Past Never Dies

by Cate Clarke

  It was at the top of the curved marble staircase that he hesitated, thinking, looking between the bannister and Kennedy. Taking her again by the shoulders, he put her in front of the bannister. One push—a thirty-foot drop onto hard marble tile. Serious consideration on his face.

  Kennedy didn’t need bravery or scout’s honor to survive this jump. There was no doubt in her mind that it would kill her. And it seemed he really wanted to be sure, because he pulled out a gun from the back of his pants and pointed it at her forehead.

  Heartbeat in her ears. Breath, shallow. A shiver over her body where he’d touched her.

  “Taras, don’t do this,” Katy said from behind them, standing in the wide entryway to the hall, looking over Taras’s shoulder at Kennedy. The cheek where he’d hit her was almost as red as her hair.

  Taras turned slowly, his gaze moving first and then his whole body including the gun in his outstretched hand. First, he shoved the gun into her stomach and shot. It echoed off the marble, cracking against every corner like a bomb had dropped. Somebody screamed. Second, he grabbed her by the shoulders and tossed her body over the bannister.

  Kennedy watched her fall.

  Her beautiful red hair fluttering around her like fabric, her delicate hands reaching up, eyes frozen open, a thin trail of blood following her. But it was the sound of her body hitting the floor—as cruel as the man who’d dropped her—that had stuck with her the most. Kennedy heard the bones snap, the blood squish and settle in her torso, and the back of her head split against the marble.

  She had to turn away.

  But the sight of Taras was almost as bad as Katy’s distorted body. His shoulders heaving from large breaths, the blood dried along his mouth and cracking over his lips, nothing but absolute madness in his eyes.

  Chapter 32

  Taras Kushkin

  Kharkiv, Ukraine

  Somehow, they’d lost her. It was his own fault for trusting the police to do their job—keep their prisoners imprisoned. The anger was building in him. The rage that his mother had always warned him about when he was young and when he, on very rare occasions, wasn’t granted what he wanted.

  In the backseat of the car, heading toward the police station, he cursed them all—the police, his parents, his brother, Diana Weick. All of them put him into a position that he didn’t want to be in, no more than they wanted to die at his hands. Mistakes deserved punishment. Even his own. He had already punished himself for the previous night, too much drink and recklessness that had led to Andriy’s idiotic capture. His thigh was still freshly stinging from the cuts of his own blade.

  Pushing his way through the glass doors, he was greeted by the largest of the pigs, Arthur, who was limping through a partially destroyed office that smelled of coffee and cigars. Arthur himself, however, smelled of booze.

  “You’re drunk,” Taras said.

  “No sir,” Arthur replied.

  “Do not lie.” The officers were lined up by their desks, holding their position. Some of them looked beat up but most were unscathed, smug submission on their faces. A young one on the end was trembling, his eyes down, unable to meet Taras’s gaze. Taras pointed at him and said, “You. Come here.”

  The young man stepped forward, his shoes almost slipping against discarded papers.

  Taras asked, “What is your name?”

  “V-Viktor.”

  “And what did you do, Viktor?”

  The young man finally raised his eyes to look at Arthur, a desperate gaze locking on to the captain.

  “Do not look at him, Viktor,” Taras stated, taking out his gun and holding it at his side. “Look at me.”

  The wide frightened eyes turned to Taras, his lower lip trembling.

  “What did you do, Viktor?” Taras repeated.

  Viktor shifted his weight between his feet.

  “I- I let him in, sir,” Viktor said. “The man…her ex-lover and your brother.”

  “Ah,” Taras said. “That’s it then.”

  The blade flipped in his palm as he took it out of his pocket, brandishing it toward Viktor’s stomach and plunging it inside him. He cut him along his middle, making him into two as he had chosen to play two sides. His wide eyes began to fade, slowly narrowing and rolling back in his head, collapsing to his knees and bleeding all over Taras’s hands on his way down.

  “Where is she?” Taras asked, turning himself and his blade to Arthur, who was looking down at the young man with horror.

