Madness (Revenge Series Book 3)

by M. S. Brannon

  The plane starts to taxi out as I sit back in my seat and look out the same window Josslyn is. We watch the view blur as we speed down the runway. Moments later, the plane lifts, and we are airborne, one step closer to finishing our mission.

  I break my sight from the blue sky and look over at Josslyn. She has her head tilted back, resting against the seat, and her eyes are closed. I don’t know if she’s asleep, and I don’t want to disturb her if she is.

  I lean my head back and expel a deep breath. My mind keeps going back to the dance we shared at the nightclub. It was nearly impossible for me to refrain from breaking that man’s neck when he disrespected Josslyn. Out of nowhere, though, I stopped. The combination of her pleading eyes and the knowledge of the disaster that would eventually follow gave me enough calm to step back.

  Then we started to move, dancing in a slow, rhythmic pace before the song faded and blended into the next upbeat tune. For three minutes, we had this unexplainable connection where life was simple and our relationship was like everyone else’s. I could feel what she is doing to me. Her light is slowly sinking in, waking me up in a different way, and making me unravel years of routine, discipline, and death. But like everything good in my life, this feeling won’t last.

  Once Stravinsky is dead, the team of Josslyn Stowe and Nikolai Petrov will be no more. We will either be dead or have gone our separate ways. That is where we make the most sense—far, far away from each other.

  I clear my throat and adjust in the seat. I can’t permit myself to be consumed by anything except killing Stravinsky. The moment we shared was just that—a moment. It will not keep me alive, and it will not kill the man who is responsible for all the pain and hate taking up space in my mind. It will be the hate that will set me free from it all.

  .*.*.*.

  August 15, 2015 11:47 a.m.

  The plane finishes its final descent, and the wheels touch down and coast across the tarmac. Josslyn stirs awake, stretching her arms over her head. My eyes automatically pan down when a sliver of skin peeks out from under her shirt. She pulls her hair down from the crooked bun on top of her head and tousles the strands. Her face is without makeup, her skin looking clean and fresh—natural. She is an extremely beautiful woman.

  Damn it! I shout in my head. This is not where my mind needs to be right now. Tomorrow, we will head to Russia then into Chechnya. I can’t be overwhelmed by the little mannerisms I enjoy about this woman. She is no one. Just another woman I fucked, nothing more and nothing less.

  The frustration of my own actions bubbles under my skin. I sense the anger and tap into the sensation as I unfasten my seatbelt and stand from the chair. As soon as the doors open, I abandon the aircraft, plod down the stairs, and walk toward the private hangar. I need to get away from her.

  The glass door opens, and I nod to the man holding it open for me. The room is large, filled with ornate pieces of art on the walls and fine furnishings. The black tiled floor is polished to a glossy shine, reflecting the white couches and chairs scattered about. Over to the side, there is a small hallway with several doors on either side. I look at the sign affixed to the desk in front of the corridor that says, “The Calming Cove.” Upon reading further, I realize people pay to take naps in those rooms. Weird, but I can understand the appeal. In the center of the room is a large desk with flight plans, schedules, and any other information you need regarding this place. Off to the other side is right where I want to be—the bar.

  Confused for a moment, I look out the window, recognizing we are not at the private hangar at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago. We are at some privately owned landing strip; it has to be. It’s a place only the rich and famous occupy, considering only private jets are allowed to land here. TSA agents are still around but acting more like security guards than the annoying jerks they are known to be. However, I would agree that they got assigned a pretty good job considering the cluster fuck O’Hare can be.

  I break my sights from the window and head toward my momentary salvation. A woman stands behind the bar, waiting to help me. She is a friendly-looking woman with a pearly white smile and happy green eyes. Her orange hair is twisted behind her head, standing out against the navy blazer covering her modestly-sized breasts.

  “I will have a Martini,” I demand, pulling out my wallet from the inside of my jacket pocket.

  “Sweet or dry, sir?” Her voice is cheery, much too happy for my liking.

