She looks down at her lap, so hurt and vulnerable. I have never seen her so broken up, but I have only ever brought out the horrible side, because it was my horrible side doing the talking.
The tears drip from her eyes, streaking her skin with a salty pain. My own heart thaws even more, the ice slowly breaking away from every fiber that makes me who I’m, and it leads me to do something unexpected.
I release my grip on the steering wheel and slowly move my hand toward Josslyn. She recoils slightly, startled by my invasion, and freezes. I’m not sure what invited me to touch her—intrigue or curiosity—but I can’t stop myself from doing it. I hold my palm to her face, my thumb sweeping across her fallen tears, caressing her skin. Her eyes are wide with fear, but in that moment, I show her the feelings she instills inside of me.
Josslyn soon melts into my touch, her head tilting slightly and resting in my hand. The water pools again and drips from her eyes as I simply hold her while she releases all the pain. I keep my eyes focused on the road ahead, every few seconds looking back at her tear-stained face.
I don’t say anything more to her, not for a while. She needs to grieve again, and I need her to expel all the pent-up sadness of that night. There will be no time for it when we are in the thick of danger. She has to release it. And I let her. I let her cry until the tears dry up, and the open wound on her soul mends.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Josslyn
August 11, 2015 9:41 p.m.
The pain I relived was immense, and I cried for a good hour before the tears stopped falling. Yes, I was angry, but I needed to mourn what I lost, too. I needed to remember why I was so angry. I needed to feel it so I could get myself together enough to function. By the time I had cried it all out, my eyes couldn’t remain open anymore.
I don’t break down in front of people. When Nikolai shared his information, though, there was nothing left for me to do, and Nikolai surprised me. I didn’t expect comfort like that from someone like him, but it was exactly what I needed.
Before I open my eyes, I can feel him there. His hand hasn’t left me. Nikolai’s warm palm rests on my thigh, just above my knee.
When I flutter my eyes open, I take a moment to study the man next to me. His face is forward, looking out the windshield, his blue eyes concentrating on where we are going. His face is chiseled with a jawline only found on men who exist in Hollywood or fashion magazines. From the moment I met Nikolai, the black strands of his hair have never been out of place. They are always combed neatly to the side, giving him a suave yet serious look to his already dangerous appearance.
I break my gaze from his and look at the time. It’s been three hours since I last looked at it, which means we are almost within San Francisco’s city limits.
My eyes trail down to his hand resting on my leg. The small tattoos on his fingers remind me he never told me about the tattoos—why he has them and what they all mean. I lift my hand and carefully brush the pad of my finger against the inked picture.
Nikolai is startled for a moment, snapping his head in my direction. I connect my sights with his, thanking him with my eyes for comforting me when I was falling apart. His head dips in a nod, acknowledging my unspoken appreciation.
I look down at the spade etched on his finger and trace it. His hand hardens on my thigh. I’m not sure if he’s uncomfortable with me touching him or what the tattoo represents, so I ask.
He looks over at me for a moment then back out on to the road. “That one,” he says, lifting his finger with the tattooed spade, “means spear, and the heart is my shield.”
“Why?”
“It reminds me of the pleasure I get from using my knife and to always have my guard up when I do.”
“And this one?” I brush my finger over his ring finger and look at the tattoo that is a circle with a black dot in the middle. “What does this one mean?”
“That I’m an orphan and can only rely on myself.” He doesn’t look at me, but he doesn’t need to. The tone in his voice married with his words speaks volumes. He is an island, and although I have a pass right now, he’ll always remain a man on his own.
My finger traces the cross inked into his finger. “Am I right in assuming you are a religious man, Nikolai?” I remember the several marks of faith on his skin under this shirt.
“On the contrary, detective.” He looks over and gives me a sad smile. “I don’t think a man like me has much use for faith.”
“Then why the religious tattoos?”
“In the organization, they mean very different things. This one”—he holds up his finger with the cross and continues—“means I’m involved in the Vory V Zakone.”
“And the crucifix on your chest or St. Basil’s Cathedral on your back, what do those mean?”
“The crucifix shows my devotion to the Thieves and that I will always adhere to their rules and beliefs. The cathedral simply explains how many times I’ve been imprisoned.”
“How so?”
“The domes on the top.”
“What’s the purpose of that?”
“All these tattoos are a history of your criminal life. When you get locked up, prisoners can tell where you’ve been and what you did. The tattoos that are really important are the ones that are related to the Vory V Zakone. Those protect you in prison. My stars, the crucifix, and epaulet mean something different, but something very significant. You can’t put those marks on your body unless you earned them.”
“How did you earn yours?”
“I shed blood, Miss Stowe. Lots and lots of blood.”
“What’s going to happen when we get to San Francisco?” We never discussed what his plan was after he told me who we were going to meet when we get there. I was too distracted by the information Nikolai had provided.
“That’s where you come in.” Nikolai lets go of my leg and readjusts his body in the seat. His voice changes, becoming lower and more cunning. “In order to get to Vlad, we have to pique his interest, so to speak.” I don’t like this idea already. “Like any man of power, Vlad enjoys the company of a beautiful woman.” The heat in my face begins to elevate when Nikolai connect his eyes to mine. Does he think I’m beautiful? “And he’s very select in his tastes. I don’t know what those tastes are, but that’s where you come in. You’ll have to get his attention and do what you can to make that happen.”
