Wrath (The Deadly Seven Book 3)

by Lana Pecherczyk

  His father once compared him to a little cockroach. Always there when he least expected it. Always taking a beating, always scurrying back. He didn’t call Dimitri “little” when he was murdered. Dimitri could still see the look of surprise in his father’s fading eyes as the knife stabbed into his gut.

  He smiled wickedly.

  He knew the arm would come with a price, but he was willing to pay it. As he got to his office door, Dimitri flexed his hand, still marveling at how his brain connected with the tech as though it was a real hand. He could feel the strength radiate to his shoulder, barely a twinge of pain left after the healing protein they’d injected him with. It was almost as though he had the power of the vigilantes… not almost, better. The power.

  “Stare at yourself long enough and you’ll turn into stone.”

  Dimitri whirled around, new fist flying toward his assailant. A small pale hand caught it mid-air. Dimitri’s gaze traveled from the hand to the arm to the face.

  “Apologies,” he forced out and relaxed.

  Falcon was dressed in her combat gear—white half-face bird mask, lips and nose exposed, white leather from neck to toe. Silver-white hair streamed around her shoulders. Blue eyes seemed violet in The Kremlin basement. Blood spattered under her chin, as if she’d come straight from another business meeting.

  Other men would believe she left it there to instill fear, but he knew better. She just didn’t care. She accused him of turning to stone, but she was already there.

  She held onto his fist and his gaze, never wavering. The seconds ticked by, and yet she would not release. She held his new powerful and enhanced hand with nothing but her fist, as if to show him with one simple gesture where the real power lied. She didn’t even break a sweat.

  He tugged, testing.

  She held strong, head cocking to the side, mimicking the bird of her infernal mask. Fucking ridiculous. Everyone who worked with the Syndicate knew her face, why bother hiding it? But he knew the truth. He could show her the full power of his fist, he could rip her in two.

  Patience.

  Soon, he would slice her smirking head from her shoulders. No. He would make her watch as he peeled open her chest and ribs. Give her real wings made of bone. Dimitri’s ire sizzled and snarled inside, but he dared not show his true feelings. She was the one who’d given him his new arm, after all.

  He hated her. Filthy suka. Always so calm, so smug. He was not a puppet. He was the master. But he owed her. For now.

  Her lip twitched. Amusement lit her eyes, and then she let go and strode to his closed office door. “He is in here.” A statement, not a question. Her palm rested on the surface of the door. “I can feel his sadness.”

  “Yes. He is in there.”

  “And what do you plan on doing with him?”

  “That is none of your concern. I will fulfill my part of the bargain. The details will bore you.”

  Falcon turned to him, unnatural eyes settling on him once more. “You have failed us twice, Dimitri, and yet, we continue to gift you with our assistance.”

  Tension locked his shoulders. Fuck. She knew what he was capable of, that’s why she gifted him with her fucking assistance. Fine. Biting down on his temper, Dimitri pushed open the office door and ushered her inside.

  Tied to a chair facing his desk was Misha’s brother. Bound, gagged, and furious. Everything about the kid made Dimitri sick to the stomach. Blond unkempt hair, slouch shorts, a shirt with holes in it. Why couldn’t teenagers dress like they gave a damn?

  Lazy, entitled piece of shit. Kid hadn’t acknowledged him, hadn’t paid him any respect. That’s what was wrong with this new generation. No respect. Dimitri had respect beaten into him when he was young, maybe he should do the same. Teach the boy a thing or two, give him a family lesson.

  A few text messages posing as Misha, and the boy had been eating out of Dimitri’s hands. It was almost too easy.

  Suspicion pricked the back of his neck, and he ripped the gag from the boy.

  “Tell me, boy. Does Misha know you are here? Did you tell her?” Every muscle and electrode within Dimitri coiled tight, waiting to pounce. If she had gotten one whiff of Dimitri’s plan…

  The boy glared at him, but stupidly made no response.

  Dimitri’s fist slammed into his cheek, sending his head rocketing back. He and his chair landed on the floor.

  “Answer me.” Dimitri kicked him.

  The kid coughed and choked, but still no response.

