Madness (Revenge Series Book 3) (9 page)

For a moment, I wonder how I’m going to get the man out of her clutches without causing a very public scene. Before I even have time to come to a decision, though, the taxi pulls alongside the curb, and Josslyn walks over to him.

The man tailing her abruptly stops and starts to slink into the crowded walkway. He pulls a cell phone from his pocket, looking to get a car of his own, I presume, but I won’t let that conversation take place.

I kneel down on the sidewalk and pull my shoelace free. As my fingers work to retie it, I slip my hand swiftly inside my left pant leg where, strapped around my inner ankle, a small, razor-sharp knife rests. It’s the blade I use when a gun is too noticeable and the victim needs to be stunned quickly. The blade may be small, but when stuck in the right place, it is a very handy instrument.

The knife is all black, camouflaging nicely next to my black suit. My briefcase is in my other hand, and my garment bag is strapped on my shoulder. It seems impossible to the normal person that I can manhandle someone while still carrying the weight of all of my belongings. What they fail to realize is that they are simply more tools in my demented plan.

I walk across the traffic again, not trying to blend in behind the man. I move to the front and put myself right beside him.

The taxi door slams shut, and I know Josslyn is safe inside. I strike. The man moves to step forward, but the knife hidden alongside me is now wrenched in his rib cage, placed strategically between two bones and right in a vital organ.

Stunned, he teeters to the side. He’s on the edge of a bad collapse, but I’m there to catch him before he does. I drape his arm around my shoulder and guide him to the side of an old, unused building. To the outside world, it looks like I’m helping a drunken friend get home. And I
will
help him. I will be relieving him of his pain as soon as I get some information out of him.

The side of the building is dark, providing the right amount of cover. Setting my briefcase down, I pull my gun from inside my jacket and shoot the locks on a wooden door. The muffled pop ricochets between the buildings, but I waste no time. I raise my foot and slam my heel into the wood, kicking the door open. The man draped over my shoulder starts to whine as I drag him through the door and drop him to the ground. He lands with a hard thud on his side.

My body is hard as I scan him closely. He’s not Russian or European. His skin is a rich brown, and his eyes are as black as his jacket. His ebony hair is cut short to his head, and his jaw is covered with a full, trimmed beard. The man couldn’t be more than thirty years of age, and his small, trim build tells me he is in adequate shape.

I pull the knife from his body and roll him over. He groans in agony and gasps to get air into his lungs. He will bleed out soon if he doesn’t get the treatment he needs; however, that is not something I will allow. The only thing I will allow is putting him out of his misery.

I kneel down, getting close to the man’s face, and ask, “Who are you?”

The man sputters, trying to form words. Nothing is recognizable. Not a word or the language he’s speaking. And frankly, I don’t have time for this.

I turn the dial on my briefcase, enter the code, and pop it open. Sitting on top is my old friend. I reach down and put the steel in my hand. Like an old girlfriend, we take some time to get reacquainted. She feels nice in my palm, like she belongs there.

I lift my leather-clad hand and squeeze his chin in my fingers. His eyes bulge with worry as he sees what I pulled out—my Bowie knife.

I tip his head back and press the serrated side of the blade under his chin. The teeth cut into his flesh, causing little holes to appear as the blood puckers and runs down his neck. The little air he has left gasps out rapidly. He gags on the saliva building in his mouth and tries to speak, but nothing coherent comes out.

I flip my knife over and jerk my arm to the side. The deadly blade glides smoothly across his skin, and blood pours from his neck. It only takes moments before the man takes his final gasp of air and dies.

I know he’s not a part of the
thieves
, considering his descent, but I need to know where he was from or some sort of identification so I know whom I’m dealing with.

I jerk his arms out of his coat and look his skin over. There’s nothing. No tattoos or unique markings.

Leaning down, I pat down his sides and pull his wallet out of a pocket. There is an identification card tucked in the back, giving the name Zahir Mirza. The name doesn’t outwardly ring a bell, but I have one person who can pinpoint his identity.

Pulling my phone from my inside pocket, I snap a picture of the card and flop it down on top of him. I dial her number and wait for Aya Nakamura’s voice to singsong on the other end.