When Nikolai shares the first part of the plan, I start to think about how I’m around men. My thoughts don’t take me too long because I have little to no experience flirting with men or getting their attention. What happened with the clerk was a freak, one-time thing. Gary was the typical sleazeball; that was apparent the moment I laid eyes on him. This situation is altogether different. I don’t know what danger I’m walking into or how men of this magnitude will respond to someone who is as inept as me. If they are even in the same ball park as Nikolai, there is no way I could get their attention without exposing myself.
“If this is your plan, you better start thinking of a better one.” I look over at him, allowing him to see my worries.
“Why?”
“I have no experience with men … not since that night. And what happened with the night clerk at the hotel was merely a stroke of luck.” The heat in my cheeks rises, and I quickly become embarrassed.
“You’ve been with men, so what’s the problem?” Nikolai’s voice is no longer sweet or calculating; it’s annoyed, and frankly, so am I.
“I don’t really flirt with people or try to be sexy. It’s never been about that for me. I’ve never had a relationship in the traditional sense. I get comfortable around a guy, and if I’m attracted to them, we have sex. There’s no flirting involved, not from me, anyway.” This has to be the most mortifying conversation I have ever had.
“You better think about that because you are the way in.”
I shake my head of the weird thoughts and move past the point of flirting.
“Okay, so for our sakes, let’s say I get his attentio
n, then what?”
“He’ll invite you upstairs to his private dining room. From there, you will be the distraction I need to get in the back door undetected.”
“What? Why can’t you figure out a way in the backroom without using me?”
“Vlad knows me too well. We worked together for many years. He’ll never suspect you, however, because I always work alone. Besides, I’m a wanted man with them. I killed three of their men, and I’m certain a team of people are already looking for me. All I need is you as the distraction. Then, once I’m in, I will take over.”
Nikolai pulls off in the outskirts of San Francisco into a roadway motel. He walks in and out in a matter of minutes with a key to the room, and we file in like we did earlier today. We say nothing to each other when we walk in the room and begin getting ourselves ready for bed.
Nikolai showers and lays all his stuff to the side in a neat, orderly fashion. His gun is laying on the nightstand, and his briefcase is unlatched underneath it.
I take a quick shower and fall down next to him in bed, my mind racing and my heart beating wildly in my chest at the thought of what will happen this time tomorrow.
I will penetrate the enemy’s lair. I will be face-to-face with the man who stripped me of my innocence and played a crucial role in destroying my family. How will I do it? How will I sit across from him and not want to kill him? How do I act like I don’t have a care in the world when every feeling inside my body contradicts it?
I stare at Nikolai’s back, at the black cathedral inked into his skin, and remember our conversation surrounding it. The domes signify how many times he has been to prison. There are three. A large scar pulls my sights from his tattoo, and I study it.
The wound has hues of pink, and I think it’s probably newer than the rest. For a moment, I wonder what happened, but I get lost in the sounds of his breathing. His back is expanding up and down as if he has fallen into a deep sleep.
The heaviness in my eyes finally wins, making them shut, and I wonder how this will all play out in the end.
.*.*.*.
August 12, 2015 12:08 p.m.
We turned onto Interstate 80 about thirty miles ago, and now we are driving in the heart of downtown San Francisco. I give Nikolai vague directions to get to the city itself, but as far as navigating around it, I’m at a loss. After our stop yesterday, Nikolai puts an address into the GPS, and we have our destination set.
My gut sinks when I think of what I’m about to do. As a police officer, storming upon a criminal’s lair is quite possibly the most dangerous part of being a detective. You never know if they are going to come out with guns blazing and shoot you dead, yet that isn’t as scary as me relying on my sexuality to get the attention of a Russian overlord.
We drive along Stockton Street, coming upon Chinatown. My thoughts are distracted as I get swept away in the hustle and bustle of this little slice of Asian culture. Large, round lanterns hang over the street, attached on a wire strung between the buildings. Yellow, red, and orange colors blend together brightly as they liven up the atmosphere. People are everywhere. The sidewalks are packed with tourists, vacationers, and locals.
Nikolai slowly heads down Stockton Street, and my distraction is soon gone. We round the corner very slowly, turning on Powell Street as we enter the prestigious Nob Hill neighborhood. This piece of San Francisco is historic and beautiful. When you envision what San Francisco should look like, you obviously think of the Golden Gate Bridge, but then you picture neighborhoods like Nob Hill. The cable cars are running along the hilly streets, buildings with a unique charm, row houses, and so on. You see it all here in Nob Hill.
We keep going until Nikolai turns the corner, and we slowly drive in front of an old, charming building. There’s a bright red awning that covers the entrance of the gold-painted doors. Across the street are large buildings, parking structures, and other small, quaint restaurants. We circle the block again then go down the alley behind the restaurant. I soon realize what we are doing.
Nikolai is casing the place, looking for the best way in that is not through the front door. When we come back around, I look even harder at the restaurant. The name is not something I can pronounce, but that is not what worries me.
