Three Vlog Night

by Z. A. Maxfield

  Ajax laughed. “Which are you? Heaven? Or earth?”

  The teasing tone caught Dmytro by the balls, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let his interest show. “Behave.”

  “Okay, they probably don’t hate me.” Ajax fluffed his pillow and put his head back down, still not facing him. “But they’re ultra disappointed, which is far worse. They’re stoically bearing the weight of that disappointment for my sake. They’re ashamed to face their friends.”

  “Then they have bad friends. And you can earn back their respect.” This, he knew. Even after all the things Anton did, Dmytro had loved the man he’d become. “Nothing is forever but death.”

  “So I’d better stay alive, huh?”

  Melancholy Ajax was unbearable. Dmytro much preferred outraged Ajax. “If you can manage it.”

  Finally Ajax turned to face him. The grin surprised him. Warmed him. “I’ll do my bit, but it’s going to be way worse for you than me if I get killed.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Have you read my mother’s CV? You don’t get where she is by allowing incompetence.” Ajax let his head drop back on the pillow just as the tap on the door signaled Bartosz had returned. Dmytro let him in.

  He shrugged off his coat. “Cold out there.”

  “Hey, Bartosz,” said Ajax.

  “Hello. Did you sleep?” asked Bartosz.

  “No.” He filled Bartosz in on everything he’d missed. “Anything?”

  “Nothing.” Bartosz stepped into the bathroom to wash his hands and splash water on his face before answering. He returned, toweling off. He kept his voice low. “The girl in the office was dancing with her headphones on, last I saw. But otherwise it’s quiet out there. What have you heard from Zhenya?”

  “Everything seems legitimately coincidental as far as he can tell.”

  “But you’re not convinced?” Bartosz asked.

  “We’ll see.” He shrugged.

  “Keep your eyes open, brother.”

  Dmytro glanced back and caught a vulnerable expression on Ajax’s face. There, and then hidden quickly, it had been visible and authentic all the same.

  “Don’t worry. Next to me, Bartosz is the very best protection money can buy.”

  When that didn’t seem to reassure Ajax, he put it down to the fact Ajax was receiving credible death threats on a daily basis. It was hard to find reassurance when that happened. He hesitated.

  “Are you a hen now? Go.” Bartosz gave him a shove. “I’ll take care of the egg.”

  Dmytro hesitated, but Ajax had subsided beneath the waves of his covers and pulled his pillow over his head.

  “Not as bad as he seemed at first.” Dmytro spoke only for Bartosz’s ears.

  “You simply like children.” Bartosz switched languages. “You’ll be cured as soon as he throws a tantrum.”

  Dmytro stepped into the crisp, salty ocean air and breathed deeply. He felt… uneasy. He’d missed his daily meditation goal. Perhaps it was only that. He normally took some quiet time in the morning and evening to regroup. He prioritized time with his daughters. He’d discovered those things, together with keeping his body healthy through exercise and good nutrition, kept him emotionally balanced, despite the things he saw—or did—on the job.

  Only recently, on a security detail in Canada, the principal came under attack by her bat-wielding maniac of an ex. The bastard had gotten a lucky shot to Dimitri’s head. Thank God Bartosz had been there that time to disarm the attacker, but it was shocking and brutal and ended with him in the hospital.

  He stayed in the shadows as he stepped along the gallery silently, despite the hollow deck beneath his feet; made his way down stone steps and out to the parking lot to look around.

  He didn’t like not having a car, even for the brief time it would take Zhenya to send another. He didn’t like the indefensible motel room or their too-smart-for-his-own-good client.

  And he was getting tired of Bartosz’s teasing.

  Dmytro was an unlikely mercenary, but not an inept one. But for his birth order and his longing to take after his brothers, and not his father, after his mother died, he’d have chosen a different path for himself entirely—construction, maybe. Or if he’d been allowed to choose a fine art, then photography.

  He’d been an accidental enforcer and a mercenary, but a truly gifted one. Chalk it up to perfectionism or stubborn pride, but he’d worked hard and trained like an Olympian to reach the level of skill he’d achieved in hand-to-hand combat and weapons training. His former boss had thought him merely competent until he’d realized Dmytro was fluent in at least six languages and conversant in two others—and that he could use his head instead of his fists to get what the boss wanted.