  “Sir,” Arthur swallowed. “Please. We were doing our jobs—”

  “Doing your jobs?” Taras snapped. “If you had done your jobs, she would still be here. If you had done your jobs, it would be Andriy lying dead on the ground instead of this halfwit!” He used the stained dagger to point down at Viktor, who was seizing in a pool of his blood. “Let me be very clear, since it is obvious that you did not understand my intentions when we spoke yesterday. She is the priority. Over everyone else. Over all of you. She is the most important person that will walk through the streets of Kharkiv, and you let her walk out the front door equipped to the nines with backup and a hostage. You will be punished. Make no mistake. But let me ask, do you think you should die for the choices you made here today?”

  The blade turned back to Arthur. He shook his head furiously. Taras turned his attention to the other lined up officers, and they all gave him a pitiful shake of their heads.

  “Really?” Taras asked them again. One more sweep around the room with his eyes and his outstretched knife, all of them shaking their heads for a second time.

  “Fine.”

  Placing the knife back in his pocket and sighing, Taras moved himself back toward the door—his car and men waiting for him outside. The coals of his rage still burning deep in the bottom of his stomach, the remaining embers of his fire.

  He would not kill them for their choices, but there must be retribution. So as he stepped outside and got back into the backseat of his car, he gave each of his waiting men a nod.

  A few moments after they began the journey back home, Taras rolled down the window so he could hear it—the punishment. Three beeps and the glass at the front of the police station exploded. Flames erupted out of the building, black smoke licking the National Police of Ukraine sign and billowing up into the beautiful day. Some of the glass hurled in through Taras’s window, scratching at his cheeks, neck and lips, blood dribbling down from each of his new sanctions.

  He closed his eyes.

  The air and glass from the explosion, the smoke filtering into the backseat causing the driver to erupt into a fit of coughs, the sound of the officers’ screaming, the smell of his own blood.

  What would his father say now? That he had lost his mind? That he had lost the Kushkin way? Yet, the organization was more profitable and more powerful than it had ever been. Taras was mere hours away from eliminating the source of his haunting and truly stepping into his role as leader and new father. He imagined what it would be like to lay his head on the pillow his father had tried to suffocate him with, sleeping soundly. No nightmarish creatures disturbing his sleep, aside from himself.

  He went to Nelson first. His goal was already waiting for him at his home, so he would visit his treasure. The warehouse was quiet. No Jeremy Messer hanging from the pulley system nor girls being fucked against old crates, rolling in that smell of vegetable oil.

  Unlocking the door, Taras saw that Nelson was asleep on his couch. He was so beautiful when his deformed eyes were closed. His stubble had grown too long, and his olive skin was painted with a thin film of sweat. Taras would care for him.

  Using both of his hands, he carried his things inside and laid them out on a wooden stool—the cream, the brush, the moisturizer, the water and the razors.

  “What are you doing?” Nelson groaned from behind him, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. He yawned and said, “Are you aware that you’re covered in blood?”

  “Yes,” Taras replied. “It’s time. Sit back, please.”

&nb
sp; With the stool adjacent to the couch and Nelson staring up at him, Taras cupped his hands into the warm water and gently pressed his palms against his face, preparing him.

  “Just let it grow out,” Nelson said. “Please. This is purposeless.”

  “It has purpose,” Taras scoffed, brushing the cream over his stubble with the wooden-handled brush. “It removes your hair, does it not? That means it has purpose.”

  “What purpose does it have for you?”

  Taras smiled and said, “I get to be the first to see how handsome you look afterwards.”

  Nelson’s blank eye stared up at the ceiling, holding his face still, but his fingers tapping against the cushions of the old couch. Some of the blood loosened from the water, rubbed off into the cream, painting Nelson’s face with a pinkish tinge. In quick smooth motions, Taras took the razor at perfect downward angles along his cheek, close to his ear. The sound of the razor scraping against his coarse hairs sending a quiver through Taras’s hips.

  “How did you learn to do this?” Nelson asked after a few moments of scraping.

