Destruction (Out for Justice Book Four)
Copyright © 2019 Reese Knightley
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Warnings
Please be advised that this book is intended for adult readers aged eighteen and older due to sexually explicit content, language, and violence. Trigger warning: Murder, Human trafficking.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to the actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This is a work of fiction and should be treated as such.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Art: Reese Dante reesedante.com
Disclaimer—Cover content is for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted on the cover is a model.
Editing provided by Heidi Ryan of Amour the Line Editing
Fleuron graphic by TPS Publishing
Interior Design and Formatting provided by
Stacey Ryan Blake of Champagne Book Design
Copyright and Trademark Acknowledgments.
The author acknowledges the following copyright and trademark owners in this work of fiction. UBER, Tarzan.
Table of Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
AUTHOR'S NOTE
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Destruction is not a standalone novel. To get the full enjoyment out of the story and characters, reading from book one is strongly recommended.
Out for Justice
Ricochet, Book One
Collide, Book Two
Rampage, Book Three
The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.
—Edmund Burke
Phoenix headquarters—Undisclosed location
Stefano
Stefano Esposito sat across from Giovanni Rossi and stared at the man’s whiskey colored eyes as the Secretary of Defense ripped them a new one over the phone about the latest debacle. It had been a few months since the attack on Roscoe’s house and the incident in Oregon, but the Secretary was intent on pointing out a few “facts” as the man was bent on telling them. He and Rossi hadn’t been able to get a word in.
“I’ve warned you both! You’ve got some very dangerous people under your command,” the Secretary growled.
“Sir,” he said.
“Most of all,” the Secretary cut him off, “you have two people that god only knows what they are capable of. But more importantly than that, you have an ex-military explosives expert turned Phoenix with the propensity to disappear.” The man’s voice had risen with each syllable.
“If I may, sir,” Rossi said.
‘No, you god damned well may not,” the Secretary snapped. Stefano could understand the man’s anger, Phoenix was the Secretary’s baby. “If any, and I mean any, of those men get out of control, it’s my ass on the line. Micah Robertson is under a heavy strain. I don’t need to remind you of that, do I? I do not want him careening around the globe busting down doors and killing people!”
Stefano held Rossi’s gaze.
“Is that what Lash is doing?” Rossi stage whispered to him and Stefano bit back a smile and shook his head.
The Secretary continued to yell before the man ran out of steam. After that, the sudden silence went on for a while.
“Were we disconnected?”
“No, sir,” Stefano cleared his throat and responded.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” The man gave a tired sigh.
“We do, sir. We’ve been keeping an eye on him,” Stefano said.
“He’s out of the country. How the hell is that keeping an eye on him?” The Secretary sounded like he was speaking through clenched teeth.
“Lash has been keeping in contact for the past two months with Lieutenant Roscoe Burns,” Rossi replied.
“He’s in Russia!” the man growled. “I can’t have him causing shit over there.”
“He’s in Russia because Vladimir has ties there. Lash recently discovered that every one of the Lakhonin properties in Russia has been either abandoned or is on the market for sale. He won’t be there for much longer,” Stefano informed the man.
“Russia may not even be in the picture, Mr. Secretary. We believe that Vladimir Lakhonin and his crew are still here in the states,” Rossi said.
“I don’t want an international incident with Russia,” the Secretary responded.
“We won’t let that happen,” Rossi said.
“See that you don’t, Giovanni. I don’t want to claim deniability, but I will if my hands are tied.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
The Secretary sighed. There was a long moment of silence. “What about Gustov Lakhonin, is he talking?” Gustov, the head of the Lakhonin crime family, had been recently arrested.
“He hasn’t said a damned word since he was brought in.” Rossi tossed down his pen and stared at the ceiling.
“I’m not pleased with the way Oregon was handled. Make sure you get this unit together. They’re too used to going it alone.”
“Yes, sir.” He couldn’t argue. Oregon had been a clusterfuck. Wild and Lash had taken off without the team and Wild had almost been killed.
“And rein Alex in,” the man was saying. “All I need is him on the loose. I know what he’s capable of.”
This time, Rossi replied. “Yes, sir. But he’s also been a huge asset, we need someone like that in our unit.”
“Did he join?” the Secretary asked, surprised.