  Once he’d decided negotiating with people was a better gig than frightening them—or worse—he’d taken to it like a duck takes to tea smoking. That pragmatism led him to some hard times with his boss, but also to Yulia, and Zhenya and the girls.

  It led him to protecting people. And if he worried overmuch about the client’s safety, it was only because he was the best, and he considered his client’s safety to be at least as important as his own.

  His professionalism now didn’t have anything to do with a certain person’s Renaissance angel good looks or his soft brown eyes. Or his generosity of spirit, which was arguably the most attractive thing about him. But old instincts were surging to the surface along with old fears.

  The parking lot was half-empty. Perhaps he should call it half-full? The fog still shrouded them, but it was late enough that few cars passed by on the highway. He made a quick check of the perimeter and then walked by the office, where he found the door open a crack.

  Hadn’t Bartosz said it was locked?

  Even as he drew his weapon, his heart gave an unpleasant lurch.

  He glanced toward the end of the gallery upstairs, where Bartosz watched over the client. The client was safe; it fell to him to see if the girl had left for some reason or if something else was in play.

  As he stepped inside, he reminded himself she might have gone to buy a soda or snack from the machines. He told himself she might be checking the grounds, or meeting a boy, or any number of things girls did when no one was looking.

  But from the moment he entered the office, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he knew.

  The girl lay slumped behind the desk, head bleeding. He drew his gun and phone. He dialed Bartosz’s number and it rang.

  “What?”

  “The girl is down.”

  “Wait. What? Is she dead? She was dancing just minutes—”

  “Down now. Don’t know her status. Could be a hit. Could be an overdose.” He resorted to his first language to save himself the trouble of thinking through translations. “What do you think? Stay or go?”

  “We have no vehicle. But in the room, we’re sitting ducks.”

  “Girl probably had a car.”

  “Had?” he asked. “So she’s—”

  “Can’t tell yet.” Dmytro cursed his luck. He didn’t like crossing a patch of moonlight to get to her without Bartosz there to cover him.

  “We should come to you. Do you see anyone else around?”

  “No, but you wouldn’t see me if I was hiding. There could be a dozen good men on the property waiting to pick us off one at a time.”

  “But Zhenya said he’d narrowed the threat down to a few likely loners? Better to regroup. Stay together. Find a ride. Wait there; we’ll be coming shortly.”

  “You want to take that chance? What if—”

  “No time. I’ll bring the boy to you.” Bartosz clicked off, and not for the first time that night, Dmytro cursed him silently.

  He recalled Bartosz’s teasing and Ajax’s lithe, lean body as he rose from the spa.

  He wasn’t sure which was worse: Bartosz for breaking protocol, or the situation they found themselves in. Not because having enemies who wanted to kill them was a novel adventure. People had been trying to kill him all his lif
e. That was business.

  But this? Despite his misgivings, Ajax had grown on him.

  The cloned phone in his pocket chimed. He pulled it out and glanced at it.

  Ajax Fairchild. I am the one you can’t see in the darkness. I will force my hand inside you and tear out your organs, one at a time.

  The hair on the back of Dmytro’s neck rose. His skin tingled. They had to find this fucker and stop him because the threat had escalated. Anton would want him to keep Ajax safe.

  Ajax—and how much his safety suddenly mattered—made it personal for Dmytro.

  Chapter 11

  Ajax Fairchild. I am the one you can’t see in the darkness. I am going to tear you open and pull your heart out.

  AJAX DREAMED about flying, then falling, and then bouncing off sheer cliff walls, one after another, because he lived on a continual carnival ride of dreams just like it. It barely fazed him when a hand came down over his mouth.

  He opened his eyes and found Bartosz glowering down at him. “Dress quickly. Move silently. We have to leave.”

  He let his hand up carefully, and when Ajax said, “Where’s Dmytro?” that hand slammed down again. Bartosz’s hot breath fanned his face.

