Copyright © 2016 M.S. Brannon. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission from the author. The exception would be in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews or pages where permission is specifically granted by the author.
This book is a work of fiction and the events surrounding this book are fictitious. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any similarity to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons live or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
1st Edition Published: April 2016
Written by: M.S. Brannon
Published by: M.S. Brannon
Photo Credit: Michael Bandow Photography
Model: Heidi Henckel
Hair and Make-Up: Lilly Jacobsen
Copy Editing: C&D Editing
Proofreading: Cynthia Andersen, Christie Mitchum, Michele Wiegert, and Matthew Leo
Cover Design & Formatting: IndieVention Designs
ISBN-13: 978-1523815364
ISBN-10: 1523815361
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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
Excerpt of Madness: Book Three in The Revenge Series
About the Author
More from M.S. Brannon
PROLOGUE
Nikolai
April 30, 1996
I spin on my heels, my knife extended and ready to plunge into the man behind me. He charges and I rear back, preparing to swipe the blade across his throat. There is another man in front of me, running toward my body, ready to take me out with one bullet. His pistol is out in front of him, ready to fire.
I lean back, pivot on my left heel, and raise my right hand. The Bowie knife slashes across his throat seamlessly. The thug’s neck artery explodes, spurting blood from the vein. My face gets sprayed with the warm liquid, and I can’t help but smile at the sensation.
I spin back around to see the man with his gun drawn. His pistol fires. The sound is deafening. I jerk back just as the bullet reaches my body. My arm bursts with a painful heat as the fragments are absorbed by my muscles.
The challenge was presented and accepted. Men will go to extraordinary lengths to earn this high-ranking position within the organization, and in this aspect, I’m no different. My leader, the man who singlehandedly saved my life, honored me with this mission. If I’m successful, I will earn the epaulet on my shoulder, and I will officially be Ademar’s most trusted member. I will finally be side by side with Stravinsky where I belong.
When I heard Stravinsky needed the rival Russian outfit executed, I knew it was going to be big. We have been following the group for close to a year. These men had an agreement with Stravinsky. Instead, Abram Kuzentsov’s crew were taking our business and passing it off as their own.
A couple of other soldiers under Stravinsky and I found the secretive Soviet Army’s underground bunker filled with weapons from the Cold War and Stravinsky’s high-class whores up for sale, not Kuzentsov’s. Once my leader got wind of this betrayal, he set forth the change in our business relationship. I followed them, reporting back any information important to our future. Finally, tonight was the night to put that plan in motion. My leader needed me, and I was obligated to comply. I’m after all his loyal dog.
We sat in the car for several minutes, and then he spoke.
“Nikolai, this is your time. You have risen above the rest faster than any new member. You are loyal and lethal, a combination that is vastly needed in our organization. I trust you with my life. And know that once this is over, you will earn the epaulet. You will be the man to my right. My soldier-in-arms. My personal guard. My most trusted assassin. You are what the Thieves are about, son.”
My body filled with an array of emotions. The most recognizable was pride. I was proud he had chosen me for the mission.
“Use only this.” He handed me an eight-inch Bowie knife covered in a black nylon sheath. “Five men, ten hands, and the head of Abram Kuzentsov—that’s what you need to bring back with you. If I have it all in the next two hours, you’ll be the man to my right.”
“Consider it done, Ademar.” I stepped from the car and into the black night, my knife sheaved inside my jacket.
I walked through the door of the secluded, shack-like building and started taking out men out in the open. They knew who I was, though I had the element of surprise on my side because they didn’t know why I was here.
I said nothing. I strolled through the door. With my knife expertly gripped within my palm, I gutted the first two men I saw. Blood poured and coated me as I split them open.
Now, I’m in the heat of it. The bullets whiz through the air, one embedded in my arm. I turn the pain off and I rush the man who shot me. The blood lust is as thick as a dense fog through the air. It overcomes the pain, dulling it to merely white noise in the background. My mind is set to destroy, and I will do just that.
I dig my shoulder down then ram it into the man’s stomach. He falls backward, and I land on top of him. My knife plummets through the side of his neck, and I rake it across his throat in one fast, deadly motion.
Another man puts his pistol to the back of my head, taking me off guard. “Stand up, asshole.”
I comply, slowly rising up to my feet. I stand with my back to him, knowing if I don’t move fast, he’ll shoot me dead.
Tapping into my survival instincts, I jerk my elbow back and smash it in the man’s temple. My elbow pops, but the jarring pain becomes engulfed in my adrenaline-fueled ocean. I spin myself around and ram my fist into his throat. His breath wheezes out, his windpipe crushed. I keep up my destruction when I plunge the knife into his midsection, jerking the blade up his sternum.
Five men down, Abram Kuzentsov left to kill.
