Stone Cold Angel (The Perfect Order Book 2)

by Amy Deason

  Oh Lord, this was not good.

  “Open your eyes,” a soft voice demanded, the words garbled with the thickness of a Russian accent.

  Blinking against the light, Phillip did as he was told. Two men stood before him, dressed in black from head to toe. The man on the left was tall and lean with a short crop of bleach-blond hair. With his faded blue eyes, slim nose, and full mouth, he could have been a fashion model, straight out of a magazine often frequenting just about every grocery store. He looked totally out of place in this cold, damp room but his partner fit in here perfectly.

  Shorter by at least three inches, he was stout and had a beefy face which had obviously been plagued by a raging case of acne. Brown, shaggy hair tumbled over his forehead, stopping just above his eyes. It was the eyes which drove an icy fist into Phillip’s stomach. Black and menacing, he could feel the violence in them. They were the eyes of the devil.

  “Where is it?” the blond asked, taking a step toward him.

  “I . . .” Phillip croaked. His tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. God, he could use a drink right now. But it was unlikely he would get it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he managed to say, his voice no more than a rough whisper.

  The could-be fashion model spun around, throwing his hands into the air and cursed loudly in Russian.

  Ignoring his partner’s expressive tirade, the brown-haired brute leaned in. “We know you have it. Now we want to know where it is. We have wasted too much time with you.” His bushy eyebrows drew down in anger. “Give it to us and we might let you live.” The gravelly words were nearly unrecognizable in the horrible English he spoke.

  Phillip knew the lie when he heard it. He wasn’t stupid. It would be simpler, easier, to give them what they wanted. But even if he did, they would never let him live. It appeared he had a very important decision to make. He could give them what they wanted and die or he could continue to withhold the information and die. Either way, he was a dead man. The only difference was what he did while he was still alive. There was only one choice.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeated, his voice strengthened by his resolve to do the right thing.

  If I have to die, at least I can do it with a clear conscience.

  “Okay,” his tall captor said, shrugging his shoulders carelessly. Reaching behind him, he withdrew a black pistol and stepped up to the chair. Without pause, he aimed and pulled the trigger.

  The blast was deafening in the small, windowless room but Phillip barely noticed the noise as the bullet tore through his right kneecap. He screamed in pain and shock, his anguish bouncing from wall to wall as blood poured from his shattered leg onto the dirty concrete floor. The blond aimed again, this time for the other knee but was stopped by his partner.

  “Niet, Sergei.”

  “Okay, Ivan, okay.” Sergei threw his hands up in surrender. “You deal with him.” He turned and walked toward the large mirror set into the far wall, stashing his gun into a holster at his back.

  “Now,” Ivan growled, leaning close to Phillip, “tell me what we want to know. You see, I am not as nice as my friend here.” His breath was warm and fetid, reminding Phillip of an overripe landfill.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, Phillip spit into Ivan’s face and watched the pink-tinged saliva slide over the ancient pits and scars. It hung precariously on his chin before dropping to the floor.

  Stepping back, his captor wiped his face with the back of his hand. “All right, if this is the way you want it . . .” His voice shook with controlled anger but he wore a tight smile, transforming his face into something far uglier than it was. Reaching into his pants pocket, he removed a pair of brass knuckles and slipped them over his thick, stubby fingers.

  Phillip didn’t have time to think before the metal slammed into his face. Blood, as well as a few teeth, flew from his mouth in a hot gush. The pain was enormous, nearly blotting everything else out. He wished it had. His head snapped to the side violently and the blood ran down his chin. Dazed, he rolled his head forward. Through half-lidded eyes, Phillip understood this was the end for him. He would never get out of here alive.

  Sergei, standing with his back against the mirror, watched in apparent boredom as his partner swung his fist again.

  This time the metal connected with Phillip’s side and he simultaneously heard and felt the snaps echoing within his body. The pain took his breath away and he was not even able to cry out. Over and over, Ivan’s fist connected. His face, his stomach, his chest. No area was safe as wave after wave of agony crashed through him, each one more powerful than the last.

  It felt like an eternity before his consciousness began to fade, taking the pain with it. The darkness was closing in again but he knew this time, it would be for good. Dimly, he hoped Cadence would understand and forgive him.

  “. . . daughter . . .”

  Lifting his head, Phillip opened his mouth and tried to threaten them to leave his daughter alone but what came out was nothing more than a wet, bubbly gasp. Still, the men noticed his movements and Ivan’s acne-scarred face swam into view.

  “That’s right, Mr. Montgomery. We go after your daughter next. But don’t worry about your little girl. We’ll take good care of her, won’t we, Sergei?”

  From across the room, Sergei’s laughter was soft and crude and Phillip felt fear and anger shoot through him like never before.

  It can’t be true! They would never be able to get to her. And she would never come here looking for me.

  Except he knew she would. His brave, strong-willed, darling girl. She would come looking for him long after everyone else had given up. But there was nothing more he could do. The damage to his body was too much for him to handle. Everything was fading away.