  “Quickly. Silently. Got that?”

  Ajax nodded that he understood, but his heart beat unbearably fast. Eyes wide, he tried to indicate he’d be quiet this time. What if something happened to Dmytro? It would be because of him. When Bartosz let him go, he slid from the bed, found a clean pair of jeans and a red Henley his mom bought him because she said it matched his eyes most days. He put on socks, shoes.

  Already Bartosz stood at the door, waiting. Peering from behind the blackout drapes like a vampire waiting for sunset.

  Judging from the temperature earlier, Ajax thought it best to pick up his jacket. He wished he knew what was going on. He opened his mouth to ask, but like a dog trainer, Bartosz made a frightening hsst sound. Ajax dropped his head in fury and shame, but he obeyed. If there really was a threat, he could throw a hissy later, when he was safe.

  Bartosz cracked the door, jerked his head, and waved his hand vaguely behind him, which Ajax took to mean stay behind me or don’t get in my way.

  Ajax did exactly as he was told, and they crept silently down the gallery together. He stayed between Bartosz and the walls and windows until they got to the stairs. Bartosz went first from there as well, using his enormous body as a shield as much as possible.

  Ajax knew the physics of firearms well enough to know they’d both be killed by a high-velocity round, no matter who stood in front of whom. Where was Dmytro? Was he okay? Why was Bartosz moving him alone, and what had happened to make them detour from the bathtub plan Dmytro outlined before they went to sleep?

  They crept down the stairs by the office. The stillness was so absolute, Ajax imagined he could hear the distant susurrus of waves. Were they that close to the ocean? Or was the salt air taking his senses for a ride? The ice machine dropped a noisy glacier when he passed, making him jump out of his skin. Bartosz unnecessarily lifted his hand to his lips to hush him again.

  Ajax shot him a hard stare. He might have jumped a mile, but he’d known better than to make a single squeak. They made furious eye contact, after which Bartosz jerked his head and they continued toward the office.

  Inside, he saw Dmytro leaning over an unconscious girl. She had blood pooling around a colorful head wound. He hoped she was unconscious, at least, and not dead—

  “Is she—”

  Dmytro and Bartosz ignored him in favor of speaking whatever language they chose for the occasion.

  Ajax pushed past them and knelt by her head to check her pulse. “She’s alive. We shouldn’t move her, but we should put her in a rescue position in case she starts to vomit. Bartosz, call 911 while I support her neck and—”

  “Why?” Dmytro asked, low-voiced and angry. “So, you can get her blood all over you? Put your fingerprints on her? Leave her.”

  “No.” Ajax stared at him in horror. Had he been attracted to Dmytro before, in the spa? Something was way off if he’d been attracted to a man who would let a girl lie there bleeding to save his job.

  Clearly he needed to fine-tune his mating skills.

  He made the words an order. “Turn her, because we need to help her, you asshole.”

  “Look. Ajax,” Bartosz offered carefully, “we can call for EMS, but the only person we are bound to help is you. You’re the job. We must let others do theirs.”

  “You wanna help me?” Ajax asked through gritted teeth. “Help me to help her or I’ll scream my head off. It’s not negotiable.”

  Dmytro sighed, gave Bartosz an I-told-you-so glare, and nodded.

  As a former lifeguard, even if it was only in a campground lake, Ajax knew how to support an injured person’s neck. There was a wound on the back of the girl’s head, but it felt swollen, not depressed. Blood still oozed, but head wounds bled freely, and he knew he couldn’t count on the amount of blood to tell how bad her wound was. She breathed normally, but her color wasn’t good. Neither was the fact she was unconscious.

  “Phone?”

  “No calls.”

  “I need the light,” Ajax argued. He snapped his fingers for Dmytro, who held out his phone with a put-upon sigh.

  Ajax turned on the flashlight and lifted an eyelid. Pretty girl. She had natural lashes that looked thick enough to be fake, a luminously pale face, black hair, and lip, nose, and ear piercings. Tattoos covered her arms where he could see them, including some wonderful sugar skull motifs.