I stalk my way through the small room. There is nowhere for him to go. There is only one way out, and I’m standing in front of it.
My eyes scan the small space, sweeping back and forth for any sign of him. Out of the corner of my eye, an arm jolts from behind a concrete column. I dive to the ground, getting behind a knocked over table for protection. The bullets spray while a barrage of curse words follows from Abram Kuzentsov’s mouth.
I bide my time, counting the shots and knowing he only has a couple of bullets left.
Finally, the room falls silent, and it’s my time to strike.
I rise from behind my shield and peek my head around the side. Kuzentsov stands near the exit, trying to make an escape. When he tosses his weapon to the floor then makes a dash for the exit, I pivot on the balls of my feet and lunge toward him. I hurdle over the t
oppled chairs as I sprint after him. His hand reaches the door knob.
Without another thought, I flip my Bowie knife around, putting the blade in my palm, and I throw it as my feet are still running toward him. The deadly steel connects with his hand, sticking it to the wood trim surrounding the door. I rush over, getting my face directly in front of his.
The blood has drained from his skin, making him look gaunt. Kuzentsov knows this will be his last moment on earth. The fact that I’m taking it makes my blood surge with a wicked happiness. I will destroy him. Kuzentsov will be no longer.
As I tie him to the chair, the sense of pride blazes throughout my body once more. This is the moment I have been waiting for, the moment when I become my mentor’s confidant, his number two.
As I run the serrated side of my knife across Kuzentsov’s throat, I bask in the notion that I’m officially apart of Stravinsky’s crew. I’m not just a foot soldier for the Vory V Zakone. I’m the protector of Stravinsky, the man he solely depends on to follow through with his every demand. I will be the person who helps him make decisions, and maybe, someday, I will be his successor.
I jerk my arm back and forth, Kuzentsov screaming in agony as I detach his head from his body, and I think, I have finally found a place where I belong.
CHAPTER ONE
Nikolai
August 9, 2015 3:27 a.m.
The muscles in my shoulders ache from the familiar pain of the restraining handcuffs. I can detect the scent of my own sweat and stale cigarette smoke as the back door slams shut, securing me inside the car. The rumble of the engine vibrates against my back, and blue and red hues dance across the interior of the car as the lights flash through the night sky.
I stare out the rain covered glass, my eyes searching through the men swarming The Ruins, moving in and out of the old, rundown building. Then I find her.
Josslyn.
Something unnerving happened in the past five hours of my life, something I’m not certain I can explain. Nevertheless, I know I won’t forget it anytime soon.
Once I figured out who she was, I knew I couldn’t kill her. She was the girl I had spared that bleak night, and all my instincts told me I had to save her again. Only, this time, it would be from herself.
There was a purpose in us meeting once again. And that purpose is to fulfill the revenge we both seek against the one man who is responsible for our lifetime of duress.
The plan has changed. Unknowingly, she’ll be the key that unlocks the door to Stravinsky’s lair.
She has bewitched me, yet I can’t forget what she knows.
I’m currently in damage control on account of my loose tongue. As soon as the opportunity presents itself, I need to make a move on that.
The men I worked closely with in Stravinsky’s crew know of me and my past, but that is it. I don’t provide my real identity to the public, and I pay good money to keep any digital link of my history, old and new, away from their knowledge. Many of us in the criminal underworld know how to become a ghost. It was part of my initiation into the world, and I learned from the master. I won’t let my stupidity be the reason my secrets are exposed. Therefore, I can’t have Josslyn running her mouth.
I have one person I can call—Erik Vankin, a practicing attorney and a criminal opportunist. He’ll help me work something out because he is a greedy fucker and a friendly acquaintance outside of the Vory V Zakone. He despises the Thieves. I learned this early on but kept my relationship with him affable and a secret from Stravinsky.
It wasn’t until my attempted murder that Vankin truly knew whom I was working for and what I have been my entire life. However, once I revealed my plot of Stravinsky’s future, Vankin and I really become allies. I made him part of my plan B, although until I was suffering in a prison infirmary, I never thought I would have to seek his council.
Josslyn opens her eyes and looks back at me, staring into the darkest recesses of my mind. I can feel this indescribable sensation building inside my chest, a connection that is invisibly tethered. My mind shifts the second our eyes connect. My gut stirs as I watch Josslyn being held tightly in that bastard’s arms. Damn baboon of a man.
Her chin is tucked into his chest, the palm of his hand running down the side of her face in a consoling fashion. The look in her eyes tells me she welcomes it, but my gut instinctively says differently. The flash of discomfort shines from her irises as it takes her a moment to swallow down the terror of being held.
Granted, I have put her through a lot—almost killing her several times tonight—so I guess I can see why she is okay with him holding her.
The sound of slamming car doors and the movement of the vehicle only causes this feeling between us to intensify. I suddenly feel more bound to her than I did when she was in my grasp. Why am I so captivated by her?
