsing agony around his right eye was familiar in the particular way of broken bones. The ringing in his ears was so loud Sean almost didn’t hear Tattoo speak.

  “Christov Antonovich want to talk with you,” Tattoo said.

  Sean closed his eyes against the throbbing ache in his head, breathing in carefully through his nose. Sean was only glad they were being dragged in front of Antonovich’s Brigada and not the Irish mob where his cover definitely wouldn’t hold up under interrogation and a deep vetting.

  He’d be happier if they weren’t going at all.

  2

  Skin Of Your Teeth

  Staff Sergeant Alexei Dvorkin woke from a nice deep sleep to the piercing tones of his comms going off. Gray eyes snapped open, squinting through the darkness in his bedroom. He lifted his left arm and watched as the thin, flexible bioware embedded beneath the skin of his wrist and forearm flashed a number he didn’t immediately recognize.