He hadn’t pressured her for sex. Though, physically, she was obviously able to go to bed with him if she was able to dance. She hadn’t made any moves in that direction. Her own libido seemed to have died on the bottom of the lake. She simply couldn’t welcome her husband into her body. She didn’t trust him. His very actions were proving that she couldn’t trust him. She was to be locked in a hotel room while he…
His body filled her vision as he stepped in front of the window. Her eyes wandered up, taking in the superb cut of his suit. She had watched the placement of each of his weapons with mounting fear for his safety. What if he didn’t come back? He had said to her, in his business, it was kill or be killed. What if today was that day?
“I will be back, Natasha,” he said in a deep voice, as though reading her thoughts.
She nodded, her eyes sorrowful. “You must go,” she whispered. She had meant to say, must you go?
He nodded. “Yes.”
“You’ll kill someone,” she said, acknowledging his existence without the spark of challenge that would have once been there. She just wanted him to come home to her.
He didn’t say anything. Just watched her for a moment with dark, emotionless eyes. Then he turned to leave. He made it to the door before she forced her frozen limbs to uncoil and her vocal chords to work. She would never forgive herself if she let her husband go to his death without a kind word from his wife.
“David!” she called, rolling onto her knees, hands on the bed in front of her.
He stopped in the door without looking back. He looked impeccable, every hair in place as always. Power and control radiated from him like a cloak. She wanted to throw herself at him and beg him to take her with him. She knew she could never stop him from his course of action, but maybe if she went with him she could keep him safe. Like a good luck charm. His dancing ballerina.
“Please be safe, moy muzh.” She forced the words through a throat thick with tears.
He jerked his head in a nod, stepped through the door and closed it. She heard the lock engage and knew she would be trapped in the room once more. Curling onto her side, she allowed the tears to fall as she imagined every terrible thing that could befall her husband in the next several hours.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Heard you finally found that woman of yours,” Mercer grunted.
David’s head came up sharply, his obsidian eyes deadly. Mercer sat in a seemingly relaxed pose, his arms resting on his knees, his eyes on the people passing in front of the open doors of the shadowy room they were meeting in. David wasn’t fooled by his slumped, easy posture. Daniel Mercer was perhaps the one man he wasn’t completely certain he could put a bullet in before he found himself dead, if he chose to take offense and attack. So, he chose words instead of actions.
“You keep both words and thoughts away from my wife, da?” David said, his voice glacial, his eyes even colder.
Of course, Mercer ignored him. The man did and said exactly what he wanted. He was like a rabid dog that no one could leash, despite his seeming loyalty to Tyson King. “DeLuca’s expressed concern that the woman’s distracting you,” Mercer persisted, dropping the Italian boss’s name. The man that helped set up the entire hit to destabilize operations in Columbia and eventually the States. “Don’t want him concerned on your behalf. He’s not afraid to take out a woman.”
“Fucking mu’dak,” David spat.
Daniel raised an eyebrow and met the assassin’s eyes for a brief moment. David caught the look. Chiding. What the fuck was that? There was a time when Daniel would take a guy out just for that brief show of temper. Was it possible that rumours were true? Did Mercer have himself a woman of his own? No fucking way David was saying a thing. Even hinting about the possibility would get him so unrecognizably dead. Not worth it. If Mercer ever fell for a woman… god help the bitch.
“Control yourself, Russian. Control the woman. Do your job,” Mercer said quietly. “Won’t be any problems.”
David gritted his teeth. He was reminded sharply of his time in the military in Russia. Of answering to men more powerful than himself. Of forces beyond his control. He hated the thought of his wife at anyone’s mercy besides his. The idea was not sustainable. Not a possibility. Natasha was his. The baby within her womb was his. He would protect both with his life. And if need be, his death.