“Hello, Mr. Black,” her voice comes through the other end. From her delightful tone, she sounds like she’s smiling.

“Hello, Miss Nakamura,” I respond, trying to keep my voice clear of any emotion.

“Are you calling to check up on me?” She giggles like a schoolgirl, and I roll my eyes, knowing she can’t bring the wrath down on me. If Aya is anything, subtle and sweet isn’t it. She’s is one of the wickedest vixens I have ever met. “Because your five-million-dollar job was done a week ago.”

“No, ma’am. I’m in need of your services again. I need to get the identification of a man and find the whereabouts of another.”

“Oh, well, that should be easy enough.” She clears her throat and transitions into a more business-like tone. “Who’s the first?”

“Zahir Mirza,” I reply and send her the picture.

Instantly, I can hear her clicking on the keyboard as she scans her databases for this criminal.

Several seconds later, she comes through and starts debriefing me.

“Zahir Mirza, born April 30, 1992. Son of unknown woman and … Oh, now this is interesting.”

“What?” I snap.

“His father is Omar Mirza,” she responds. The name is familiar, but I don’t immediately recognize it. “He’s one of the wealthiest men in the trafficking scene, running the auctions in Bangladesh. He’s known for breaking the toughest of females and doing unspeakable things to children. Can I presume you’ve killed one of four sons to the underground king?” I huff out an answer and she continues, “Exciting, Mr. Black, and from what I’m reading, the Mirza men are more ruthless the older they get. You’ve got yourself the second to youngest there.”

The information is very useful, but I wonder why he is trolling for women in Moscow. Has there been an increased need for Russian women to sell at auction? That will need to be answered later because the one person I need to find will be the hardest to track.

Changing the subject, I continue my business transaction with Aya. “I need the location of one more person, and then I will be done with your services for now.”

“Okay, okay … but I will need payment for this one. I will give you the other on the house because I like you, Mr. Black.” She giggles again then demands, “Five thousand American dollars, sir.”

“Done. I will forward it to your account as soon as I get off the phone,” I promise.

“Agreed. The name of the other man?”

“He’s a former member of the Vory V Zakone. Went by the street name Cubby. Last known location is Chechnya.”

The clicking sounds through the phone.

I don’t think Cubby has moved locations, but I also don’t know what kind of deal he made with Stravinsky before he got out. All I know is that he killed a bunch of men and presumably for the woman he loved. I heard through the channels he was sentenced to Chechnya, and if he dared to leave, Stravinsky would kill him. Of course, this is gossip, and the only people who really know are Cubby and Stravinsky.

Aya releases a breath then comes through on the other end. “This Cubby fellow is right where you thought—Chechnya. About twenty or so kilometers outside of Grozny in a small village.” I don’t know how she does it, but Aya can find anyone. She is a deadly weapon for someone like me, and I like to use her to the fullest. “Alkhan Yurt … Have you heard of it?”

Of course I have. During the first Chechen war, Alkhan Yurt was attacked, leveling the village and killing several people. The violence in Chechnya during that time was unreal, but fortunately for me, I was far away in America, adapting to the way of the
thieves
.

“Yes, I know where it’s at.”

“Good. Anything else I can do for you, darling?”

“No, ma’am. You’ve been amazing as usual,” I compliment in hopes I will always stay on her good side.

“Until next time, Mr. Black.” She clicks off the phone, and I gather up my belongings.

Looking down at the man on the ground, I smile wickedly, knowing I took this piece of shit out before he was able to do more damage to some other unsuspecting woman.

When I stride from the building, night has fallen; the sky is a dark blanket above me. The stars are gleaming, and the moon is shining fully.

I take a deep breath and stride down between the buildings until I’m back out in civilization. On the short walk to the Four Seasons, I think about my next move and what role Josslyn will truly play in the plan to capture our prey.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

Josslyn

August 18, 2015 9:20 p.m.

I
step from the bathtub, wrapping the warmest, softest robe around me. My nerves are shot. The last two hours have aged me ten years. Of course, my mind has been wandering. I think about what I could have done better, what happened to Nikolai, and if he really was following behind me.