“Not yet, but we believe he will soon,” Stefano said. Having Fear on their team would be a bonus.
Papers shuffled. “Yes, because having several martial art experts and arms experts isn’t enough,” the Secretary said dryly.
“It is, sir.” Stefano smiled at Rossi. “But one more can’t hurt.” The chief gave him a small quirk of his mouth.
“Good night, gentlemen.” The call went dead. Rossi reached out and hit the button on the co
nference phone.
Rossi held his gaze for a long time.
Stefano lifted his cell phone. “I received a text from Lash. Vladimir is definitely not in Russia.”
“Get him home now,” Rossi ordered.
Stefano fired off an immediate text.
Rossi gave a pained sigh, drawing his gaze up from his desk. “Give me a run down on the areas we know of.”
“Vladimir had dealings in California, Texas, Oregon, and more recently, Washington. I just got a call regarding some trouble in Arizona that could be related,” Stefano said. “Now that we know for sure he’s not in Russia, my gut says Vladimir will hold up someplace rural.” He glanced down at the growing list of possibilities.
“Who do we know in Arizona?” Rossi asked.
“Jasper.”
“Call him and see what he can find out.”
Stefano made a note.
Rossi sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.
“There’s something else.” Stefano shifted papers on his desk. He lifted them and tapped them together, then placed them back down.
“What?”
He looked up at Rossi and held his gaze. “One of our CIA contacts says that Vladimir may have killed Caleb.”
Rossi shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. He’s too important.”
“Do we tell Lash that there’s a possibility?”
“No.”
“So we give him hope until when?”
“We give him hope until we see a goddamned body!”
Micah
Somewhere in Russia
Phoenix operative Micah Robertson, code named Lash, set the flame to the end of the cigarette and then slipped the silver lighter into his pocket before taking a deep, long, and satisfying pull. The flickering light of a bare bulb illuminated the smoky trail. With just enough light to see both ends of the alley, he stood in the shadows the brick wall at his back afforded. Noise at the front of the building filtered from around the corner.
Taking a drag on his smoke, he angled his chin toward the man leaning against the wall next to him. He didn’t need to glance at the man in order to see the guy’s face because he knew it by memory. The guy was not only an informant, but also a friend. While the alley wasn’t pitch black because of the small bulb, just like him, the man stayed in the shadows.
“Vladimir Lakhonin is having difficulty getting out of the States,” his friend said.
“Just as I thought,” he murmured.
“Which is probably a good thing. If he makes it back here and I don’t get to him first, he’s dead. The guy has too many enemies.” The man set a shoulder against the brick wall.
“I need him alive. He took something of mine.”
Micah studied the end of his smoke.
“Word inside the underground is that Vladimir is looking for some muscle. He’s looking at the men that used to work for his uncle, Viktor Lakhonin.”
Viktor Lakhonin, the human trafficking, drug dealing, crime boss had been eliminated well over a year ago by Phoenix operative Ghost.
“Which of Viktor’s henchmen did he hire?” He tipped his head back against the wall.
“I don’t know yet. The problem is that Viktor employed several sick motherfuckers. Men who were born and raised in this shit. They make Vladimir look like a fucking princess. I doubt he knows what he’s taking on.”
“He must be scrambling after the fucked up attack.”
“What fucked up attack?”
“Vladimir hired thugs to invade the home of a fellow unit member and held his sister hostage. We ended the siege and arrested the suspects.”
“He probably thinks that hiring one of Viktor’s men is going to give him an edge.”
Micah agreed. The silence lingered between them for a moment.
The man moved from the shadows, a tall figure dressed in black. “You have my number, I’ll send you information if I find out Vladimir’s choice of henchmen.” The man shook his head with what appeared to be regret. “Sorry I don’t have more.”
“I owe you.” He swiveled his head to the side, catching the man’s gaze in the dim light.
“No, you don’t. Fuck that. I still owe you a shit ton and if you ever need me, you call.” His friend’s voice was almost inaudible, just a low murmur of sound for his ears only. A hand clamped him briefly on the shoulder.
“I will.” Micah nodded.
“When are you heading back to the States?”
“I plan on catching a flight out tomorrow.” Stefano’s text had said ASAP.
“Good.”
“You?”
