Away with You (The Revenge Series Book 2)

by M. S. Brannon

  “I can’t just walk in there and take it.” My tone instantly mimics his. This is not the kind of danger I want to put myself in. I don’t want to jeopardize the future I plan to have once my father’s death has been avenged. “Do you realize how much trouble I would get in if I got caught stealing evidence?”

  I can’t think clearly. I know I agreed to help, but I didn’t agree to this. This is a bad idea. I shouldn’t have agreed to help, but if I had told him no, would he have left peacefully? I highly doubt Nikolai does anything peacefully. One way or another, I would have ended up in this car, contemplating this very scenario.

  “I won’t tell you again, Josslyn. I need the briefcase; it’s that simple.” Nikolai looks at me with murderous eyes as he pulls the gun from the back of his pants and sets it on his lap.

  “It’s not simple, Nikolai. Not simple at all.” The threat of his weapon doesn’t scare me. If he wanted me dead, it would have been done already.

  Taking a move from Nikolai’s playbook, I glare at him murderously. I don’t want to do this, and it is not the deal we made.

  The forensic team is in the process of going over the crime scene evidence. Their facility is located two miles from the police station in its own guarded building. His arrest will be priority due to the severity of the crimes, and the labs would have started processing his briefcase. It will be nearly impossible to get it out of the labs. Plus, once the technicians find it gone, the cameras won’t lie when it comes to who took the evidence. There is no way I could play that off, and besides, when our little cross-country manhunt is over, I want to be able to return to my old life.

  I look down at the clock on his stereo, noting it’s after one in the morning. Then I shake my head in refusal. “No, if I’m identified from the cameras, then it’s me who will be wanted, but not for my safe return. I understand the justice system, and they will try to pin me as an accomplice to your murders. I’ll be damned if I go down with you.”

  “Have it your way.” Nikolai reaches down and pulls the gun off his lap, his eyes laced with evil and determination.

  The barrel is cool against my forehead. My anxiety skyrockets as it rips me apart from head to toe. Yet, I keep my face indifferent.

  “You can’t do this without me. I’m not stupid, Nikolai. You need me, and not just to get your briefcase.” My tone is hard and my glare even harder, which is a complete contradiction to how I feel on the inside. But, I do my best to keep the volcano of anxiety from erupting and continue my point. “This is more than a mutual revenge; otherwise, you would have been gone hours ago. You need me to get to him, don’t you?” It’s a bold statement, though not without merit.

  The way his body tenses and his eyes flash momentarily with truth tells me he has to have me.

  “If I’m doing this”—I point to the warehouse—“then you’re doing it with me. That way, if it goes bad, I can say you forced me to help you break in.”

  Nikolai grinds his teeth as he lowers his gun and concedes angrily, “Fine, I’ll go with you. But you have fifteen minutes to get us in and out, got it? We need to be out of this fucking town as soon as possible.”

  “Whatever,” I compromise, tired of the battle with him. At my first opportunity, I will need to see what is so precious about this briefcase and why it’s worth the risk. “But when we go in there, you need to follow my lead. No killing people.”

  Nikolai gives his killer, wicked smile and winks. His black tattoos dance across his body as the light from the street lamp shines over his dangerously beautiful face. He is an angel—of that I have no doubt—but he didn’t come from the heavens. Nikolai burrowed his way up through the pits of Hell. He is the devil in disguise behind crystal blue eyes; dark, sleek hair; and a trim, taut body.

  “What’s the best way to get in undisturbed?” Nikolai asks, bringing me back to the mission ahead of us.

  “The quickest way is through the front door.” I unzip my bag on the floor at my feet and pull out my black zip-up sweatshirt. I pull my arms through the sleeves, trying to keep my mind distracted and my hands busy. “The problem is, I don’t have my work bag. It has my ID badge. We can’t get through the security doors without one. We will have to somehow get the badge from the desk sergeant at the front desk. But who knows if he has accesses to the forensics lab.”