  “Dry,” I say curtly.

  She tries to keep the smile on her face, but she can’t hide the fear that flashes in her eyes.

  “Don’t mind him,” Josslyn’s voice breaks through her fears as she strides up to the bar, standing behind me. “He’s an asshole.”

  The woman looks over at her and uncomfortably smiles back. She is clearly not prepared to be in the middle of whatever argument Josslyn is trying to start.

  “Would you like a drink, ma’am?”

  “A water, please.”

  Josslyn moves from behind me to lean against the bar. She props her elbows on the countertop, making her breasts pop forward.

  My eyes act of their own accord and pan down, taking in her fine form. This woman is impossible. Every time she gets near me, I can feel this cloud surround me, and it is impossible to find my way through it.

  I turn my head forward, focusing on the awful piece of art hanging on the wall above the bar. I lift the glass to my lips and savor the bitter taste of the drink. It’s cool and refreshing the more I consume the clear liquid.

  I finish off the drink, relaxing somewhat as I motion for the woman to make me another. She quickly mixes the Martini and places another glass in front of me. I pull the olive out of my first drink and pop it in my mouth. The treat explodes with flavor and sets off the aftertaste of the drink. I will have to admit, this bartender can make a fine Martini.

  “So,” Josslyn says, “what’s the plan now?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Josslyn

  August 15, 2015 12:08 p.m.

  Nikolai is in a foul mood, more so than normal. I can only assume it has to do with what happened to us in Vegas. Perhaps it’s because Vlad’s men caught up with us at the Bellagio, but that was probably normal for him—running from flying bullets. My gut is telling me his foul mood is attributed to what happened at the club.

  Although I was very drunk by the time I arrived at the club, the intensity of the moment extinguished my high once Nikolai joined me on the dance floor. We were living someone else’s life in that moment, and it was amazing.

  Actually, I have been living someone else’s life for the last several days. It’s like my existence up until I met Nikolai was a dream, and now I am really experiencing life for the first time. It’s a very unusual feeling and one I am still getting used to. Then again, I wished that old life away. I stood in a Macy’s bathroom and shed my old existence for this new, dangerous one. Maybe that is why I’m feeling this way. Being with Nikolai completely changed me. I’m nostalgic and pining for the old me, but she’s vanished.

  Nikolai grabs my wrist, his grip firm, cutting off the circulation to my hand, when I ask him what the plan is. He pulls me toward a private corner of the room, his drink sloshing over the rim of his glass as he walks aggressively. I wonder if he comprehends how hard his grip can be when his hostility pulls in whichever direction he pleases.

  I spin around and fall back onto a couch. Nikolai swallows down the rest of his drink and sits beside me. He is in a mood; that’s for sure. I ready myself for his quiet lecture and cold, deadly stare down. The sight doesn’t terrify me anymore. I know what he is capable of, but I also know what he is not capable of, and I don’t think he will harm me. He seems too concerned where my life is concerned.

  “When you want to know details of our plan, make sure no one is in earshot. That’s lesson one. Next, until this is done, you will assume the role of Amelia Night. I have told you this already. You have established her as a classy, sophisticated woman, not some trashy,
low-rent cop.” He’s flustered, and I am slightly insulted by his comment. “Get your head on straight. You never know who’s watching us. That should be apparent from this morning’s rush out of Vegas.” He roughly sets his Martini glass on the coffee table in front of us and rips me to pieces with his frigid glare. “Got it?”

  I nod and pull the bottle of water to my lips. I understand where he is coming from, but I assumed we are safe here. I didn’t think it was until we are in Russia that I would have to be Amelia Night, but I guess Nikolai is never really Nikolai when he is out in public. He is always his alter ego, Vincent Black. I guess there is still a lot for me to learn.

  We sit in silence for the next hour. Nikolai looks off in the distance, his eyes searching. I can only wonder what kind of thoughts are running through his head. If they are anything like mine, they are trying to predict the future and wondering if we will make it out of Russia alive.