When we drive away, the gravel pops under the tires as we head out into the blackness. I only see her eyes as I stare out the window, mentally going through the plan in my head, while flashes of the past are relived. Her eyes glazed over in lust when I kissed her, and I felt the stir of excitement the moment I pressed my lips to hers.
I shared with her things I have never shared with anyone. Reflecting on the moment, I’m still baffled over why I confided in her. Maybe it was because I was so sure I was going to kill her. Or maybe it was because of our connected past. Whatever it was, she had me singing like a canary.
She knows my name—my real name. She knows about my brother and his family, about my daughter who was raised by my brother. She knows I have a deviant plan to erase the people who killed them and tried to kill me. She knows it all.
Josslyn holds my fate in the palm of her hand. She can be my savior or my destructor. How the next step in the plan plays out will help me truly understand the role she’ll play. Will she be another innocent victim? Or will she be something more?
These very concerns solidify why I need to call Vankin and get him to work on the unintentional twist in my plans. First things first, he’ll need to start on major damage control.
“Hey, asshole,” the pudgy officer in the front seat says, bringing me out of my inner thoughts. “Why don’t you tell us your name?”
I break my gaze from the rainy scene outside the window and glare over at him. He’s a disgusting looking man with a sweaty head that holds maybe twenty strands of gray hair total, and he has small, arrogant eyes. I detect the scent of stale smoke when his breath passes through the air and finds its way to me. His teeth are yellowed, probably from years of smoking. He lifts his stubby fingers and wraps them around the cage-like metal divider between us.
I only glare at him, refusing to say a single word. I will not speak to the police, only Josslyn. I will share my little secret with her—the secret that connects us. She’ll be my leverage to get to Stravinsky. I have no doubt, once she hears what I know about the night her dad died, she’ll submit to my plan. What I’m offering her gives her everything she has ever wanted in life. And if she doesn’t, then I guess I will have to part ways with the detective … permanently.
.*.*.*.
August 9, 2015 4:00 a.m.
The garage door opens in the back alley of the police station, and the car is led down an incline then deeper inside the underground parking area. The fat detective opens my back door and pulls on my arm, guiding me out of the car. I’m escorted through the bleak, cinderblock hallway, the smell of mildew and cleaner surrounding me. It’s a pungent odor that reminds me of my days spent in the Russian orphanage.
As we step up the small slant and my shoes scuff loudly against the buffed, tile floor, I can overhear the booking officer asking the detectives my name and other identifying information. All they can do is shrug their shoulders.
I’m then taken to another area where I’m asked to stand in front of a blank, gray wall where my picture is snapped from the front and the sides. My fingers are doused in ink and cataloged into the station’s database. Then I’m led to another room where I’m asked to remove my per
sonal effects that will be tagged then taken. When forms are passed to me, I push them away, refusing to give them any evidence of who I’m.
A large, metal door is slammed behind me. On the floor of this vacant room is a pair of orange prison clothes. I slip my arms through the opening of the steel door where my handcuffs are removed by an intake officer on the other side. Privacy is not given as I start to undress. This doesn’t bother me, though; modesty is not something I practice.
I pull my black suit jacket over my shoulders and undo the buttons on my shirt, folding them both meticulously before setting them on the floor. My shoes, socks, and pants are removed until I’m standing only in my black boxer briefs.
I turn around, facing an audience that has grown since the moment I removed most of my clothes. I can see astounded faces simply staring at me, staring at the markings on my body.
Is it the abundance of scars I have collected over the years or my lean, very well-trained body? No, it’s probably the obvious. If these officers knew anything of the Russian prison system, they would know about the tattoos. They could tell by looking at me how many times I have been sent to prison, as well as how long I have been sentenced. They would know I’m a part of the Vory V Zakone and rank highly amongst them. It’s all here, pictured in the black ink covering my back, chest, and arms. Josslyn was smart enough to do her research, but I have a feeling these morons wouldn’t even know where to begin.
The staff stands on the other side of the soundproof glass, and when I look beyond the correction officers, my sights connects with the asshole who originally arrested me. The big man thought he was the hero of the night.
I sneer slightly, knowing this is exactly what I wanted to happen. I needed to get arrested not only for my next move with Josslyn, but for my time inside the prison. Some of the best information collected is from the men forced to be held in the confines of the concrete and metal dungeon. Men who don’t have much to lose will say anything to get what they want. As an added bonus, disgruntled correctional officers are found everywhere. All it takes is the right amount of cash, and they will fall in line with whatever I demand. And from what I understand, American officers are the easiest to bribe; you just need to find the right one. However, there is one criminal in mind I really want to speak to. It won’t be easy, but I need it to happen.
Away with You (The Revenge Series Book 2) Page 1