  Panic starts to bubble in my throat. The only way Nikolai knows how to operate is through total destruction. But we can’t hurt the sergeant. Burt’s a nice, old cop man who doesn’t deserve to be hurt, maimed, or killed to fulfill our revenge. I look up at Nikolai, begging with my eyes to forgo his briefcase and get the hell out of this town.

  He leans back and pulls my police bag from the backseat. Inside, he finds the security ID, my gun, everything. His mouth tilts up with another wicked smile. It’s the same cold, calculating smirk that infuriates me. I look down at the badge he tosses onto my lap and try to remember when he grabbed my work bag. I must have been too wrapped up in my own thoughts of murdering the man who killed my father to notice he took it.

  He exits the car and moves to the trunk. I can’t see what he is doing, but I do notice Burt walking around the lobby in front of his desk. There is no way we can get by him without hurting him or tying him up. No. Way.

  When Nikolai falls back into the driver’s seat, he is wearing a dark green hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, and there’s a bandana tied around his neck. Damn, I wish I had a bandana with me. Then he pulls an extra one out of his pocket.

  I shake my head in surprise. It’s like he has thought of everything. Then again, he is a trained killer, so of course he has thought of it all.

  I look down and notice his hands are covered in black leather gloves. I shuffle through my bag, grabbing out latex gloves then snapping them on my hands. Nikolai has another small gun with a silencer attached to the barrel. He tucks it in the front of his pants and puts the bandana in place, covering the majority of his face. I follow his lead, covering my face with the black cotton.

  “Ready?” he asks but gives me no time to answer as he steps from the car. He walks around the back of the car then opens my door.

  My shoulders jump as the heavy anxiety continues to destroy me from the inside. I glance at myself in the side mirror as I step from the car. I don’t recognize the person looking back at me, but now is not the time for a self-discovering journey.

  I can’t keep my mind from running away with its rogue thoughts. It feels like I’m experiencing someone else’s life as we crouch down, scurrying across the parking lot. It feels very bizarre. I experience this rush of adrenaline build and swim through my veins, but it doesn’t frighten me. It motivates me. And that’s the truly scary part. As much as I don’t want to do this, the wicked, dark part awakens, excited to follow Nikolai down his destructive, evil path.

  We make it through the parking lot with no troubles, our backs flush with the side of the building, now just outside the main entrance. Nikolai leans forward, getting a glimpse in the door.

  He yanks my ID card from my hands, huffing out a breath, then demands, “Wait here.”

  “Where ar—” I don’t even get the words out before he is gone.

  Nikolai strolls through the front door like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I keep my body plastered to the brick building, waiting to hear a struggle or something that indicates Nikolai has been there. Before I can think otherwise, the front door opens, and he motions me to follow him inside.

  I peel my body from the wall then walk behind him through the front doors. We stand in the lobby of the evidence warehouse, and the desk sergeant is gone. I turn on my feet, scanning the small lobby, but I don’t see him anywhere. Instantly, my blood boils. I’m livid, but not with him. I should never assume someone like Nikolai is trustworthy enough to keep his word.

  “Calm down,” Nikolai whispers, picking up on my frustration. “He’s out back, smoking; I saw him on the monitors.”

  I expel a deep breath and relax as much as one can i
n this situation.

  “So, where are we going?”

  “We should start with the forensics lab. I’m certain they’ve begun processing the evidence for your case, and that’s where all the items are stored during the processing phase. It’s located on the third floor.” I walk toward the elevators, but Nikolai jerks on my arm, pulling me into a stairwell.

  His voice is silent, but his actions are screaming aggression. Every gesture or direction is done forcefully. I don’t need to see his face to know he’s gritting his teeth to keep from shouting in frustration. He points for me to walk, and I start ascending the stairs as fast as my legs can take me.

  We run up the first flight before Nikolai pulls his gun from the waistband of his pants and shoots. The muffled pop connects with the camera mounted above us, busting it instantly. The sound startles me, but he gives me zero time to process it. He pushes against the small of my back, insisting I continue to climb. I run up the cement steps, making it to the third floor in no time.