  “Someone had a goth phase.” He checked her pupils, which reacted to the light at any rate, and then glanced around. “She still needs to be seen. Anytime a head injury causes loss of consciousness—”

  “What do you think happened?” Dmytro asked Bartosz.

  Bartosz answered with a shrug, “Slipped while she was dancing?”

  “Or overdose?” Dmytro posited as he pushed her sleeves past her elbows. “I don’t see needle marks.”

  “Did you check the till?” Ajax asked with some asperity.

  Bartosz brows rose. “Till?”

  “The cash drawer. There has to be a place where they keep cash and credit card receipts. Did you check the back office? Were they robbed, do you think?”

  Flushing, Dmytro walked behind the counter to see. “The cash drawer is empty. Receipts are scattered all over.”

  “See? Robbed.”

  “You can’t trust that. Easy enough to make this look like a robbery.” Dmytro left to make his way to the room behind and called out, “I’ll see if there’s anything—no. The office is locked.”

  “But you said she was locked in. She must have known her attacker. Oh, poor thing. But that proves this has nothing to do with me.”

  “It does nothing of the sort.” Bartosz gave the order, “See if she has keys, Mitya. We must still leave at once.”

  Dmytro returned and patted the girl’s pockets down while Bartosz picked up her purse.

  “Oh hell no.” Ajax recoiled in horror. “You’re not going to leave this girl—steal her car—”

  “We have no choice,” answered Dmytro. “We have no car. Three coincidences are too many. Nothing feels right about any of this.”

  “If this were about me, I’d already be dead.” Ajax stood and wiped his hands on his jeans. “We wait until we know the girl is all right, and then if you want—”

  “Ajax.” Inconveniently, the way Dmytro growled his name was exactly right. He felt that deep voice slip straight down his spine and lodge in his balls.

  Still, he said, “Don’t be a dumbass. You’ve got this working theory that someone knocked the girl over the head to get to me.” He spread his hands. “I’m here. So where are they?”

  Bartosz shrugged. Dmytro glanced away.

  “Man up, guys. We’ve got to help her. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t and anything happened. Plus, don’t even think about getting a paycheck from my parents if you don’t, because m
y dad is probably gonna be a Nobel laureate someday, and—”

  “All right.” To Bartosz’s dismay, Dmytro grudgingly gave in. “But we can’t have police. We’ll have to get her to her car and drop her off at the ER somehow without getting involved.”

  “That’s easy,” Ajax lied. “Did it all the time in school when some drunken stunt went wrong. In the meantime, we have to find a way to move her.”

  Bartosz offered, “I’ll find something to sling her in.”

  “And I doubt she has a neck injury, but I’ll figure a way to stabilize her. We can do this.” Ajax walked behind the counter to see if there was something he could use. “Look, there’s no blood back here, so whoever it was, she probably opened the door to them, turned her back, and wham!”

  Dmytro shuddered. “Could you be less enthusiastic? Wait.” He glanced at her. “I think she’s coming back to us.”

  Ajax rushed over to see, and sure enough, the girl’s long eyelashes fluttered. Her lips twisted in an agonized wince. “Ow.”

  “Are you okay?” Ajax asked. “Do you know what year this is?”

  The girl tried to push herself up. “This is the year I stop working crap second jobs, for one thing.”

  “How do you feel?” Dmytro smiled down at her.

  Her eyes closed. “Really, really—ugh.”

  They managed to get her onto her side just as she got sick. Dmytro leaped to his feet and raced outside, where he retched audibly, bent over a planter.

  “Sick people make him sick,” Bartosz said.

  “He just needs air.” Ajax patted the girl’s back. “Getting sick after a head injury is normal. We should take you to the ER right away.”

  Between gasps for air and retching, she said, “Oh, God. My head hurts so bad. I need to call my friend JT.”

  She reached for her phone, but Bartosz drew it away. “I’m sorry. I can’t allow that.”

  Ajax gasped. “Bartosz—”

  “Here, take these.” Dmytro, pale as a ghost, returned with some ice and a stack of towels.

  Ajax dropped one over the sick and gently wiped the girl’s face with another. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s gonna be—”