  It’s nearing time for us to board, so I take the opportunity to use the bathroom. Standing in front of the sink, washing my hands, I look at myself again in the mirror. He is right. I don’t look like the woman he described I should be. Until we are done with this quest, my public persona can only be Amelia Night. If I look like anyone right now, it’s the old Josslyn, the one who is detached from reality and will stop at nothing to get her man. However, the man I need to capture is outside this door.

  In the end, I will have him in handcuffs because that is what I need to do. That will be my final mission as I follow him on this journey of murder. If I want to assume my old life after Stravinsky is dead, then I need to remember that.

  .*.*.*.

  August 15, 2015 4:08 p.m.

  The pain is immense.

  If I pull myself in a tight ball on the floor, it’s still there. The pain feels like I am burning from the inside out. My skin is slick from the warm shower, but the burning is scorching compared to the temperature of the water. I want the icy, bloodless numbing to return.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and whisper to the air, “Take me away. Please, just take me away.”

  I want the dark curtain to cloak me again. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to feel the pain and weight and screams and dying. I just want it to be taken away.

  The heaviness of his body holds me down. My limbs won’t work. His hands are bricks on my shoulders. Every breath I inhale, his salty smell surrounds me. I need to wash. I must get it off my skin, but the weight is too much, pinning my arms to my sides.

  “Josslyn.”

  My eyes snap open as reality floats back in.

  Nikolai’s eyes are wide with alarm. “You were dreaming.”

  I pull my feet from the seat across from me and wrap my arms around my frame. I am covered in a sheen of sweat and can feel how ridiculous this must look to someone like Nikolai.

  I get up from the seat and walk to the small bathroom located at the rear of the plane. When the door closes, I shake my head, trying to stop the visions from that night.

  They still haunt me. The days following the attack were just as brutal as the event itself. I had to live with the pain Boris inflicted on my body, but it’s the screams and the weight of it all that continues to stay with me.

  The water is ice cold when I cup my hands under the faucet and pool the liquid in them. It feels refreshing across my cheeks, washing away the burning heat and thrusting the images back behind the locked door where I store them.

  As the visions wash down with the water, I wonder if I will always feel the excruciating pain from that night. Will I continue to be awakened by the horrors and screams, only to be forced to tuck them away as I’ve done for all these years? Or will the journey to kill Stravinsky finally lay it all to rest?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Nikolai

  August 16, 2015 4:24 a.m.

  The plane taxied to a stop thirty minutes ago. We arrived in Zurich right on time and with little turbulence.

  As soon as she exited the plane, Josslyn grabbed her bag and my garment bag then went into the bathroom. She has spoken little to me this entire trip, and I am happy and annoyed at the same time. Although her incessant questions drive me crazy, it also bothers me that she isn’t worried about what is going to happen. Is she not prepared for what lies ahead? Or is this how she gets herself fully invested in a dangerous situation? Does she withdraw herself to think about the inevitable? Not being able to see inside her head is maddening to me. I am left wondering how she is coping with all this world of madness I have invited her into.

  I was glad she slept during flight and wished I had slept more than a couple of hours. However, I find it hard to relax on an airplane. Besides, with my life hanging in the balance, I doubt I will sleep much until this is said and done. I am best as a jagged blade anyway.

  Josslyn walks from the bathroom, unhooking my garment bag from her shoulder as she motions for a staff member to take it from her. Then she connects her sights on me.

  The world around me stops as she strides toward me with the confidence of Amelia Night. Time halts. The constant bustling from the airline staff becomes nonexistent. Sound ceases.

  Her shoulders are rolled back as she walks with the ease of a super model on a runway. Josslyn has transformed into a different woman. Gone is her tousled bun and street clothes. She has covered her taut body in a sleeveless black jumper. Her long, tan legs are exposed, showing how lean and fit she is. The four-inch heels from last night are fastened to her feet, giving her the perfect high-class look Amelia would have. She has tucked her golden hair in a tight bun behind her head. The fresh application of makeup lights up her face, and her lavender fragrance dances through the air.

