Devil’s Lair: Molotov Obsession: Book 1

by Zaires, Anna

  “Shh, it’s okay. It’s me.” Dropping to my knees, I gather her against me, feeling the convulsive trembling of her body—and of mine. I’m shaking with relief and rage and the aftermath of bone-chilling terror, the awful fear that we were too late.

  We were almost at the gas station when Konstantin called me again with the news that his team had accomplished the nearly impossible feat of hacking into an NSA satellite, and that he was able to pinpoint the exact location of Chloe’s car—and the black pickup truck that was less than a half hour behind her.

  To say that we broke every speed limit in existence would be an understatement. Arkash is still recovering from the half-dozen times we nearly flew off a cliff. And we almost didn’t make it anyway. The terror that assaulted me when I saw her car in a crumpled, burning heap… If it hadn’t been for the empty pickup next to it and the sound of gunfire nearby, I would’ve lost my fucking mind.

  Actually, I did lose it when I saw her on the ground with the dark-haired assassin straddling her, twisted lust painted on his face.

  The motherfucker was going to rape her before killing her.

  It was the only reason she wasn’t already dead.

  My arms tighten around her reflexively, and she makes a faint sound of distress.

  I immediately pull back. “Are you hurt, zaychik? Injured in any way?”

  She doesn’t reply, just stares at me with huge, blank eyes, her pupils blown so wide her irises look black. She’s in shock, and no wonder. Even a trained soldier would be traumatized.

  Gently, I lay her down and begin inspecting her for injuries, starting with her ribs and stomach. I’m relieved to find only scrapes and bruises on her torso, but as my hand brushes over her right arm, she jerks with a pained cry, her face turning gray. I snatch my hand back, my pulse doubling at the sight of the red smear on my fingers as she squeezes her eyes shut, her breathing painfully shallow.

  Fuck. She is hurt.

  Steadying my hands, I rip open her sleeve.

  “Gunshot?” Pavel asks in Russian, appearing at my side, and I nod grimly, ripping off a piece of my shirt to fashion a makeshift bandage.

  “Looks like it went clean through, but she’s losing a good amount of blood.”

  “So is he,” Pavel says, and I tear my gaze from Chloe to glance at her assailant. He’s sitting slumped against a tree trunk a few feet away, with Kirilov putting pressure on his chest wound and Arkash standing guard over them.

  “I don’t think he’ll last long enough to get him back to the compound,” Pavel says as I swiftly finish tying the bandage and resume my inspection of Chloe. Her color is a little better, but her eyes are still closed and her breaths are too shallow for my liking. “If you want to interrogate him, it has to be now.”

  Fuck. I deliberately tried to only wound the motherfucker so we’d be able to question him. If he dies, so does our chance to get answers.

  I quickly finish patting down Chloe and leap to my feet. As much as I want to get my zaychik to a doctor right away, her injuries aren’t life-threatening—but not knowing who her enemies are could be.

  These men are pros, which means someone hired them, someone powerful, and I need to know who it is.

  “Watch over her,” I tell Pavel and step over to our captive.

  He’s breathing in jerky gasps, his face starkly pale and the entire front of his body soaked with blood.

  Pavel’s right. He doesn’t have much longer. I meant to shoot him in the shoulder, but he spun around too fast, alerted to my presence by the bullet I had to put through his colleague’s skull. With Pavel and the rest of the team unable to keep up with my terror-fueled sprint, I had no choice but to take out both assassins quickly, before they could do anything to Chloe.

  In hindsight, I should’ve wounded them both.

  As I crouch in front of the dying man, his lids lift, revealing baleful dark eyes.

  “Who the fuck are you people?” he rasps, only to close his eyes, exhausted by the effort.

  “Don’t worry about that.” Despite the volcanic rage boiling in my veins, my voice is lethally calm, controlled. “Who hired you? Why are you after her?”

  His upper lip twists in a snarl. “Fuck you.”

  “You’re dying, you know. I can let you fade away in peace or”—I take out my switchblade and flip it open—“I can mince you into pieces and make you feel every last slice.”