  In the last few minutes of his life, Phillip thought of his family. He remembered his wife and the way she was before she died. Her beautiful smile, her soft laughter, her gentle touch. And Cadence. Their miracle baby. She was truly a blessing, his sweet, caring, musical child. With a stab of pain that registered far deeper than the knife being plunged and twisted into his lungs, he acknowledged he would never get to see her again.

  Please forgive me, he begged silently as the blood poured from him in a flood. And God help us all . . .

  Chapter 2

  The exterior of the hotel was ascetic, its tan façade resembling an enormous mansion peppered with windows. The plainness was deceptive as to what it held within its walls and as Cadence stepped through the double doors, she was completely unprepared for the grandness waiting inside.

  Stupefied, she gawked at the expansive lobby, her grainy eyes darting everywhere at once as her mind tried to absorb what she was seeing. Wide, open archways protruded from the crisp, lemon-yellow walls decorated with framed art. A hint of fresh wax radiated from the immaculate hardwood floors and gleaming cherry wood tables closed in on plush, velvet chairs and settees. Miniature potted trees, unusual in both shape and design, flanked the shining elevators. To her left, a flight of stairs climbed heavenward, each step carved from coffee-hued marble and the accompanying balustrade was a vision of ornately designed wrought iron.

  Shaking herself from studying the complex patterns of the long drapes, Cadence dragged her meager luggage to the circular desk to check in. There would be plenty of time to explore the hotel while she was here. She didn’t need to do it all in the next few minutes. Besides, right now the jet lag was severely kicking her ass. All she wanted to do was go up to her room and sleep for a few hours before she got down to some serious searching.

  And eating, her stomach reminded her.

  Taking the room key from the clerk, she jostled her bags into the elevator and was secured inside her fourth-floor room in a matter of minutes. Not as grand as the lobby, it managed to capture the eye with but
tercup-colored walls, gleaming oak floors, and snowy-white curtains framing an immense plate-glass window. Dropping her bags near the door, she bent over and pulled off her boots and socks, letting them lay where they fell.

  With bare feet, she padded across the room, the cool wood absolutely delicious underneath her toes. She stripped off layers of clothes as she went, tossing the abandoned items over a posh ivory chair and immediately decided against a shower. Normally, she liked to be clean before crawling into a freshly made bed but for once she was just too damn tired. As soon as she’d laid eyes on the queen-sized, it had been over. Her body ached for the comforting mattress and her eyes screamed for sleep. Even her stomach, which had complained so loudly before, was now subdued under the immense weight of her exhaustion.

  Barely glancing at the spectacular view beyond her window, she drew the drapes closed, blocking out the early morning sunlight and turned back toward the bed with a sigh. Wearing nothing but a T-shirt and panties, she drew the fluffy comforter back and slipped between the cool cotton sheets. Closing her eyes, she was asleep in seconds.

  She hadn’t been out long when the shrieking sliced through her unconscious brain, yanking her from a deep, dreamless sleep. Even disoriented, it didn’t take her long to recognize the cry of a fire alarm and the sharp, acrid smell of smoke. Leaping from the bed, eyes wide and fear burning away the remains of the jet lag, her feet had barely touched the floor when the door to her room was nearly torn from the hinges. Two men, one short with brown hair and penetrating eyes and the other, tall, blond, and movie-star handsome, charged through the doorway, thick black smoke rolling in behind them. In her sleep-deprived state, she initially assumed they were there to help her. She’d closed half the distance between them before spotting the guns pointing directly at her.

  Shocked, her vocal cords froze and she stopped in her tracks. Her mind sputtered, trying to make sense of what was happening right now. She was alone in a foreign country with two armed men obviously intent on doing her harm, and she was trapped in a hotel currently on fire. It was like something out of a movie. But this was no movie and she was no actress.

  Run, her brain screamed, breaking through the abject numbness which had taken over her body. She didn’t stop to consider where she was supposed to be running to or even the practicality of the order. She just heard and obeyed. Turning, she darted toward the window hidden behind the thick curtains, praying for a fire escape while expecting to feel a bullet lodge in her back at any moment.

  What she felt was not a bullet but strong, vise-like arms encircling her waist. She reached out and grabbed the curtains, her fingers digging into the lacy material. Holding on for dear life, Cadence felt several of her fingernails tear as she was ripped away from the window.

  As she was being swung around to the center of the room, her vocal cords defrosted and she screamed, praying someone would hear her over the roar of the flames coming from the hallway. Still screeching, she twisted and turned in the iron grip. She kicked out with bare feet and reached up, trying to dig her nails into the face behind her. If she was lucky, she might be able to leave him with a scar he would never forget. And if she was really lucky, she might be able to blind him. Turned out, she was neither.

  The second man, the shorter of the two, stepped up and backhanded her. The pain of his knuckles striking her cheek tore the scream from her lips, leaving her stunned. Bright stars bloomed in front of her eyes like strange, luminous flowers and she blinked, trying to regain her senses. Before she could even mutter the curse word forming on her lips, Mr.-Psycho-Movie-Star tossed her onto the bed and quickly wrapped the comforter around her, pulling the edges tight. The thick material which before had been so soft and welcoming before now threatened to suffocate her. Lifted into the air, she could only assume she was going to be carried from the hotel. Panic gave way to absolute terror.