  “I used to shave my father,” Taras replied. “He was very strict, as you know. A simple slip of the finger, and I would be punished. If the water was too cool or too hot, he would smack the razor from my hands and pour the cream over my head. It would pour down my neck, my back, pooling in the waistband of my underwear, and he would force me to sit in it until he was ready to allow me to try again.”

  They were quiet, only the sound of the blade against Nelson’s skin filling the space between them. The tapping of the razor against the bowl and the swishing of it in the water, cleaning him one stroke at a time until he sat in front of him renewed. His square jaw on full display, pulsing like he was chewing on the inside of his cheek. His one eye searching for Taras’s next action, but discovering nothing but darkness.

  Taras pitied him.

  Still, he couldn’t help himself. Usually he did well to prevent temptation, but the stress of it all—Andriy’s idiocy, Weick slipping through his fingers, his trust being betrayed by his own employees. Not to mention, the loneliness.

  His full mauve lips, so clean and clear without the perimeter of graying hairs. Taras gently swiped at his bottom lip with his thumb and brought his face down to his, pressing his lips against him. At first, he seemed to let him. Taras was sure Nelson was lonely as well after a decade in their custody. But perhaps it was just a hesitant moment of not knowing how to react because when Taras began to push harder and move his body over his, Nelson shot up, hitting his forehead hard against his face.

  Taras reeled backward, blood pouring out from his nose.

  In a blind stupor, Nelson tried to grab the razors, his hands feeling for the stool and knocking over the bowl of water, shaving cream and short beard hairs coating the cement ground and pooling around his bare feet. Thankful for Nelson’s condition, Taras took two steps forward and moved the razors out of his sightless reach, shaking his head.

  “I tried to help you,” Taras said, spitting some of his blood into the pool of shaving water. It swirled between Nelson’s toes. “I did everything I could to keep you safe.”

  “Don’t touch me ever again—” Nelson said, wiping at his mouth. “Unless you’re going to kill me.”

  The insolence. Back in the car, rejected and embarrassed, the shaving equipment strewn over the seat, tears burned at the sides of Taras’s eyes. It had been generosity, charity, and yet, Nelson had forsaken him again. No room for love. Only choices, pain and punishment.

  The driver told him that the girl was at the manor, waiting for them. He should have been satisfied and happy with this news, the goal that he had worked on for so long finally coming to fruition, but Taras had no room for anything aside from unadulterated indignation.

  It was a few hours later that Taras came out of his blind rage. The girl was in front of him, staring at him like he was some type of homicidal beast. The other one, Katy, was splattered against the marble tile below. He took a few steps forward to peer over the bannister at what punishment had come to her.

  The table that kept the computers and tech had been moved out of the way to allow for the grandness of the lobby, so Weick could see what type of luxury her daughter was experiencing. But the employees were still there, all staring at Katy’s broken body in silence and then eyes moving up to Taras leaning over the bannister. It frustrated him that he couldn’t read their exact feelings. Were they looking up with respect? Or fear? At this point, it shouldn’t have mattered.

  Still, he called down to them, “This is the result of betrayal.”

  His voice seemed to activate them all, moving to their tasks as if nothing had happened. Two of the girls were huddled in the corner, crying quietly.

  “Taras…” Mrs. Babich said from behind him, standing next to the frightened girl, wrapping her arm around her shoulders. “Are you sure she was what you accused her of?”

  The only person he would allow to question him; still, it caused those waves of anger to return. “Yes, I am sure,” he replied. “Clean it up, Mrs. Babich.”

  “There is no time,” she said. “He is here.”

  “He?”

  “The father… with Andriy…”

  “And where is she?”

  Mrs. Babich shook her head. Everyone was useless. He could rely on no one but himself. His gun still in his hands, Taras headed down the stairs, gesturing for the girl to follow him. Mrs. Babich gave her a light push forward, and he grabbed at the back of her neck as soon as she was within arm’s reach. She did look like her mother—those same brown doe eyes that had fooled ignorant men for years. However young she was, she would catch a very good price on the market.