  His eyes open heavily. “Fuck off.”

  I throw a glance over my shoulder. Chloe is lying perfectly still, her eyes closed. Hopefully, she’s passed out, or at least is so deeply in shock she won’t register this next part.

  Either way, there’s no choice.

  I need to get answers, fast.

  I catch Arkash’s gaze. “Do it.”

  The guard pulls out a syringe and stabs the dying assassin in the neck, injecting him with our pharmaceutical division’s patented drug—the one the Russian military pays millions for.

  The man barely reacts at first, only swatting at the site of the injection with a feeble hand. A moment later, however, his eyes go wide and he sits upright, his breathing speeding up as color rushes into his pallid cheeks.

  “Epinephrine mixed with a few other fun substances,” I tell him cruelly. “It’ll keep you wide awake until the moment you croak. Which will be either a few neutral or a few terrible minutes from now. Your choice.”

  He’s panting now, sweat running down his face. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “If you don’t start talking, the man who makes your last moments hell.” I nod at Arkash and Kirilov, and they seize the man’s arms, easily lifting them above his head despite his struggles.

  “Last chance,” I prompt, but the motherfucker just glares at me.

  I smile darkly. I was hoping he’d prove difficult. As much as I prefer to play nice, this is the one time I’m looking forward to applying the skills Pavel taught me.

  With the speed of a striking rattler, I stab my knife into the man’s kidney and twist the blade.

  The scream that rips from his throat is barely human. The drug not only keeps him conscious, it enhances all sensations, magnifying pain a thousandfold.

  Before he can recover, I yank out the blade and slice at his stomach twice, slashing through skin, fat, and muscle in a big X.

  His eyes bulge, another inhuman scream tearing through his throat as I peel back the triangular flaps of flesh, revealing his insides.

  “Have you ever wondered what it feels like to have your intestines cut out without anesthesia?” I ask conversationally. “No? Because you’re about to find out. Actually, wait—I think that might kill you too quickly. We’ll start lower.” With another swift motion, I slash through the groin of his jeans, exposing his limp cock and balls.

  “Wait!” His eyes are wild as my blade descends again. “I’ll—I’ll tell you.”

  I stop an inch from his shriveled dick. “Go ahead.”

  “I don’t know why, okay? He never told us.” He coughs, spitting up blood. “Just said we had to take them out.”

  “Them?”

  “The woman and… the girl.”

  Fuck. “You were supposed to kill them both that day?”

  “Yeah.” His face is paler with each moment. “Only the girl was late. And then somehow she saw us and…” He coughs again, weakly, and I know the drug is losing the battle against his dying body.

  “Who was it?” I demand urgently as his lids drift down. “Who hired you?” I press the sharp point of the knife against his balls. “Give me a fucking name!”

  His eyes open blearily, and he croaks out three syllables—a name that nearly makes me drop my knife. My stunned gaze meets Arkash’s and Kirilov’s; written on their faces is the same slack-jawed look of disbelief.

  “Did you just say—” I begin, returning my attention to the assassin, only to fall silent in frustration.

  His eyes are vacant, his chest unmoving as his head lolls bonelessly to one side.

  It’s
over. The motherfucker’s gone.

  I leap to my feet, my mind furiously sifting through what I know.

  The man he named would definitely have the resources to do this, but what’s the motivation? The connection? How would his and Chloe’s paths have even crossed?

  Unless… they didn’t.

  Chloe wasn’t the only person on his hit list; her mother was on it too.

  And then, like an avalanche, it hits me.

  California. Young mother, still underage at the time of Chloe’s birth. A father she never knew. A full-ride scholarship that came out of nowhere.

  A different man, one with a normal, loving family, would never leap to a conclusion so twisted, so dark. But I’m a Molotov, and I know shared blood doesn’t buy loyalty or safety.

  I know love can be more violent than hate.

  Heart thudding heavily, I turn to look at Chloe.