  A mocking hiss came out of Falcon.

  “What?”

  She waved at the boy. “Notice anything?”

  Dimitri’s gaze snapped back to the kid, inspecting. Fucking looked like any other waste of space. “Just tell me what you’re getting at.”

  “He has hearing aids in his ears, and you’ve dislodged them. He cannot hear you. Most likely cannot speak, and you have bound his hands, hence he cannot sign.”

  “Yeah, well, the little shit is feisty. He attacked my men when they collected him.”

  Falcon’s steady gaze met Dimitri’s wild eyes. Nostrils flaring was the only sign of her displeasure.

  “I am ready for you to explain your plan, Dimitri.”

  “You’ll get your chance for blood, and I’ll get mine.” Dimitri pointed at the squirming boy, still on his side on the floor. “He is bait. She will come, then she will be bait, and then he will come. Vy khotite, chtoby ya zapisal eto?”

  “Writing it down is not necessary,” she replied, and Dimitri flinched. He did not know she understood Russian. Didn’t matter. He won’t underestimate her next time.

  “And when Wrath comes, the rest of them will, or did you not think that was relevant to tell me?”

  Dimitri didn’t give a flying fuck about the Deadly Seven. He wanted the city. He wanted it to choke. He wanted Misha to watch. Watch me lay waste. Watch my strength. He was just as good as she—better, even.

  He snarled at Falcon. “You said you wanted the man. I’m delivering him. Debt paid. You didn’t say I had to deliver him on a silver platter.”

  “Facing the Deadly Seven at once was not on my agenda.”

  “Relax,” he crooned, eyes sliding to the large terrarium containing his snake. Its big length slowly coiled around a small animal, constricting with patience. “The second stage of our plan is currently being set in motion. The rest of the seven won’t be an issue.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Need I remind you I want most of them alive?”

  Angry eyes snapped to her. “You give me this arm, you pay me money, you give me followers, all so you can get your hands on the blood of one man. I am not so stupid that I will kill these others. They will be occupied. Though why you don’t just take them does not make sense.”

  “We don’t pay you to make sense of our plans.”

  “Da,” he replied. “You pay me to make mayhem.”

  He stalked to his desk and bent to inspect the CCTV monitors, effectively dismissing her. The club was about to open, and he needed it to look real.

  Falcon moved to the exit, paused, and turned back to him. “We gave you power, Dimitri. We can take it away.”

  His top lip curled at her threat.

  When she left, he went back to the tank and wrapped his mechanical hand around the snake’s head and squeezed, watching curiously as the hunter became the prey. At the last moment, before he did lasting damage, he released and dropped the snake.

  He’d like to see her try to take his new power away.

  Thirty-Four

  Unable to leave, Misha hid in the bathroom, puking up the lovely breakfast Wyatt had made her. Didn’t feel so lovely the second time round. All the panicked thoughts whirring through her mind made her even more nauseous. Alek. Her sweet Alek. The kid didn’t even know how to tie his own shoes until he was eleven, and he was afraid of the dark. When you couldn’t hear, or speak, the darkness was a frightening place. If he’d been caught, if they’d put a blindfold on him…

  She gagged into th
e toilet and a new wave of panic engulfed her. Why so sick suddenly? Her period was late because it always was, no need for her mind to go there. She had a contraceptive implant in her womb, and it had only just been put in a few months earlier. She didn’t feel like she had a virus, so it had to be the pancakes, or the apple. Surely. There was no other reason for her unexplained sickness. None at all.

  Then why did I call for Grace? Because whatever this was, she didn’t have time for it. She had to find her brother. Wiping her mouth, she flushed the toilet and checked her appearance in the mirror. Good God, girl, you look rough. Eyes all watery. Pale as hell. And the queasiness did not go away.

  A knock came at the door, and then Grace’s sweet voice. “Misha? Are you okay?”

  “Are you alone?” she asked.

  Muffled voices talking—Wyatt was still there.

  Oh, God. Burning behind her eyes had her squeezing them shut. This was all looking so bad, and she didn’t have time for it. Alek. She took a deep breath, steeled herself and then plastered a smile on her face. She was fine. Nothing to worry about.