“I’m heading back, but not at the moment.” The man flipped his own smoke into the gutter and smashed it beneath one dark boot.
“We could use a man like you.” He made the offer for what seemed like the hundredth time.
The guy gave a harsh laugh.
“It’s true,” he added, and smirked even though it was half hidden in the dimness.
The man must have heard it in his voice and snorted. “Have you got a place to stay tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, keep in touch,” the man said as he pivoted away. Stepping into the solo light from a bulb hanging over the club’s back door, the light illuminated the man’s face. Micah’s gaze held the intense, green eyes for a short moment before the guy spun and headed down the street, a black trench coat swirling around equally black combat boots.
Micah flicked his smoke and crushed it into the concrete, and a few moments later, he stepped out of the alleyway. He didn’t linger, letting the darkness cover him. His own black shirt and pants made him invisible from the neck down. A beanie, while it was fucking humid as hell, pulled over his head kept his long, dark hair covered. He knew he wouldn’t be noticed, everyone was wearing black. It seemed to be a trend.
The new information changed everything. Every. Fucking. Thing. Vladimir was still in the States. That meant there was a very good chance that what he sought was there as well.
The motel was out of the way; dark and grungy. He shoved the metal key into the lock. Once inside, the lock twisted easily from the inside and he took a deep breath. He cocked his head, listening for several moments before finally flipping on the light.
Yanking off his beanie, he tossed it on the table and kicked off his shoes. He stripped on the way to the promise of a cool shower. Emerging several minutes later, rubbing a towel over his damp hair, he left it loose. Snatching up his cell phone from the bedside table, he eased back against the pillows and checked the phone for messages.
A video clip came into his email from his friend. He watched the two minute clip. This might give Phoenix the lead they needed. He scooted up in the bed and tapped out an email, addressing it to Rossi, Stefano, and the new lieutenant, Roscoe, and hit send.
Closing the email, he pulled up his phone’s contact list.
He was hesitant about making the phone call. It had been weeks since he’d had any contact with the man, but he pushed the call button anyway.
“It’s about time you called me,” the deep voice growled, answering on the first ring, and he closed his eyes against the rush of memories.
“I was busy.”
“Too busy to call?”
“Apparently.”
“Not nice,” the man grumbled.
Micah gave a huff of sound that caught in his throat.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You made that little hitch in your throat.”
“No I didn’t.” Micah rolled to his side and pulled his legs up to his chest.
“Yeah, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
A long suffering sigh on the other end was the man’s response.
“I’m coming home,” he whispered, curling the hand beneath his cheek into a tight fist as he adjusted the pillow, drew his legs closer to his body, and then finally grew still.
“When?” the man’s voice rasped, and Micah squeezed the ph
one.
“I fly out late tomorrow.” He closed his eyes, tiredness making them sting.
“Text me your flight. I’ll pick you up.” It wasn’t a request. After a long moment of silence, the man hung up.
Micah lay with the phone cradled against his cheek before he gently placed it on the night stand.
Alex
Somewhere in the Netherlands
Alexander Hendrix strode down the front steps of the hotel and slipped into the waiting cab.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“The airport.”
He rubbed a thumb over the background picture of Micah on his phone and then grimaced and tucked it away.
Entering Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport twenty minutes later, he stood in line waiting for a flight.
The line was long, which was typical for this time of year with the influx of tourists. He waited patiently. He’d learned a long time ago that patience paid off.
His phone buzzed. He checked the number and answered it.
“Hello.”
“Next!” The woman behind the counter caught his gaze and he stepped toward her.
“Fear, are you there?”
“Hang on,” he said into the phone and cupped it between his chin and shoulder before handing the woman behind the counter his ID. “Your next available flight to Oakland, California,” he told her, and then snagged the phone upright again.
“Chief Rossi.” He’d recognized the voice.
“Thanks for helping out with the unit.”
“No problem.”
“I gather from your conversation, you’re coming back to the States?” Rossi asked.
“Sir?” the flight agent said. “A flight leaves in half an hour.” She gave him a wide, flirtatious smile.
“Hang on, Chief.” He cupped the phone between his shoulder and chin again.
“Thank you.” He handed her his credit card. It cost several thousand dollars to get from the Netherlands to America on such short notice, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit about the money. Taking the ticket, he made his way down the corridor.
“You there?”
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