Madness (Revenge Series Book 3)

by M. S. Brannon

Another card I hope to play is Cubby. I haven’t seen him in many years, and I don’t know how he will react to me. Last he knew, I was still the loyal dog to Stravinsky and would do anything and everything he requested, completely brainwashed. You would think no other man existed.

  How he left didn’t put me in the highest regard in his eyes. I despised him when he chose to abandon the thieves, probably because he was the closest thing I had to a brother after Roman left.

  I was never bitter when Roman wanted out. It was clear the thieves’ lifestyle was never for him. But Cubby … Being an assassin is written in his DNA. There is nothing this man could do to change that, like me.

  If or when I walk away from this alive, I won’t stop my lifestyle. I will just become an opportunist instead of a slave to the code. I will create and live by the only code that will matter—my code. Part of me hopes Cubby will be there right beside me; blood in, blood out. We would make a pretty wicked duo if we were ever given the chance.

  My car rolls into Grozny nearly a day after I left Moscow. The drive was long, but I’m not weary; I’m awake and ready to find Cubby and get the ball moving.

  I assume Josslyn has made it safely to the city. She was told to check into Hotel Grozny, located in the heart of the booming city, and wait for my call.

  On the trip, I decided I would call her once I figured out what I was going to do with Cubby. I didn’t want to concern her in regards to how I will deal with Cubby. She doesn’t know my stress surrounding our reunion.

  It will go one of two ways: either we will shake hands like old brothers, or we will kill each other to stay alive. I couldn’t have Josslyn worried about this.

  When I spoke with Aya, she mentioned Cubby is twenty meters outside the city in the small village of Alkhan Yurt, which is a thirty-minute drive south. Cubby will either be at the local tavern or locked away in his house. He wasn’t one for hanging out in public unless it involved vodka. Right now, I’m hoping my gut is still right.

  .*.*.*.

  August 20, 2015 11:57 p.m.

  The dirt roads are as black as the sky when I finally make it into Alkhan Yurt. During the trip, I spent my time deciding how I was going to approach Cubby.

  I turn down a secluded road and veer off to the side of the street, finding the perfect alcove to back my car into. Then I wait, watching the first tavern I see and probably the only one that exists in this small place.

  I shut the engine off the settle myself into the seat, leaning my head back and thinking of the last mission Cubby and I were sent on. He was on his game that night as we snuck into a known Cuban drug lord’s house. The Cuban skimped us on payment for the whores we gave him, and when payment was asked for again by Stravinsky, the Cuban insulted him and refused to pay. Two days later, enter Cubby and me. The mission was simple: we were to fly into the country and sneak onto his property undetected.

  For the average man, this would be an impossible task. Men toting machine guns surrounded the compound, and surveillance cameras mounted in every possible location. It was located on a mountain deep in the jungles of Cuba. We had to travel the rough terrain at night without the use of modern technology for the most part just to get near this place.

  Cubby and I planned during the entire trip there. We rented a Jeep and found a local man to take us to the outskirts of the jungle. After that, we had to rely on an old map and the word of an old man to get us there unseen. It was an unforgettable trip; the first time we had to hike through God knows what kind of dangerous wildlife and climb a mountain by foot. However, we managed.

  Once we were on the outskirts of the compound, Cubby and I switched into assassin mode. We stormed the fort, guns blazing, wielding knives as we killed man after man. Then, when the Cuban came into view, Cubby held him down while I took his head.

  The door to the bar opens, snapping me from the past and slamming me into the present. I notice a man who is sitting belly up at the bar. Is that …? Could it be …? Cubby?

  I step from my car and lock it behind me. There is only one way to find out if that is Cubby in the bar. However, I don’t want to go in through the front. I want to remain unseen. If it is him, I need a slow approach. If I ambush him, it may trigger the fight or flight reaction.

  I walk coolly across the street, moving at a steady pace until I am outside the front door. Then I move around the structure, looking for an alternate way in. As my luck would have it, there is a door located in the back.