  She opened the door. “Sorry, false alarm. No period. All good.”

  Wyatt, who had been walking away at that point, spun around with concern etched over his face.

  Dressed in baggy sweats, Grace held her doctor kit in one hand and swept a stray dark hair from her ponytail with the other. It appeared as though she’d just gotten out of bed. Grace darted a glance between Wyatt, Misha and the bathroom, her shrewd eyes inspecting.

  “I’m sorry we got you out of bed, Grace. I’m feeling much better now.” Misha looked to Wyatt. “Did you find Alek?”

  His expression shuttered. “He’s at The Kremlin.”

  “You know so soon? Are you sure?”

  “Sloan tracked his phone while I waited for Grace to get out of bed. It didn’t take long.”

  “At The Kremlin. Why?” she asked, fear gripping her heart tight. “Why would he go there?”

  “Most likely, Dimitri found your phone and lured him in, pretending to be you.” His jaw hardened. “Obviously he wants reassurance that you’ll turn up tonight. He’ll get a nice surprise when we all come in your place.”

  “But what would he want with Alek?” What he always wanted. A display of power. Control. Pain. “Is Alek okay? Do we know if he’s okay?”

  “Not yet.”

  Another wave of nausea rolled over her and she slammed the heels of her palms into her eyes, holding until she heard Wyatt’s calm voice. “Come on, we’ll go down to the basement. The others are already down there running through a plan.”

  Wyatt walked ahead, but Grace stopped Misha with a hand to her shoulder. She leaned in to speak quietly. “I heard vomiting.”

  “It must have been breakfast. Nothing to worry about.”

  Her eyebrow arched. “Wyatt’s cooking? Somehow I doubt that. Are you sure you’re okay? He mentioned you needed tampons. I have some in my bag.”

  Misha checked Wyatt, and he moved to the exit to wait for them outside in the hall. When he was at a safe distance, she confessed: “No, I don’t have my period.”

  A pause. “You’re late?”

  Dammit. “It’s not what you think, I have the implant, plus, Wyatt mentioned he’s not… um, you know.”

  Awkwardness flittered over Grace’s face. “They’re only sterile before they meet their mate. Apparently it’s a security measure to stop them passing down unbalanced genes. Is your implant in utero? They’ve been known to fall out. Have you checked for the string?”

  Her queasiness rolled, and every instinct in her body screamed that Grace was right. That the implant had somehow fallen out. Misha felt different. Her breasts were tender, her moods were weird, and Misha and Wyatt had never used protection. No. She was imagining things that weren’t there. She was sick, that was all. She went to move, but Grace held firm.

  “Grace.” Misha’s tone held a warning in it.

  Grace let go. “I’m a doctor, Misha. Anything you tell me will be confidential.”

  Misha kept walking. She had other worries. Alek needed her. The last thing she needed to think about was having the same condition that killed her mother.

  Thirty-Five

  The basement operations room was crowded when Misha arrived with Wyatt. It still boggled her mind that they fit all this underneath two very popular cultural establishments in the city. Right above was the restaurant Heaven, and somewhere above and to the far right was the nightclub Hell. Misha had seen a weapons room, a workout room and a medical room as she passed from the elevator. There were more hidden places, but she’d not had the chance to inspect the place.

  Following Wyatt, Misha stood near the entrance, hand on her quivering stomach and inhaled deeply to center herself. Activity in the room focused on a stranger standing near the glass cabinets containing suited mannequins. The tall stranger rotated as though he was on display. His bald head shined under the halogen lights, as did his long nose and pink tips of his big ears. His plaid brown suit came straight out of the seventies. The hastily tucked shirt barely containing a pudgy beer gut.

  Most of the family were there. Evan and Griffin—both wearing their Deadly Seven combat gear—poked and prodded the stranger as though he were a museum artifact, or something under a microscope. To the back of the room, in the corner reserved for the workshop, Flint and Mary looked on with veiled amusement. With her arms folded, Liza watched the stranger from a safe distance.