“Why did you call upon me, Brazil,” David gritted out, taking his life in his hands by reminding the other man of his own extremely poor beginnings. He was certain from the miniscule tick next to Mercer’s mouth that if he weren’t aware of David’s background that the Russian would be dead where he stood for daring.
Mercer’s golden eyes met his again, this time holding them when he said, “Because you’ll get the job done.”
This was a solid truth. David never failed.
“Am I interrupting?” A smooth voice asked in Spanish from the doorway. David looked up to see a man whose bearing, tattoos and arrogant intensity proclaimed him cartel more clearly than words could. He watched them with alert interest. This was the man they had been waiting for.
Mercer didn’t even flinch, which told David he’d known the Columbian had arrived before David had. Mercer was an eerie son-of-a-bitch, no doubt about it. David flicked his attention to the newcomer, assessing the man that would make or break DeLuca’s plan. This would be the man that could own Columbia if he played along. Even from across the shadowed, crumbling room David could tell he was tall. His black hair was pulled back in a ponytail at the base of his neck and his face was a dark shadow of unshaven scruff. He wore casual clothes of dark jeans and a black undershirt layered with an open short-sleeved shirt over top, most likely to fit in with both the area they chose to meet and the plan they would shortly execute.
The attempt was a failure. The cartel boss would stand out no matter where he went. The aura of power and violence surrounding Javier Bastida was palpable. Dark tattoos etched every visible inch of his tanned skin from his neck, down his arms and fingers. The most eye catching was an ornate cross topping his shirt over his heart. David would have been extremely uncomfortable in the Columbian’s presence except he’d lived and breathed death for so long it no longer had an impact.
“Mercer,” Bastida acknowledged his contact, never taking his dark eyes off David, clearly going for intimidation. David understood how this worked. He was the hired help in another man’s region.
But he had no intention of becoming any man’s bitch. He made his own choices. Chose his own jobs, his own kills.
Mercer stood to make introductions. He nodded toward David and grunted, “This is our gun, Davidov.”
David didn’t flinch at hearing the only name he was known by in their world, though he despised his given name. Given to him by the people that took him as an infant, it was the only name he was recorded on paper as having. He had no first name. No last name. Just a single name.
Bastida stepped further into the room, standing to his full height and looking David over as he might a piece of meat or a prize horse he was considering buying. David was used to scrutiny. He was used to keeping his temper in such situations. He held the Columbian’s dark gaze with a blank one of his own.
“This is the man that will lay down my enemy?” Bastida said doubtfully, dismissing David and turning to Mercer.
David didn’t move or say anything. He didn’t have to. He knew he could clear a room within seconds. He did not need men such as this arrogant cartel boss to affirm his abilities or stroke his confidence. A job was a job. Either he would take it, or not, and then move on to the next. The wild card was his Natasha and where she could fit in his life. She made him restless. She was too fragile, too easily harmed. She made him feel too much. Even having her nearby, in this city, made him feel a burning rage that threatened his control. He wanted to go to her. Make sure Bastida or DeLuca hadn’t found her. It was why he had been so careful hiding her.
“The Sars Hanover job, 2011. Tokyo nightclub, Moshido build
ing, 2015,” Mercer was saying to Bastida.
David’s attention drifted back to the two men. Bastida had taken a seat, dropping his long, leanly muscled body into one of the metal chairs opposite Mercer and leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest. He looked momentarily surprised at Mercer’s words before covering his expression. His speculative gaze fell on David with a different, more appraising look that David knew well. A look he did not enjoy. Covetous. Every boss wanted the best of the best in hitmen on their payroll. But David worked for no man exclusively.
“Difficult jobs, both of those,” Bastida said slowly, thoughtfully. “Mierda, those were your man?”
Mercer nodded. “Those and others I will not mention. Wouldn’t’ve brought David in if he weren’t competent.”