  My heart is beating wildly inside my chest. My breaths are deep, but not from exhaustion.

  We have our guns drawn as I allow Nikolai to take the lead when we pull the door open and walk out to the hallway. When I point my finger in the direction of our destination, he reads my signal then turns to the right. Soon, we are standing outside the metal door of the forensics department.

  “What now?” Nikolai turns to me, only his piercing blue eyes showing from above the makeshift mask.

  “The briefcase will be locked in the evidence locker”—I point to the fortified steel door and glass wall—“but we have to somehow get past that.”

  Nikolai pulls my ID badge from his pocket and scans the black pad fastened to the wall. The lock clicks, allowing our passage. I turn around, looking for a way through the door, and then another pop echoes throughout the small room.

  I turn to see Nikolai tucking his gun back inside his pants. When I look up, I see he has shot another camera mounted on the ceiling. We stand in the small waiting area, looking at a steel, cage-like wall, wondering what the best way is to get in.

  Nikolai walks the length of the wall, assessing every inch. Although I can’t see his face, I can see his brow is furrowed as his eyes scan.

  “I can’t see a way through there,” Nikolai states as he steps away from the glass divider.

  “I told you this was a bad idea. Let’s just get out of here before we get caught by Burt.” I turn to him, hoping he’ll finally hear what I’m saying. “We will never be able to get past that wall. It’s a fortress. It’s impossible.”

  Nikolai pulls two small metal tools from his pocket. Then he leans in close to me and whispers, “Nothing’s impossible, my dear … nothing.”

  He shoves the metal instruments into the locking mechanism on the cage door, working the lock open. The only people who have the key to this door are the technicians who work in the lab.

  Watching Nikolai jimmy the lock open, I momentarily wonder why this door has an old-fashioned key entry versus the electronic key pad. However, the thought disappears when the lock pops open, and he swings the door open.

  The hinges squeak as the noise echoes through the small space. My heart has yet to start beating normally, and every little noise makes it palpitate uncontrollably.

  I feel like I’m living two people’s lives right now. The anxiety comes from the person I have tried to be all my life—the good one who knows right from wrong, the person who seeks justice for criminals, the person my parents always wanted me to be. Then there’s the other side of myself—the person who has this morbid excitement to stand side by side with the killer to see what happens next. The man gives me a rush of adrenaline just from looking at me, and he saw right through my good exterior and unearthed the woman who is starting to unveil herself.

  Nikolai walks through the door, and we are officially in the forensics lab. As I close the door behind us, I look down and notice Nikolai still isn’t wearing shoes. I snap my head up, looking at him like he’s crazy, but he just shrugs it off.

  We stand in the room, taking in the layout. The room is lined with five rows of shelves. On each shelf, there are cardboard evidence boxes labeled with a log sheet affixed to it. On the sheet is a vast amount of information: the case number, incident type, what type of property is inside, dates, victim and suspect information, and a detailed list of the property inside. It would take ages to go through the logs, so I focus on the case number and the victims’ last names. I sense Nikolai is a little out of his element.

  “Now what?”

  I shrug. “I guess we need to scan the shelves to find it. Evidence is usually marked chronologically. Let’s start with the shelves near the front of the room. I will start with this aisle; why don’t you take a different one?” I suggest

  Nikolai is already doing it, so I start to scan the tall shelves, looking for the John Doe label or the Smith family written on the outside. I worked on this case for the past week or so, but I don’t remember much of the evidence collected from the scene. The men responsible for killing the Smith family were very clean and didn’t leave a trace behind. As for the John Doe’s … Well, those were just bodies. However, I don’t know what was collected from the manufacturing plant, so there could be several boxes to look through.

  I shut my brain off from any other thought besides finding the damn briefcase. When this is done and we are out of here, Nikolai better tell me what is so damn important about that thing. If I find it before him, I will make sure to take a peek before I give it over to him.

  The shelves are five rows high, almost going to the ceiling, and the taller ones are impossible for me to see without a ladder to climb on. Of course, it doesn’t make sense to put a case this new so high up when they are probably still combing through the boxes of evidence.

