Anatoly : Ruthless (Bad Russian Book 11)

by Alice May Ball

  “I’m sure he said things to try and churn you up. Ignore them if you can.”

  He takes my hand and holds it. “I’ll put him back in the hold in a moment, then you won’t have to see him again.” And then, “Are you still sure you don’t want me to kill him?”

  “I’m sure,” something stings momentarily in my eye, “But thank you for asking.”

  He would kill a man on my word. The thought drops through me like a sudden hot shower.

  He carries Igor back to put him in his box. I’m having as much difficulty forgetting him saying, ‘you won’t have to see him again,’ as I am in ignoring everything that Igor said. I push it all to the back of my mind, though. The thought that I can’t quite put away is the memory of Anatoly telling me that his client is ‘the worst of them all.’

  When he comes back, Anatoly puts his arms around me. I sink into him and I feel like everything in the world is alright again as he holds me, tenderly stroking my hair. Feeling his warmth and his strength around me seems to make the world into a different place. Maybe he makes me feel like a different person. Someone who can face the world, however it is.

  “Your client,” I ask him, “You said he was the worst of all the Russian criminals.”

  “He’s pretty bad. But they all are. Maybe you think I should say, ‘we’ all are.”

  “No, Anatoly.” I stroke his face. “But I was wondering. Do people take out contracts on people like him?”

  “All the time.”

  “And you would take jobs like that?”

  “A lot of my jobs are like that. This one is, in a way.”

  “What if someone took out a contract? Gave you a job to hit your client.”

  “It’s not unheard of. I wouldn’t have a problem. I’d be pretty glad to do it to tell you the truth.”

  “How much do you charge?”

  “Whatever I like.”

  “So, could I hire you to take out your client?” He smiles and kisses me. I say, “For ten dollars, say?”

  He frowns, deep and serious. “Cash only. Fifty percent deposit. No refunds.”

  I look in my purse. I can’t find a five. I give him a ten. “How about a hundred percent up front?”

  His laugh is the sexiest sound I ever heard. It makes me boil up inside.

  He kisses me and I melt into his arms, writhing. Pulling, gripping him and pulling him into me.

  His arms wrap me tight and all his muscles come to life. I feel his heartbeat pound against me and he swells.

  He kisses me, long, deep and passionate. With fire in his eyes, he tells me, “No rush this time.” But there’s thunder behind his voice and a storm in his eyes.

  He stands and I get up with him. He takes hold of me, and I feel him holding back. He touches me with care, even though I can feel his muscles buzz with rage. His eyebrows tremble. The only other outward sign of his anxiety is a twitch on the right side of his chin, making the cleft dance.

  Tenderly he peels off my clothes, opening me, baring me, piece by piece, kissing and adoring every patch of my flesh us he unwraps me.

  I press myself against him. I feel the rage and passion in his heat and the buzz in his body. His strength expands and swells, standing him up, long, thick, and hard. His eyes gleam as he exposes me. First my throat, then my shoulders and my breasts, quivering under the hardness of his eyes.

  He clasps and strokes and squeezes me, pulling my emotions to the surface. My breath thickens and beats harder. Inside, my feelings rouse into a swell, a whirl of sensation, gathering in waves.

  Heavy and wet, my panties are the only thing left between me and him. He strokes my thighs and slides down my last thin covering. When he takes out his cock, it’s like he’s unsheathing a weapon. Loaded and ready to kill. Hot, hard, firm, it stands ready.

  His hands reach down between my legs. He cups my ass like it’s two small eggs. He makes me feel delicate as he lifts me. Raises me, wide and open, ready to impale on his throbbing pole.

  When he lowers me, drops me down, piercing me, splitting me open his grin is hot and evil.

  I can’t help shouting as he parts me, cleaving me open and stretching me on the heat of his hard girth.

  Crouching as he lances deeper, higher into me, he holds me like I’m a tiny doll. Like I weigh nothing. The strength of his big hands makes me weaken.

  I’m surfing high on a wave of sensation as he thrusts in, then he says, “My Emma,” and he gasps, “I never knew I needed a woman. Not like I need you.”

  Cresting, my wave bursts and crashes, exploding and splashing me through my core and setting cascades of liquid eruption, bursting through my arms and legs, my chest and my neck.

  My toes curl and my fingers claw as my walls grip and cling, pulling, suckling to squeeze him deeper, harder.

  Slapping my soft ass on the tops of his thighs and grinding down into his lap, I’m bouncing and screwing down harder, tighter, pulling him deeper.