Bastida snorted. “An understatement, apparently, if what you say is true.” Then he nodded slowly, a confirmation. “This is good. I will fall in with DeLuca’s plan. It benefit’s me and mine greatly. Once Moreno has been taken care of and I am out of hiding, I will take over the entire region and stabilize trade on this side of the border. DeLuca can do the same on your side with the fall of Vegas.”
Tension was thick in the air as they discussed details. David stayed largely silent. He had only one job to do and was not part of the larger scope of things. Though if he failed in his job, Bastida would most likely die a grisly death at the hands of his competitor. Moreno would hunt him down among the rebels, where Bastida would be ‘hiding’ out for the next several weeks while the region destabilized and trade ground to a halt. This, of course, was not an option. Thus, David’s presence among the lethal company. He would find his way into Moreno’s compound and take the competition out, preferably while they celebrated Bastida’s capture and imminent demise. People were easier to kill, more careless, when they thought their enemies were down.
“And you have arranged for my… rescue?” Bastida spat the last word with as much enthusiasm as he would for someone handing him a pet scorpion. Though, he looked like the type of man that might enjoy such a pet.
“King has connections with an ex-military unit. They’ll get you out when it’s time,” Mercer told him.
Bastida snorted. “Fucking mercenaries. Maybe I should take my chances on the mountain? Know it better than any of those American mercs will anyway.”
Daniel shrugged. “There’ll be other hostages. They’re going in anyway. Up to you whether you go with the team or disappear. We only care what happens after.”
“Fine,” Bastida agreed, his sharp brain clearly calculating. He wasn’t giving away any more of his thoughts.
They wrapped up their discussion and went over the finer details of the next few hours. Bastida would be put in position near a known rebel encampment where he was guaranteed to be picked up with little chance of being shot on sight. Bastida had someone on the inside that would be able to keep eyes on him so they would know where he was eventually taken. David was impressed with the man’s easy willingness to fall in with such a plan. He didn’t once complain, though the three men knew without a doubt Bastida would be starved and beaten once the rebels got hold of him. They weren’t known for kindness, nor were they particularly known for cruelty. But Javier Bastida was a prize of another level. Getting hands on the cartel kingpin would boost both their credit and confidence. Moreno would offer to pay dearly for him once word of his capture got out.
“Are we good?” Bastida asked, climbing to his feet and stretching his long body. His prowling gaze rested first on Mercer then shifted to David.
Mercer nodded and raised a brow at the Russian putting the ball in his court.
“Da,” David acknowledged coolly, his dark eyes holding no emotion as he went over his part of the plan once more. “Once your people give me the signal that you have been picked up I will board the helicopter and travel to the meet point where a vehicle will be waiting to take me to Moreno’s property. Your guy on the inside will give us the nod when they hear of your capture. Then I go in. Do’svidanya Moreno and associates. Until we meet again in hell.”
Bastida chuckled darkly. “I like you, Davidov.”
David said nothing, but the edge of his lip quirked slightly more than usual. He hoped not to have to kill the Columbian on a future job. The three men finished their meeting and left the small, windowless room behind. Only the cockroaches were witness to the conversation between such powerful men and the flow of information that would change the future of the entire drug trade between two countries.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Death.
The body dropped soundlessly to the ground in front of the assassin. David was in his element. He forgot everything except the moment. The perimeter had been easy. Sammy Moreno and his men were celebrating. He’d relaxed security, brought his men in closer for the celebration of the downfall of his enemy. He had booze, drugs and whores brought in, easing up on his usual paranoia in the face of one less man that would want him dead.
David took out the South guard. One shot to the base of the skull then he moved to the house. He did not massacre where he did not need to. Preservation of bullets. He did not go in heavily armed as it slowed him down. He kept three guns, thirty-six bullets and two knives. He wore a vest that was specially designed to be as lightweight and invisible as possible. He’d removed his suit jacket in the range rover after they’d reached the drop point. Now he wore only his long-sleeved button up shirt and trousers, both black. He waited in the shadows, watching the revelers as they partied in the windows of the glass mansion.