  The corner of my mouth turns up the closer she strides in my direction. She looks breathtaking. The desire to slam her up against a wall and fuck her is consuming all of my thoughts.

  Swallowing down the unrelenting lust for her, I extend my elbow and nod my head, silently approving of her transformation. We walk from the hangar and out to a waiting car where I wave away the driver who is standing next to the back door, opening it for the goddess latched on to my arm.

  Pulling the door open, I grab Josslyn’s hand and usher her in front of me. She leans in close, her chest grazing mine as she presses her lips to my cheek. Her clean, lavender scent infiltrates my senses as the warmth from our skin lights a fiery heat straight to my core.

  “Thank you, Vincent,” she says as she pulls back and looks straight into my eyes.

  She is finally understanding her role and how she needs to act in public, playing the part of the smart, classy woman I know she can be instead of drawing attention to ourselves.

  She gives me a subtle wink then gets into the car.

  “My pleasure, my dear,” I reply with a deep, almost breathless tone. I find my words surprisingly honest as they escape my lips. No acting required.

  The one thing this woman continues to do is surprise me at every turn, whether it is good, horrible, or indifferent. If I were a lesser assassin, I would show her just how much she can shock me by forever assuming this character and continuing my life not as Nikolai Petrov, but Vincent Black.

  I fall into the car, and then we move out of the parking lot toward our next destination. Dawn will be breaking soon, and the sun will shine on the horizon as we move from the peaceful community of Zurich and into the worst Russia can offer—Chechnya.

  .*.*.*.

  August 18, 2015 8:17 a.m.

  We have been riding the train to Moscow for two days now, but in a few hours, we will finally reach our destination.

  We had some time to kill before our train was to depart and Josslyn needed to finish securing items for her act. We went to a luggage store and purchased a wheeled carry-on suitcase and a small matching garment bag. Finally, I got her a briefcase of her own. But, instead of all the trinkets I hold in mine, hers is filled with fake documents and other business-related items.

  Her identity is simple. She is a woman traveling to Moscow and Chechnya on business.
She will wear her suit and present herself with the sophistication and intelligence of a smart, corporate woman. If anyone were to ask her what she does for a living, she will be a consultant for a world-renowned hotel chain. This is the identity we have been working on for the last two days, and I would say she has it down.

  She has become very good at being someone she’s not, and if I didn’t know better, I would swear she’s really Amelia at times. However, when we are in the privacy of our secluded sleeper coach, we break character and go over the plan. Again and again, we recite the crucial details to ensure it will go off smoothly.

  Going to Chechnya will be a dangerous mission. I have no problem blending in with my surroundings and adapting myself to dire situations, but this is where my skills as an underground killer will be tested. Josslyn will be my weak link.

  The human trade in Chechnya is becoming a booming business, and many criminals are willing to kidnap and sell to the highest bidder. Her American heritage and drop-dead beauty will surely flag her if she is seen by the wrong people. I don’t think this has fully set in yet, but she will see it for herself when we pass the border.

  Josslyn steps out of the tiny bathroom, dressed for the day, and sits on the bunk beside me. Her arm grazes mine as the railcar teeters slightly and jostles us to the right.

  I turn my eyes to hers, logging them into memory as a sickening feeling hits my gut. So much is and will be happening in the not so distant future, and moments like this will cease to exist once we step off this train.

  My nerves are starting to fray. I not only have to keep Josslyn and myself alive, but then I have to manage to convince Cubby to agree to meet with me. Normally, I would be amped up for this kind of assignment, but there is so much more at stake here. If she fails, we fail, and Stravinsky is gone. However, if we are pinned down and there is a choice between her and me, it will be my life I’m saving, not hers. That’s what I keep reminding myself—that she’s a mere pawn in all of this—yet the very notion riddles my conscience with immense guilt.