  His hips rock and the muscles in his neck thicken. His face reddens, and his eyes blaze.

  He thrums and pulsates as he pumps blasting bolts of thick, sticky joy to overflow around the lips of my plump, sore, greedy pussy.

  “Anatoly! Give it to me! Fill me up! Pump me with your hot jizz.”

  “Emma you are so perfect.” He looks hard into my eyes and cradles my face in his hands as we shake and slam together.

  I rest and drift away to a sound sleep, secure in his arms.

  I have no way to know how long it’s been when I awake.

  The plane has landed, and I can see that it’s night outside. We’re in a wide expanse of tarmac, with only a few large, distant gray hangars. The whole place seems deserted, apart from a dozen blue and white police vehicles, all with red and blue lights flashing.

  Policemen, four of them, all wearing face masks and gloves, and blue-gray fatigues, come aboard. They pass straight through the cabin. I can see through the part-open door at the front that two more police are in the cockpit with guns drawn.

  They all speak in Russian. Mostly to each other. One says something, harshly, to Anatoly, who’s standing by the galley. He simply looks back. He raises a coffee pot and gestures in my direction as he speaks to the cop. I would understand the reply easily enough from the guttural snarl, even if I didn’t recognize the word, ‘Nyet!’

  Two police come back, wheeling a long trunk. Igor, I’m guessing. I wonder why they don’t take him out of it. I figure there must be a hoist at the doorway. As those two cops exit with the trunk, the other two crowd close around Anatoly.

  Their voices are muffled by the masks as they bark at him. He remains calm and cool, and he says very little to respond. I don’t like how it seems to be going, though. One of the cops holds out an arm toward the door.

  Anatoly steps toward me.

  “Best if you remain on the plane. I’ll go in with Igor. This all shouldn’t take too long.”

  I don’t know if I can believe him. The two cops take hold of his shoulders. He shrugs them off and winks at me as he straightens up and heads for the door.

  Then it closes behind him.

  Chapter 13

  Him

  I EXPECTED A SURPRISE like this from Stanislav. Every step of the way, he always moves things around. Spends a long time making complicated plans, harasses you to keep up every step of the way, then changes everything at the very last second. This is a typical Stanislav shock tactic.

  Part of his success is keeping everyone in a constant state of not knowing. It’s why I never carry communications devices with me on an assignment, if the job is for him. No phones or even computers that he can reach. If I did, he’d be micro-managing the assignment every fifteen minutes. I know people he’s done that with. Most of them are in jail or dead.

  I expected something like this, so I already gave the pilot a gun. Told him, anything he needed to do to protect Emma, he’d be very richly rewarded. I hate to leave her, but I know that she’s safer on the plane than she would be if I brought
her with me.

  I just have to get this part done fast so I can get back to her.

  Two armored police cars and a truck wait on the tarmac with red and blue lights spinning. The two cops, if they are cops, march me to one of the cars.

  The other two men have hauled the trunk with Igor aboard into the back of the truck. They take the other car and lead the truck away. I hate to start anything out here on the apron. The other team are still in sight. If they see me making a break, they’ll turn back. I can’t risk being put in the back of the car, though. I know that if I let myself get bundled inside, I’ll be cuffed or bound and I won’t get a chance. It’s now or never.

  The two goons are marching, one on either side of me. Bad tactics. Makes me think they are real police. Moscow cops are too lazy and arrogant to learn anything.

  I shoot out my right forearm and swing back, to slam into the throat of the cop on that side. As it connects, I’m turning my weight, pushing through a kick with my left foot, into the back of the other cop’s knee.

  Either move could have disabled the victim, but not while I have my attention divided and I have to do both at once. I have to count on the throat slam slowing that cop down. Turn my attention to the one falling backward to my left. With both hands, I grab his neck. As he drops, I grip his jaw and twist. Enough to knock him out. I don’t need him dead. He’ll be out for long enough. I’ll be away, and he’ll need to be on the run from all of his bosses.

  The other cop chokes, but he’s reaching for his gun. I spin to drive a long, hard kick up into his groin. He folds forward and I slam my fist up into his jaw. He’ll be awhile sleeping that off.

  Only now do I take time to look up for the truck and the other car. They’ve gone, though.

  I disarm both men and put their own cuffs on them, with their arms entwined. I made them into a Celtic knot. You have to get some fun in your work, I always feel.

  Taking their cop car into the city, I sit hard on the urge to put the lights and sirens on. I want this done. Careful moves and a calm state of mind will get me back to her soonest. I know that it will all go much better, if I let the other ‘cops’ take Igor wherever they plan to go.