Such hubris. Believing that their safety was implied through the downfall of an enemy. If Moreno was intelligent he would lay low, somewhere hidden, and work twice as hard to secure his own holdings, to make sure the kidnapping of Bastida was no plot, before moving on the possessions of his enemy. Instead he threw open his front doors, lay out his toys for all to see, and allowed the shadow of death to walk in like it owned the place. And own the place it soon would. David would paint the walls with blood.
Men like Moreno deserved death. While men like Bastida and DeLuca would rise higher and higher in their bids for power, because they did not make such stupid mistakes. Like skilled chess players they made careful, calculated moves. They placed the pieces on the board, set up the play and allowed them to move against each other. Now it was black horseman, moving, sideways and across. A silent death.
The lone assassin.
David pulled his guns from their holsters and moved in through the back entrance, clearing it of the guard who was receiving a blowjob. He took care of the woman next. He couldn’t have her alerting the rest of the house. He moved rapidly toward the upstairs bedroom that he’d seen Moreno and his wife excuse themselves to half an hour ago. He tapped another man on the stairs, spraying blood across the white wall of the stairwell. He stepped over the body without pausing.
He had a minute, perhaps two before one of the bodies was discovered and a search for the killer began. He needed to be making his way off the property before the perimeter guards became alert to his presence.
He found the master bedroom within seconds, having mapped it out days ago. Three shots for the drug boss. One to the heart as he stumbled from his bed, two to the head after he flew backwards. David stood over the body, watching for any signs of movement. He counted to three then turned away. He always made sure the mark was down before moving on.
He turned the gun on the wife next. And hesitated. She was cowering next to her husband’s now bloody, unrecognizable head. She was young, innocent looking in an oversized T-shirt and panties. He would have thought the spoiled woman of a man like Moreno would wear silk and jewels to bed. Her soft, dark hair framed a small face. But of all her features it was her eyes that arrested him. They were beautiful sapphire blue. Currently wide with shock and horror as she stared up at her husband’s executioner, awaiting her turn for death.
His cold, dispassionate eyes looked down into her panicked face without a flicker of remorse. This was
just a job. It was his job. It was nothing he hadn’t done hundreds of times throughout a blood-soaked career. She could not live. Though innocent to some degree of her husband’s crimes, she would become a casualty of the business. Seconds ticked by in which he knew he must act. David’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Then he did something unprecedented.
He pulled back from a kill. He moved his finger from the trigger to the side of the gun. He blinked, attempting to shake Natasha’s accusing eyes from his thoughts. They would not go away. She would not go away. So, he turned away from Moreno’s widow and left her breathing.
For all of four seconds.
It took her three seconds to pick up a gun from god knows where and take a wobbly pot shot at her husband’s murderer. As a burning pain sliced down David’s forearm, he was reminded of why he did not leave witnesses. With a growl of annoyance, he swiftly turned back to the woman and shot her between the eyes. She landed back against the pillows with her arms flung wide.
David shook his head and strode out the door. Such a waste. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman. With such a face as that, combined with insider knowledge of the cartel industry, she could have been an asset to another powerful man. Instead, she had let vengeance and fear guide the last seconds of her life. Little idiot.
Dead little idiot.
And if he wasn’t careful, he would be next. His moment of compassion had allowed her to alert the household to his presence. While his guns had silencers, hers had not. Footsteps thundered up the stairs, followed by shouts, telling him his original path out of the house was being rapidly cut off. With a sigh, he did a quick mental bullet check. Twenty-eight. He could work with that.
He ducked into a bedroom across the hall, knowing they would check on Moreno and the wife first. He tagged the first two through the boss’ bedroom door, then another as he tried to lunge back toward the stairs. Then they got smart and started to cover each other as they made their way toward David’s position. He glanced over his shoulder toward the darkened window of the spare bedroom he was currently occupying. Good, floor to ceiling.
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