  The father was an unexpected kink in the chain of their plan. He was an expendable factor—just another barrier standing between him and his hauntings, Diana Weick.

  As they reached halfway down the stairs, the grand white doors opened. Two guards escorted in the father with his bicep wrapped around Andriy’s neck, a gun pointed into his side. He was wearing a military uniform and covered in sweat.

  His eyes slid over to Katy’s body and a grayness washed over his face—this was not an experienced SEAL. Was Weick so stupid to send this man in her place?

  “Rex Tennison,” Taras said. “Thank you for joining us.”

  He shoved Kennedy down the stairs and she lost her footing, slipping and sliding along the marble until she landed on her knees at the bottom. Rex tensed, shoving the gun into Andriy’s side and yelling, “I’ll kill him right now! I swear to god, you fucked-up bastard. I will shove this gun down his throat!”

  His shoes clicking against the marble, making his way to the bottom step and yanking Kennedy up to her feet, Taras laughed a little.

  “Where is Diana?” he asked.

  “Give me my daughter!” More screaming.

  “We’re never going to get anywhere if we can’t negotiate, Rex,” Taras replied.

  The guards had circled behind him, guns readied. The girls were keeping out of the way but watching with unnerving stares.

  “The negotiations aren’t going to change. Your brother for my daughter,” Rex said, pushing the gun so hard into Andriy’s side that he grimaced. Andriy was avoiding Taras’s eyes—ashamed of all he’d done to get him in this position.

  “Ah but that was never the negotiation, Mr. Tennison,” Taras said. “It is not my brother that I want nor that I care about… It is your wife. So where is she?”

  “You don’t care about your brother’s life?” Rex moved the gun up to Andriy’s temple.

  “Brother—” Andriy pleaded, bags under his eyes, bruises around his face, desperation on his lips.

  Did he have to prove himself to this man? Taras felt himself getting impatient, antsy. What was the American bitch playing at this time? Her contact was dead. What would bring her to him? He kept his grip tight on the back of Kennedy’s neck, his fingers whitening against her skin. Taras knew what he must do.

 
Lifting the gun, unapologetic, he pulled the trigger, the bullet sinking into his brother’s stomach, straight through him into the man behind him, skewering them both in one. And if that wouldn’t draw her out, then the next bullet would be in her daughter.

  Chapter 33

  Diana Weick

  Kherson Oblast, Ukraine

  Ahead, it was dark and murky. The closed-circuit Draeger tank kept the oxygen bubbles at bay and the water above her still. Her arms in front of her pulled her through the weight of the salty water. It had been years since she’d gone under, but diving made her feel more comfortable than she had in days. The memories not only in her muscles but in her mind—BUD/S training, drown-proofing, arms and ankles tied, treading water for ten minutes, swimming a hundred yards and picking up a soaked cloth bag with her teeth. Ratanake screamed at her from the side of the pool. Rank and Snowman ran alongside her, prepared to jump in if she passed out and sank to the bottom.

  This time, swimming through uninhibited, but the end goal much more difficult than a cloth bag.

  The GPS blinked as she approached the shore, the water getting too shallow to dive, Diana lifted her head above the soft waves. Through the goggles, she saw the stone balcony at the back of Kushkin’s manor. She scanned for vulnerabilities and danger. Two guards—one on either side of the balcony, leaning against the stone, guns strapped to their hips, not looking toward the water but instead peering into something that was going inside. They joined up in the middle of the balcony, standing at the glass doors and peering through with their hands cupped over their eyes.

  Figuring it was Katy’s distraction, Diana had to move.

  Tearing the wetsuit off as she crouched along the rocks, the water coming up along her ankles, Diana ducked under the balcony, sticking herself to one of the stone pillars. She would have to store the Draeger here. Hopefully she would be able to use it for E and E, depending on what type of trouble Rex had gotten himself into. There was a stone alcove about half a mile down the shore. On the other side, there was another manor, but it was far down and almost as big and intimidating as the Kushkins’. Being on the coast of the Black Sea, it was likely that of a smuggler or another trafficker.