  Upon seeing their arrival, the balding man hooted at Wyatt. “Check me out, bro.” And then his eyes slid to Misha, and he grinned, big ears shifting. “Misha, doll. Haven’t seen you since Hell opened. Come here and give me some sugar.”

  Oh my God. It’s Tony. The lady’s man and current Hollywood heartthrob? She didn’t recognize him with all that makeup on, but his buttery voice was unmistakable. And come to think of it, the shape of his square jaw, the little dimple in his chin… that cocky twinkle in his eyes. She tried to smile. She wanted to smile… but couldn't.

  Wyatt stood in front of Misha.

  Was he trying to protect her? “It’s Tony. Don’t you recognize him?”

  Tony stood there with arms wide, waiting. “How good is my makeup artist, huh? I feel like I was born to play this role. Babe, I had no idea you worked as a stripper.”

  Wyatt’s eyes narrowed, but he stepped aside.

  “Exotic dancer,” she corrected.

  “Yeah. That. Serious, no wonder you pulled all the right moves on the dance floor.” Tony made some gyrating dance moves as if to prove his point.

  It all looked rather strange in his getup.

  “This isn’t a role in one of your movies, Tony.” Wyatt scowled and stalked to where a uniformed Parker was at the strategy table, concentrating on something on a laptop computer screen. “It was serious reconnaissance, but things have changed. The recon mission is now an extraction.”

  “He’s right,” Parker confirmed, his voice a deep base. “You’ll be needed in combat gear. There’s likely to be conflict.” He arched his brow at Wyatt. “Have you tried your new suit on?”

  He gave a curt nod. “It’s a bit of overkill for me, though. I probably don’t need it.”

  “The suit isn’t only for protection,” Griffin explained. His dark gray outfit hugged his body like a second skin, giving Misha a good idea of his musculature underneath. Out of habit, his hand lifted to adjust his phantom glasses, then lowered, scowling when he must have remembered their absence. “You’re part of the team, Wyatt. You’re part of the family. The suit has comms links, AIMI’s interaction, the vitals health monitoring, the—”

  “Yeah. I get it. Sorry,” Wyatt conceded. “I’ll wear the suit.”

  Silence settled on the room and then Liza spoke up. “Did you just… apologize?”

  “Fuck off.” Wyatt’s ears reddened. “We’re getting sidetracked here. We’ve got details to hash out, and time is wasting.”

  “Wyatt’s right.” Parker ran his hand through
his long auburn mane. He shifted the laptop he’d been eyeing out of the way and revealed some blue and white paperwork. “Tony, get out of that ridiculous disguise and get into your suit.”

  Tony groaned dramatically. “I dressed up for nothing?”

  Misha bit her lip. “My little brother’s in danger.” And it’s my fault.

  “Way to be disrespectful, bro.” The sarcasm dripped from Evan’s tone as he clapped Tony on his shoulder. “The douche has her younger brother. We’re assuming Alek is safe because Dimitri hasn’t called with demands, but that might not be the case.”

  Please be safe, Alek.

  Even through his makeup, Tony had the grace to look ashamed. “No one told me.”

  “You were too busy making us fawn over your disguise,” Liza replied.

  Tony approached Misha, and she couldn’t help feeling awkward.

  When they’d met on the dance-floor in Hell, he was up for anything. In fact… a bit too much. He had wanted to take things further with her, and to be honest—a one-night stand with a hunky movie star was right up her alley—but when she’d learned that his idea of partying included substances that weren’t exactly legal, she’d declined. She was grateful for that missed ship now. It made her icky to think of Wyatt’s brothers like that.

  “Sorry, Meesh,” Tony pouted as he tugged his big ears off. “My bad. We’ll get your brother back, don’t worry.”

  “Thanks, Tony,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to play.”

  But as soon as the words left her mouth, something clicked in her mind. Wyatt had said the recon mission was over, and that it was an extraction instead. Did that mean the original plan was being set aside for a new one, meaning she wouldn’t be involved?

  “I still have to go,” she announced. Alek would need her there. She was his safety net, plus Dimitri was volatile. Who knew what he’d do if she didn’t turn up as planned.