  I walk farther back into the room. The muted light makes it hard to read the boxes, but I make do, unwilling to turn on a light. When I round the corner to the end of the aisle, Nikolai is standing by a back table tucked in the corner, next to the crime lab. His back is rigid, more so than normal, and he appears to be holding something. The briefcase is sitting on the floor next to him, unopened with the handle up and ready to grab.

  I inch my way closer to his hardened form and observe from afar what he’s looking at. There are at least five cardboard boxes sitting on the table, but when I look to the right of his arm, I see photos strewn about. My gut plummets like a brick in water. He is looking at the photos of his family’s murder.

  I’m not really sure if I should approach him or not, but I don’t really give it another thought. What he is looking at is heartbreaking and distressing. I understand how it feels to know you will never be able to see or feel their arms around you again, will never hear their laughter or watch them grow older.

  I tap into that feeling and stand back, letting him grieve for a moment. After a minute or two, I slowly approach him.

  I see the photographs scattered over the surface. The sight would rival the scariest horror film with the disturbing images. Murder, rape, blood—it’s all there, their story told in the colorful, vibrant photos underneath his fingers.

  I can feel the horror as I recall walking onto the crime scene. The metallic scent of blood encases my nose as I stare at the pictures of Nikolai’s dead family. I don’t need to see the pictures to understand how shocking this must be for him. Knowing what I do now, it makes my heart ache for Nikolai, because everything he did to save them was destroyed by the same man who took my family from me.

  His strong jawline is still present under the bandana covering his face, but I sense his teeth are clenched in a calm fury. Although he’s not looking at me, his blue eyes are laced with a thin coating of moisture. The pain he holds so deeply inside is starting to ooze through the cracks of his assassin façade.

  Nikolai’s hand grazes mine when he eases them forward. For a moment, I think he’s going to grab ahold of mine, but he does something else entirely. He grips the edg
e of the table, and out of nowhere, he snaps. Every ounce of agony, hate, pain, and revulsion erupts from his body as he screams in a bloody rage while he flips the table over. The boxes, photos, and other collected evidence goes crashing down to the floor as it booms before they connect with the tiled ground.

  The unforgiving sight of his murdered family is probably all he can see as he tosses the boxes at his feet across the room. He turns his fury on the toppled over table as he kicks it with his bruised, dirty feet. He smashes the ball of his foot so hard into the wood it sends the table colliding into the wall.

  My panic skyrockets, knowing he needs the release yet freaking out because the noise is extremely loud. The possibility of getting out of here undetected or without leaving a trail of bodies behind us vanishes by the second.

  Nikolai jerks on the shelves behind him, pulling and pushing them until the boxes start to move and begin to fall off. The shelf is bolted into the floor, but it doesn’t stop him from exuding all his power onto the shelf, making the boxes ease to the edge and fall over. He rocks the steel frame as he grunts and screams under his breath. The pain heavy in his chest is exploding out, making his arms strong with every tug on the shelf.

  The boxes start to vibrate as the shelf becomes looser and weak. The bolts begin to pop up from the tiled floor, and before I can get over to him to stop, the shelf tips like a slowly fallen tree and crashes into the one beside it.

  Okay, I need to stop this. He needs to unleash the pain and anger—I get it—but it needs to be out of the fucking building.

  I storm over to his hot, rigid body and yank on his arm. “Stop,” I shout as quietly as I can.

  “I was supposed to protect them! It was my job to protect them!” Nikolai relinquishes control over the volume of his voice as he shouts back in my face.

  “I know you were,” I whisper in the calmest tone possible.

  I turn my body away from the camera mounted on the ceiling, unsure if he shot it like the others. Using my back to shield my face from the camera, I pull my bandana down. I lean in close as I draw down his, as well. The heat from his face burns into mine. His eyes are a fiery, crystal blaze. I pull them in with my own, making him see me. I want him to understand that, from this moment on, we are a team. We are a team with a single, solitary mission—kill that fucking bastard.