  If I’m right, her very existence is a career-ending scandal—and another so-called father deserves my knife.

  53

  Chloe

  I’m in hell. Either that or trapped in a nightmare. My arm is on fire, my insides are roiling, and each time the dark haze in my mind clears and I crack open my eyelids, I see Nikolai doing something ever more terrible as his deep, smooth voice utters threats that make bile churn in my throat. And the screaming that follows… My stomach lurches, and it’s all I can do not to roll over and vomit.

  This isn’t real.

  It can’t be.

  The dark haze threatens to swamp me again, and I focus on taking small, shallow breaths and keeping my eyes closed. It has to be a dream, a horrible, graphic dream, or a hallucination brought on by extreme terror. How else would Nikolai be here? How would he have found me?

  Then again, how did my mom’s killers?

  My consciousness must cut out again, because when I open my eyes next, I’m in the backseat of a moving SUV, comfortably ensconced on a man’s lap. Nikolai’s lap—I’d recognize that cedar-and-bergamot scent anywhere. His powerful arms are around me, holding me tight, and my pulse leaps with joyous relief as I realize this isn’t a dream.

  Nikolai is here.

  He came for me.

  I must make some kind of noise because he pulls back, eyes fiercely golden in his taut face. “Almost there,” he promises, voice rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “The doctor is already waiting.”

  As he speaks, I become aware of a throbbing pain in my right arm and the general feeling of lightheadedness and extreme weakness, along with the sensation that I’ve been beaten all over with a club. The latter must be from jumping out of the car—and also from being tackled to the ground by the younger killer. My heart rate triples as I recall his face above me, the twisted hunger in those flat, dark eyes.

  How did I go from there to here?

  How is it that Nikolai—

  Abruptly, my mind clears and the memories rush in, each more nauseating than the next. The older man with his skull blown off… Nikolai leaping toward me, gun held like an extension of his hand… His interrogation of the man who planned to rape me; the threats Nikolai made and the brutal, skilled way he wielded that switchblade… And the screams, those raw, blood-curdling screams…

  I begin to shake as my gaze sweeps the car, taking in Pavel’s stone-faced presence next to us and the two dangerous-looking men up front. I’ve never seen them before, but they must be guards from the compound. My eyes snap back to Nikolai’s face, that perfectly sculpted face that can look alternately savage and tender, and I notice a reddish-brown streak over one high cheekbone.

  Blood. Dried blood.

  My shaking intensifies. Misinterpreting the cause, Nikolai strokes my jaw, his fierce expression softening. “It’s okay, zaychik, you’re safe. They can’t hurt you.”

  But he can. I’m painfully, acutely aware that I’m at the mercy of this beautiful, terrifying man. Being held on his lap only highlights the size and strength differences between us; his large, powerful body surrounds me completely, the muscular band of his arm at my back as inescapable as any iron chain. Not that I’d be able to escape in any case—not with his men here, not while the SUV is driving at full speed.

  I’m better off not knowing, but I can’t hold back the question. “It was you, wasn’t it?” My voice emerges as a strained whisper. “You shot him in the head.”

  It’s as if a veil drops over Nikolai’s face, all hint of expression disappearing. “I had no choice. If I’d only injured him, he could’ve killed you while I dealt with his partner. With the two of them there, I had to eliminate one, fast.”

  “And the other man…” I swallow down a surge of nausea at the recollection of the screams. “Is he…?”

  “Dead from his injuries, yes.” There’s no remorse in Nikolai’s voice, no sign of guilt in his level gaze, and shards of ice form in my veins as I realize he’s done this before.

  He’s killed and tortured others.

  Including, most likely, his own father.

  “Stop the car!” The words fly out of my mouth before I can consider their wisdom. Ignoring the dizzying flare of pain in my arm, I wedge my hands between us and push against his chest—which, for some reason, feels like it’s plated with steel. Desperate, I resort to begging. “Please, Nikolai, let me out. I need… I just need a minute.”

  He doesn’t budge, and neither do any of his men as he says quietly, “We’re almost home, zaychik. Just a few minutes longer.”