I walk from the bathroom and quickly dress in a T-shirt and slip on a pair of red panties. I don’t know if he will come to my room or if he will communicate with me via phone. I did find a flip phone tucked inside a small pocket in the briefcase when I got to the room. I pulled it out to find one number listed as a contact. I can only assume it’s his.

I pull my gun from the depths of my suitcase and lay it on the side table next to the bed. It’s not even ten in the evening, but I am tired and need to sleep before my mind drives me crazy. Therefore, I pull the covers back and start thinking about what will happen next. And the truth is, I don’t know. I know we will be going to Chechnya, but when that will take place is beyond me. The only part of the plan I know is that we have to find this guy Cubby and see if he is the link that will put us in front of Stravinsky.

I settle myself between the covers and close my eyes. The past two weeks start replaying in my head. I agreed to follow a known killer into this crimson future in order to achieve revenge after fifteen years.
And I will!
I will continue on this road because my family deserves justice the only way men like Vlad and Ademar Stravinsky warrant—the kind of death only brought on by a person like Nikolai.

His rotting in jail will do nothing to suppress the rage that boils when I hear the sounds of my dying father. Sitting on death row will only give him more years and more opportunity to take another breath. Stravinsky doesn’t deserve a single second longer of life. He needs to die by the hands of the people he ruined the most.

.*.*.*.

August 19, 2015 12:01 a.m.

My body is weighted. I try to stir, but it’s impossible. The four glasses of vodka have me feeling sluggish and keep my mind in a fuzzy state. I can’t move. Why can’t I move?

I pop my eyes open and connect my irises to Nikolai’s wolfish ones. His jaw is set in a razor sharp line, his teeth clenched tightly together. I wiggle slightly, recognizing I am pinned down. My wrists are above my head, held by one of his strong hands, and his hips are pressing my pelvis firmly to the mattress. I don’t move, yet I don’t understand what is going on.

Uncontrollably, I start to heat, knowing how desperately I want to recreate the night we fucked on the hood of his car.

As I start to soften my muscles, a metallic shimmer attracts my focus to the side. The moonlight is shining brightly through the window. When I finally recognize what I’m looking at, all the heat and desire wash away from me.

The blade of his Bowie knife is gripped in his hand, and his eyes are feral, just like they were when we killed our way out of the hotel in San Francisco.

My heart thuds and my limbs start to quake. The survival mode is kicking in, and I am plunged violently back into the night he held me captive. I can feel the cold evil surrounding him. He’s going to kill me.

I keep as still as possible as the steel blade slowly slides out of sight and rests under my chin. I fear swallowing, knowing the little movement would make contact with his deadly weapon.

His face lowers, his breath dancing with mine as I do my best to remain calm.

“Did you have a nice rest, my dear?” His voice is very quiet, deep and frigid. “I hope that you did, because you’re lucky to even have this opportunity.”

I want to speak. I want to ask him what the hell he’s talking about. Nevertheless, I’m afraid to make a single motion. Instead, I widen my eyes, answering with a look and hoping he understands.

“Would you like me to elaborate?” he replies then smiles as wickedly as a snake. “You’ve been sloppy, my dear. And carelessness leads to you being killed.” He pulls the blade from my neck, and I hear it thud to the carpet.

The air trapped in my lungs pushes out with a violent force as my heart starts to slow to a normal pace. It’s soon replaced by explosive anger.

“What the fuck is your problem!”

He leans up as his grip on my wrists becomes tighter. “My problem is you, Josslyn.” His tone is still quiet and cold. “You had the simplest of tasks and failed to successfully follow through.”

“How so?” I seethe.

“The hotel room for starters. It was easy to find out what room you were staying in and just as easy to get in. You forgot to slide the chain lock in place and twist the deadbolt. Granted, I could have gotten in, but it would have bought you some time to prepare in order to protect yourself. Now, here you are, trapped under my body after you had a knife just pressed to your throat.” He lets go of my wrists and sits up over me. “Like with Vlad, Josslyn, your stupidity astounds me.”