  As soon as I catch sight of their vehicles ahead, I fall slowly farther back. Idly, watch as they head along the bank of the Volga, toward the center of Moscow. When they’re out of sight I pull over, take out a cellphone and put in a fresh SIM chip.

  After I take a moment to breathe, I call Stanislav.

  He picks up on the first ring.

  “Stanislav.” He won’t be able identify the new number, but he recognizes my voice right away.

  “Anatoly. I’m glad you’re back safe and sound.”

  The way his voice purrs, he makes the words, ‘safe and sound’ feel like a threat.

  He doesn’t sound at all surprised to hear from me. Not even a little bit. He doesn’t ask about the cops, or about anything else.

  I tell him, “I’ll come right in, Stanislav. I’ve just been going mad for a cup of Moscow coffee, okay? I’d kill for an espresso at Chelovek i Parohod, but right now I’d settle for Coffeemania.” Stanislav only grunts. “After I get a coffee and a pastry, I’ll be right there.”

  “Of course. Perfect, Anatoly.” His voice is tense. “I’ll see you here. At my office, Anatoly. I’ll expect you in what, about half an hour?”

  “Or even less. See you then.”

  If I had been in any doubt, Stanislav telling me to come to his office clinched it. I’ve never met him anywhere else but there. If that’s really where he was, then he wouldn’t need to say it. Telling me that’s where he would be was an error.

  The app on my phone shows me where the tiny tracker has gone, the tracker I slipped into the collar of Igor’s shirt. He’s in the Hotel Moskva, across from the fortress of the Kremlin. That’s a long way from Stanislav’s office.

  I’m sure Stanislav has arranged another kind of surprise to be waiting for me in his office. Still, I have no time for that. I have a lot to do. And I need to keep my mind focussed forward.

  Before we landed, I made sure the pilot was armed, and I let him know that whatever happens, he takes care of Emma. “If you look after her, I’ll take care of you.”

  He agreed willingly. I know I can trust him.

  Thoughts and images of Emma’s little moans as her soft flesh rolled in my arms are inspiring, and so are memories of the taste of her neck and her breasts, but none of that helps me to concentrate.

  One large part of me is concentrating. Getting larger while it does, too.

  It will have to wait.

  Chapter 14

  Her

  THERE’S WIFI IN THE cabin, so I can make use of the time alone in the plane.

  The noise of raised voices from the cockpit frightens me, but I tell myself that Anatoly will be back for me. I just have to hold on and wait.

  How could I have found a man like him? I can’t believe it. He’s powerful and strong, fierce, but tender in the most melting of ways. He will come back. I know he will.

  In the cockpit, something makes a bang.

  Chapter 15

  Him

  ON THE TWELFTH FLOOR of the hotel Moskva, I slip along the hallway, following the tracker signal. I press myself against the wall by the door to Room 1287. On the side of the doorframe, away from the hinges. I bang my knuckles on the door. Hard and insistent. Like a cop or the hotel detective. I keep to the side. Out of view.

  There are voices inside. After a moment, the door opens a crack. Going in low, I barge the door with my shoulder, reaching forward for the arm on the handle. The one that opened the door. If there’s a gun, it’s in the other hand. So, when I pull the arm, the goon’s body will be between me and the weapon.

  He’s a big man, but he’s slow.

  With my fingers flattened in a bear-hand fist, I shoot a punch under his ear. He’s limp and drops straight down. When he falls I pull back fast. Just in time. A shot cracks out. Another goon is in the braced firing position and puts out a volley of shots.

  With my Glock ready, I hit the door. Timing for shock, I slam the door open. At the same time, I move fast to the other side of the frame. As I pass, I put three bullets where the central mass of the shooter’s chest was.

  At least two bullets connect. He’s in a mess. I don’t want to leave him suffering. As I step in the room, I put a shot in his temple.

  Both hands on the Glock, held out at arm’s length, I sweep the room with the barrel.

  Igor is on a couch, bound like a long, untidy golf bag. His face and neck have blotches of purple and blue. Duct tape binds his mouth, too.

  Stanislav sits, huge and sleek in a big armchair in the far corner, by the big window. Net drapes diffuse the dreary gray Moscow light.

  “I’m glad that you went the extra mile, as the Americans say,” his voice is thick. Slow. “It’s good that you took the trouble to bring Igor back in a fully functioning condition.”

  The look in Igor’s eyes fades from rage to resignation.

  “He tells me you brought back a souvenir from your trip to the United States.”