  I pull my gun out of my jacket and unclick the safety, needing to be ready for anything. Then I crack my knuckles and roll my neck from side to side.

  When I pull the door open, the rusty hinges squeak as I cross the threshold. The smell of dirt and stale beer infiltrates my nostrils. The back room is dark, the only muted light presumably coming from the seating area.

  I take slow, calculated step as I ready myself for anything. My entire being is hard and ready for a fight as I finally reach the open room where old wooden tables and chairs are scattered. My feet slip slightly on the wooden floor as I walk slowly to the corner table and examine the place.

  The bar is a straight line from my position, and only three other people are drowning their lives in alcohol here. One is the old man who just walked in. The second is the man standing behind the bar, staring at the newspaper—the bartender I assume. The last man is the one I came to see—Cubby. There is no doubt in my mind it’s him. I would recognize his hulking frame anywhere. I can’t see his face, but he still sits the same way he used to whenever he was bellied up to the bar—hunched forward, looking down while holding his glass of vodka.

  From the way his muscles stretch across his shoulders and back, I can see he has kept himself in impeccable shape.

  I take the opportunity to sit in a chair and observe the scene. My leather-clad hands are sweating, so I decide to remove the gloves and place them on the table.

  I keep scanning the room as I look for alternate exits and possible areas for men to be hiding. Aside from the back hallway I came from, there isn’t much to the space. There is an old box television mounted on the wall. The volume is muted as it replays news on the screen. The bar stretches across the width of the room with bottles piled behind the counter. The other patrons and the barkeep have yet to notice me sitting in the corner.

  I think to the future and how crucial Cubby may be in it. Victor Zaretski sent me here. Why, I’m still unsure, but there has to be a reason. Victor is a crazy man, but I don’t see him initiating a ruse. He has always spoken in code, and he has always had a purpose for what he says. You just need to pick up on it enough to recognize it.

  Now is as good a time as any. I stand from the corner and proceed to walk toward Cubby. The bartender’s eyes rise as he looks at me. He immediately scans me, and when his gaze lands on my hands, he sees the tattoos inked across my fingers. The bartender freezes. His eyes are in a panic, but he does nothing. He only stands taller and presses his back to the wall behind the bar, causing the glass bottles to rattle.

  “I could smell you from a mile away.”

  Cubby’s deep voice snaps my eyes from the old bartender and to his back. His tone sounds the same: deep, cold, and laced with a touch of rage. Perfect.

  “How’ve you been, old friend?” I reply, keeping my distance.

  Cubby huffs in response and picks up his glass. He chugs the remainder of the clear liquid then sets the glass firmly on the bar top. His jaw grinds when he crunches the stray ice cubes in his mouth before he finally turns around.

  I can’t help smirking when my eyes connect with his. He hasn’t changed a bit. Cubby’s face is still as hard as ever with tar-pit black eyes and a glare so fierce it would make a lesser man piss his pants.

  The stool creaks as he rises and stands five inches over me. Cubby is a hulking man at six-foot-seven-inches, built like an athlete with large, lean muscles and a punch that rivals any heavyweight. He is mean, fast, and most of all … deadly.

  Just as the thought crosses my brain
, Cubby sweeps his leg forward and drops me on my ass. My tailbone cracks against the dirty floor, but before I have a second to feel the pain, I roll to the side to bypass Cubby’s size-fourteen foot connecting with my gut. I pop up to my feet and slam my fist into his gut before I get fully up.

  Cubby groans, swinging his giant mitt. His knuckles collide with the side of my face, and pain explodes throughout my head. My sense is jarred, but I keep myself together enough to duck away from the other fist before it slams into my gut again.

  Cubby doesn’t wait a second before he charges me. I am lifted, squeezed like a tomato in a vice grip. His hold is strong, cutting off the air in my lungs. He’s been training, which is a good thing for me if I can get him to listen to my reason for being here. The unrelenting grip around my midsection tells me Cubby is in no mood to talk.

  I use a desperate move, wrenching my leg back and kneeing him in the balls. His frame withers at the knees, bringing me down to the floor.