  With her arms glued to her sides inside the damnable blanket, she was at her captor’s mercy and she prayed he wouldn’t decide to suddenly drop her, letting her burn. She tried to cry out but the fabric pressed firmly against her face, allowing her only minimal room to breathe. And within the muffled space, she could smell the smoke and hear the angry crackle of flames. But even worse were the screams. She could hear people crying out for help as she was bouncing helplessly over the man’s shoulder.

  Time seemed to stand still but at last fresh air tried to penetrate the blanket she was encased in. Greedily, she gulped at it, not caring that the material was being sucked into her mouth. In the distance, she could hear the sound of sirens, and for a moment, she felt hopeful. Someone would surely see what was happening. Wouldn’t it be strange for two men, one carrying a bundle over his shoulder, to be exiting a burning building?

  Without warning, she was dropped.

  Landing hard, she managed to work her arms and head free just in time to see a thin slice of daylight before the trunk lid slammed shut, encasing her in darkness. Unraveling herself from the heavy comforter, she screamed and kicked against the lid.

  Please, dear God, please let someone hear me . . .

  The vehicle began to move and all hope died. It was too late. No one would find her now. They were speeding away from the fire and from any chance of help. Tossed around inside the trunk, her head and body slammed against the interior, sending needles of pain through her. She continued to scream but not for long. It wasn’t doing any good. There was no one to hear her. Ordering herself to get a grip, she took several deep breaths. She needed to think. She had no idea where these men were taking her but wherever it was, she needed to be as prepared to make an escape if she got the chance.

  Getting control of herself, she searched blindly in the darkness, feeling around for anything that could be used as a weapon. Her fingers skittered across the trunk floor, the rough carpet fibers tugging at her broken fingernails, and finding nothing. Whimpering softly, she moved her hands faster, desperate to find something, anything that could help her and she nearly missed a cylindrical piece of metal.

  What was it?

  Her mind immediately offered up a name.

  A tire iron.

  Seizing it against her body, she gripped it tightly and thanked God for the slim, metal bar. She wasn’t a violent person by nature in most cases but this was not most cases. Her life was on the line and given the chance, she would swing that baby like there was no tomorrow. Because if she didn’t, there might not be one.

  ~ ~ ~

  He felt no sudden surge of love or loyalty for Russia as the plane touched the ground. In fact, Nikolas didn’t feel much of anything at all. He was here, in the country where he was born and he felt absolutely nothing, no sense of peace or affectionate ties to Mother Russia. This would never be his home and the last thing he needed was a mother. He’d had one of those once and it hadn’t worked out.

  Being a single mother to a twelve-year-old boy must have been hard, he had to give Anya Balakin that. But to turn her only son out onto the streets and force him to earn money to support them and her growing drug habit had been worse than hard. It had been abominable. Aleksander, as he’d been known then, started off by stealing. Food, money, anything to get them by. But when it wasn’t enough, he’d found other ways to make money. He had been a good-looking boy, some might say beautiful, and it was a look which appealed to many people, women and men alike.

  He still remembered the first time a man approached him.

  Like he could ever forget.

  Only fourteen at the time, he’d been repulsed, scared, offended. Striking out, he’d bloodied the man’s nose. But as his mother’s drug habits increased, it became harder and harder to turn down the massive amounts of money they offered. Worn down and desperate for food, he’d finally accepted.

  Walter Kirshin, a U.S. tourist, had been in his late forties, overweight, and with a bad comb over. He smelled of cheap whiskey and mothballs.
Whisking them to a rundown motel on the edge of St. Petersburg, Walter had plied him with increasing amounts alcohol before ordering him to remove his clothes . . .

  Stumbling out of the motel hours later, Aleksander had never felt so dirty and disgusted in his young life. With tears streaming down his face, he stood on the Palace Bridge, staring into the freezing waters of the Neva River. One little step was all it would have taken to end the shame. One little step. But he hadn’t taken it and the money had bought him and his mother food for an entire month.

  It was then he first learned how not to feel. To be able to completely disengage himself from everything, including sex. He’d learned how to control his body’s functions and was able to perform no matter the circumstances. Sex became nothing more than an act to get what he needed and the more he learned to do, the greater the rewards. With women, it was a pleasant experience, with men, it was not. But both put food on the table and drugs in his mother’s veins.

  When his mother finally overdosed a year and a half later, he was left completely alone but it was nothing he hadn’t been used to. He didn’t need anyone but the customers that bought and paid for his highly attentive services. He could have stopped working the streets but he wasn’t old enough for a real job and he’d grown accustomed to the copious amount of money he was making every night.

  But living a life like that eventually led to trouble. When a frequent customer grew too attached, Aleksander attempted to extricate himself from the situation. However, the client, the only son of a well-known and highly regarded political figure, had other ideas. In the end, the blond-haired, blue-eyed man lay dead, and Aleksander was being carted off by the authorities. Bound for death at age sixteen, he had no one to turn to.