A man located outside the door looks to be with a security force. Standing pointedly, he’ll be my first obstacle. I’m sure Nikolai has already made note and I need to get past him.
The sun glimmers across the water in the bay. It peeks through the buildings, shining brightly through the windshield, allowing me to feel the heat every so often. Nikolai doesn’t stop, only rolling his car slowly around the city blocks as we drive away from our evening excitement. I take the opportunity to look at him.
His face is hard, and his eyes are fueled by an angry concentration. They are cold and calculating again, the eyes of his assassin persona. The sight chills me.
We drive through the back again, passing Chinatown until we are out of the vintage area and surrounded by the skyscrapers of the financial district where Nikolai pulls off in a shopping area. When I look up at the signs, I see we are in Union Square, another popular tourist area. People are flooding the area, carrying their shopping bags or wrangling their children. He parks the car in front of a Macy’s and shuts off the engine. I look over at him, questioning with my eyes what we are doing.
“I saw what you packed. You will need to buy more suitable clothing.” He pulls out his wallet, handing me a wad of cash. I don’t count it, but I do know it’s a considerable amount of money.
“That’s not my fault. I guess I was little rushed when someone was jumping down my throat to hurry up,” I snap back at him.
He doesn’t entertain my childish tone, giving me his stone cold glare. It’s my cue to shut up and do what he says.
I sigh. “What do you want me to buy?”
“You will be dining in Vlad Ivankov’s establishment. From the outside, it looks to be an average place, but I want you to stand out. After all, you’ll need to get his attention straight away.”
“What sort of clothes will do that?” I’m no good at this. I can barely dress myself for a refined event, let alone getting the eye of a world class criminal.
“If I recall, he enjoys a woman in red.” Nikolai smiles and points his finger to the department store outside the car. “You have one hour to get clothes, shoes, and all the things a woman needs to look her best. Also buy something to wear out of the store. We will be checking in to the Ritz Carlton and that”—he eyes my jeans, zip-up hoodie, and sneakers—“won’t do.”
I roll my eyes and begin exiting the car as he says, “Don’t worry about jewelry. I will take care of that.”
I walk toward the department store entrance, looking like a lost, little puppy. I stand in the vast store, completely overwhelmed with the racks of clothing, the variety of smells coming from the perfume counter, and the mass amount of people. My anxiety is stewing as it moves through my body with a slow, rolling boil. I have to clear my head.
I stumble through the people, bumping shoulders into women as I navigate through the crowd. My eyes are scanning the room, looking for a place to catch my breath. Thankfully, I find the restroom tucked in the far corner of the store.
I slip into the private, family restroom, needing the silence, and lock the door. I stand at the sink and turn the cold water on full blast. Looking at my face in the mirror, I examine the bruise on my cheek. It’s healing and should be easily covered with makeup as it has finally transitioned to a greenish-yellow color.
I pool my hands under the water and splash it over my face. Then I lean forward, placing my palms on the edge of the sink while staring at my reflection, really studying it.
I lost a part of myself after I was attacked by the clerk. He was pinning me down, trying to take my life, and I became overpowered by the blackness. It was suffocating me as it started to take me over. Then this unrecognizable force pulled me from the brink of consumption.
“Away …” my
voice squeaks out. I clear my throat and roll my shoulders back to stand taller. “Away with you,” I whisper to myself in the mirror. “Away with you,” I say again with more conviction in my tone.
I look at this face, these eyes, and this frightened expression for the last time. Until it’s over, I’m no longer Josslyn Stowe, homicide detective, sexual assault survivor with a wounded soul. I’m Josslyn Stowe, warrior.
The light inside of my orbs darkens, transitioning to something more sinister and cold. Revenge will be mine if it’s the last thing I do. There will be blood, and my hands will be covered in it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Nikolai
August 12, 2015 2:15 p.m.
I watched Josslyn disappear behind the doors of the department store. I could tell she was uneasy about going in there alone, but I don’t have time to babysit her. There are a few phone calls I need to make without her eavesdropping.
First, I call the hotel, confirming I have the presidential suite. I tried to get a normal room, but the hotel is completely booked for some event it’s hosting. Therefore, I decided to play up the rich guy act. Normally, I’m not staying in the five-star hotels. However, maybe it’s best I maintain a certain persona, one that doesn’t come with a revenge killer on the run with his detective hostage.
Next, I call the bank, confirming my funds were successfully transferred to Aya. The last thing I need is something going wrong on that end. She would scream like a banshee as she decapitated me and then giggle over it. She’s more disturbed than me, and that’s saying a lot.
Finally, I call Maxwell Beatty. He’s supposed to meet up with me to give me Josslyn’s ID documents. Now that I have a hotel secured, I tell him to leave them at the front desk of the Ritz Carlton. There’s no need to meet up. I have to get prepared for tonight, anyway.
Finally, the one person I do want to meet up with is the last phone call I make. Edmund Fischer is the one man who can get you just about anything you need. As long as the price is right, he’ll find it and do so quickly.
Away with You (The Revenge Series Book 2) Page 17