  Home? My panicked gaze jumps to the window, and fear squeezes my chest as I recognize the road leading up to the compound, the steep curves of which I navigated just this morning as I fled from the man holding me… the man I didn’t truly believe was a killer.

  “Don’t worry. I had the doctor and his team come out here,” Nikolai says, addressing a question that’s just started forming in my mind. “They brought everything they need to treat you.”

  I take in his implacable expression, my fear growing with each passing second. “I would prefer a hospital. Please, Nikolai… just take me to a hospital.”

  “I can’t.” His chiseled features might as well be made of granite. “It’s not safe.”

  “Safe? But—”

  “Those two were just hired guns. There’s plenty more where they came from.”

  My throat goes dry. In my panic, I almost forgot about the mystery of the killers’ motivations. “Is that what he told you? The man you… questioned?” Is my theory right, after all? Did my mom witness something she shouldn’t have?

  “Yes, and Chloe…” He frames my cheek with his large, warm palm, the tender gesture belying the hard set of his features. “They were there to kill you both.”

  “What?” I jerk back. “No, that’s not poss—”

  “That’s what the assassin said. If you hadn’t been late coming home…” He drops his hand, a muscle flexing violently in his jaw.

  “But that doesn’t—” I stop short as fragments of the conversation I overheard that day surface in my mind.

  Supposed to be here… Maybe there’s traffic…

  I heard the killers say that, but for some reason, I didn’t put two and two together, didn’t realize they were talking about me, waiting for me.

  “I don’t understand.” I’m shaking again, trembling with a chill that has nothing to do with the AC inside the car. “Why would anyone want me dead? I haven’t done anything, I don’t know anyone, I’m just—just me.”

  Nikolai’s expression shifts, a strange pity entering his gaze. “No, zaychik, I don’t think you are.”

  “What?” I push against his bizarrely hard chest again—and nearly faint from the fresh explosion of pain in my arm. His face swims in front of my eyes, and I’m still fighting not to pass out when a startling realization filters in.

  That hardness is a bulletproof vest.

  In the next moment, however, I forget all about it because Nikolai asks, “Does the name Tom Bransford mean anything to you?”

  The syllables don’t make sens
e at first. “You mean… the presidential candidate?” As soon as the question leaves my lips, I realize how absurd it is. He can’t possibly be talking about the California senator who’s all over the news these days, the one they’re comparing to JFK. I must’ve misheard or—

  “That’s the one.” His eyes gleam like antique gold. “Unless there’s another Tom Bransford with the resources to hire professional assassins, erase security tapes, and alter police records.”

  “Police records? What—”

  “I’ve gone through all the files relating to your case,” he says gently, “and there’s nothing about the masked men at your mom’s apartment—nor the black pickup that nearly ran you over. In fact, according to the official record, it was a neighbor who discovered your mother; you never even showed up to identify the body.”

  “That’s not true! I went to the station and—”

  “I know.” His gaze darkens. “And there’s more. Your emails to the journalists never reached their destination. Someone with a very specific set of skills made sure they’d be blocked or marked as spam—and they also got rid of whatever proof there was of your story, like traffic cam recordings and security tapes that would’ve shown you getting attacked.”

  I feel like a sinkhole is opening underneath me. “How do you know all this?” My voice shakes, my thoughts spinning like twigs in a tornado. I don’t know what to think, what to believe, and the throbbing pain in my arm isn’t helping. “How did you—”

  “Because I also have resources. Including some that Bransford doesn’t.”

  Of course. That’s how he found me so fast today—and why I’m completely screwed if he intends to harm me. My heart thuds painfully, a cold sweat drenching my shirt as another wave of dizziness attacks me, making black dots dance at the corners of my vision. Blood loss, I realize dimly; that must be what’s causing this. Desperately, I suck in air, but it only helps a little, and my voice sounds like it’s coming from far away as I ask shakily, “Why did you come after me today? Why—” I drag in another breath. “Why are you bringing me back?”