  When Cubby lets go, I am pushed with such force I fall over a table, landing with a hard thud, sliding back over the other side.

  Anger skyrockets through my veins. I tap into the rage exploding through me like a damn volcano and climb to my feet. I am weary, but I will be damned if I let Cubby get the best of me.

  He is still trying to recoup from the knee to his groin, so I take the opportunity to remind him whom he is fucking with. I stride over to him and lift my foot before slamming it into his face. Cubby falls back, blood running from his nose, and his breath dwindles down to nothing.

  I then yank my Bowie knife from the depths of my suit jacket and pull it from the sheath. Cubby knows all too well how fond I am of my knife. He has seen me use it on several occasions when we would both walk away covered in blood. The Cuban was just one of many beheaded at Stravinsky’s behest.

  I stand over him, my feet on either side of his shoulders as I lean down and press the serrated edge to his throat. My breaths are ragged, adrenaline still surging through me like a fucking violent ocean. I press the blade harder into his neck and watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, anticipating his fate.

  “You know it didn’t have to be this way,” I say as I lean closer to his face, my eyes ripping him to shreds.

  “I knew you’d come for me eventually, so let’s get this over with.” Cubby lifts his neck off the floor, willingly pushing his flesh into my razor sharp edge.

  I look him over curiously. Why is he so willing to die? What has happened to him to warrant this plea? Cubby was never like this. He was strong and would fight at all cost. He’s not the type of man who would just give up and die.

  “What are you waiting for?” His voice elevates in anger. “Saw it off and give your master his bone, dog!”

  Then it occurs to me. Cubby has no idea what has happened in the last eight years. He has no idea what Stravinsky has done to me, that I am now a wanted man, more so than him.

  I release the pressure on the blade and stand upright. When I step around him, Cubby sits himself up; seemingly mad I didn’t kill him.

  “Just do it already!” he commands as he stalks his way over to me. He leans in, daring me to take the fatal blow.

  “I’m not here to kill you, old friend.” I tuck my knife back in my jacket and look around for the nearest chair to collapse in. My knees buckle when all the pain surfaces as the adrenaline washes away. “I’m here to recruit you.”

  Cubby’s face wrinkles in confusion. Slowly, he walks over to the dismantled, tipped over table and sets it upright. He pulls a chair over and plops his large frame down. I follow suit, sitting in the chair across from him, looking back at him in relief, knowing I have my old friend back. I could really use his expertise right now.

  “What do you mean recruit me, Nikolai?” His deep voice lowers as he processes the last five minutes.

  I look up at the ceiling, searching for the best starting point. So much has happened in the last month, but that really isn’t the beginning. It started five years before that and has been living wildly in my mind all this time. Do I tell him about Josslyn? Can I trust him with that little bit of information? Will he betray me in the end?

  So many questions circle my brain. I’m scrambling to find the best one to start with. I scan the bar, looking for the bartender and the other man who sat next to Cubby. They are both gone. However, I don’t feel safe talking here. I need to know exactly what is around me before I start divulging my secrets.

  I stand and motion for Cubby to follow me. He doesn’t hesitate, and we walk from the bar and out to my car parked in the shadows. We fall inside where I feel comfortable enough to start talking to him.

  Releasing a deep breath, I begin, “Victor sent me.”

  “Victor?” He looks out the windshield for a moment and then realizes which Victor I’m referring to and asks, “What the hell does he want?”

  Cubby wasn’t a huge fan of Victor back in the day. When he was present, Cubby would do what he could to be dismissed. Victor is a sadistic son of a bitch, and towards the end, he was a loose cannon. No one felt comfortable working around him, but Cubby especially hated it.

  “Let me start from the beginning.” I expel another deep breath and start recapping my life since the time we spoke. “Eight years ago, I was sent on a job. Stravinsky said he needed me to infiltrate a prison in Moscow and take out the second in command from the rival outfit. We had been following them for some time, so I didn’t think anything of it. And you know me … I would have walked through fire for that man.”

  Cubby nods his head in agreement, knowing he felt the same way at one point in his life.

  “Three years into my stint, I was waiting for my escape when another prisoner jumped me. I was stabbed several times and almost died in prison. Well, it was divulged to me that Stravinsky was behind my attempted assassination.”

  “Whoa …” is all he can say since Stravinsky only showed pride in me.

  I nod. “Yeah, and at the time, I didn’t know why he wanted me dead, but I didn’t care. He was dead in my eyes. I paid heavily to have the guards conceal my recovery and report I had died in prison. I spent the next five years plotting my revenge as I finished my sentence.” I clutch my fists and dig my fingernails into my flesh. The pure hatred for that man still burns as wildly as it did then. I swallow down the influx of rage and continue, “Anyway, I ended up tracking him to the West Coast of the States, up in Blythe Harbor, or at least, I thought he was there, but what I found was way worse than what he’d done to me.”

  “What happened?” Cubby’s face looks curious yet filled with remorse, the expression of a truly concerned ally.

  I turn to him and feel the hurt of the next words. “He had Roman killed.”

  Cubby’s jaw drops wide open as his eyes widen with shock. I didn’t tell a soul what I really did with Roman when I helped him and Mary escape the thieves’ clutches.

  “How …? I mean … I thought he died long before that… on the job.”

  “He wanted out, so I helped him escape, knowing I’d never see him again. The worst part is, Stravinsky killed his entire family … his wife, son … my daughter.” The agony mixes with fury, causing me to sweat, and emotions rapidly surge through my veins.

  “Daughter …? You had a kid?”

  The only family to which a thief is loyal is the men by our sides—our fellow thieves, our brothers. Creating a flesh and blood family is in direct violation of our code, and when all you ever want to do is belong you’d do anything to make it happen.

  Once the shock of my daughter’s murder set in, I felt this sense of loss. However, I only really allowed myself to feel it in this very moment. The weight of it rests heavily on my shoulders. I’m not sure if this feeling is regret for dismissing her or never getting the chance to hold her, but there is an emptiness residing deep inside me, nonetheless. There’s nothing I can do about it now, though. She’s gone, and what’s done is done. I will never be able change that, and I never wanted to be a fat
her, so maybe it’s for the best.

  “When Roman escaped, the woman I was seeing was pregnant. Roman vowed to care for them, and he did. They married and began a family of their own.”

  “But why …? Why would Stravinsky even pursue that?”

  “He found out the truth, and my betrayal was greater than anything I’d ever done for him, so he sent Boris and another man to take care of it.”

  “Boris?” Cubby is astonished once again because of his familiarity with Boris’s style of killing.

  I nod my head, knowing I don’t need to elaborate. If it ever involved a female, he was there to destroy them before he took their life. He made sure they would suffer intimately before they were killed.

  “While I was in Blythe Harbor, I tracked down Boris and killed him.”

  “Did you make him suffer?” Cubby seethes through clenched teeth.

  “You know I did, brother.” I removed his eyes balls after stabbing him with my Bowie knife and watched him bleed out slowly, painfully. It was my best kill yet. “However, that attracted the police, and a particular one at that.”

  “Pain in the ass.” He shakes his head. “Did you take care of him?”

  “Her,” I enlighten. “And no, I almost did, but then I found out she is the missing link to getting close to Stravinsky. If anyone can get us near him, it’s her.”

  “How so?”

  “The night I was initiated into the thieves back when I was nineteen, I helped Stravinsky, Vlad, and Boris on a job. The one with the cop in Brooklyn; do you remember?”

  “Oh, yes. That was talked about for years, brother.”

  “Exactly. While Stravinsky and I were handling the cop, Boris and Vlad were doing what they do with the women. But one of them was a young girl …”

  “The cop?”

  “Yes, and she is the sole, living, breathing witness to the murder. If he knows she survived that night, then his freedom is in jeopardy. This is my bargaining tool. If I can get her to him, I will be within inches of him. I will be close enough to kill him, and my revenge for my family’s murder will finally be avenged.”