by Jaycee Clark
She shook her short, short hair dry—and decided she loved her new style. At her scalp, she didn’t have to do anything. No styling, no drying. She looked one way then the other. Bloody hell, it was short. Her face appeared even slimmer, her neck longer. She smiled and slapped on enough makeup that she’d fit into the club crowd. Not that she’d visited either Nero’s or Babylon’s, but she’d been in enough clubs over the years to know how to dress like she wanted to be there either with someone or by herself.
Studying herself in the mirror with a critical eye, she made certain her gun wasn’t noticeable. Her skin reflected her mixed race, as did her black hair and pale green eyes. She’d always thought her mouth a bit too lush and wide, but she knew she was pretty. Men were rarely suspicious of a pretty woman. They saw what they wanted to see. And it had aided her enough, she wouldn’t ignore her looks. Without a doubt, she knew her eyes were her best feature; long lashes and the jade color contrasted glaringly with her darkened skin tone. She had aristocratic features, as Nikko had told her time and again. A gentle curve of jaw, high cheekbones, and straight slender nose. She was tall. But pretty or not, she stayed in shape. Her muscles were not because of the latest bloody fashion or health craze that gripped the masses. She’d learned long ago to protect herself. Her stint as a constable and then in MI5 and MI6 only honed her muscles and her skills.
Knowing she’d do, she grabbed her long coat, made certain she had anything she’d need. Passport, room key, phone, cash, and her trusty little tool that would open any new computerized lock or start a car. Lovely little bit of technology and a birthday gift from Nikko.
Raven left the hotel, deciding to walk a while before hailing a cab. It was important to always know your location. A quick escape had saved her ass more times than she cared to count.
Prague was a beautiful city. From here she could see the old town square, glowing eerily green in the nightlights aimed at its medieval stone walls. The damp air promised cold and wafted with the smells of people dining at the local restaurants. She heard German as she passed a quaint little café. She thought she discerned Russian at a couple of places as people waited to be seated. English caught her ear time and again. Overall, it was a fairly quiet night with the exception of the two pickpockets, who easily made their marks and successfully lifted a purse and a man’s wallet.
Her phone rang.
“You taking the job?” asked a male voice, smooth and Italian as a dark rich wine.
“Nikko, luv, always so articulate.”
He didn’t answer her.
She shook her head. “I’m still deciding.”
The answering silence told her more than his words would. The man knew she didn’t make rash decisions, but neither did she normally take so long to either accept or reject a job.
“Problems?”
“Problems?” Hmm . . . “Not so much problems, no. At least I don’t believe so. Call it more a gut feeling.”
He muttered something she couldn’t hear. “Tell me of this problem.”
“It’s not a problem.” Not yet anyway.
“Tell me, cara.”
She debated. Normally, Nikko knew very little of her jobs unless she wanted him to. Or she at least convinced herself he knew very little. But truth be known, everything she knew, everything she did, most of it, she learned from Nikko.
“Cara . . .”
She sighed. “I just have a feeling the mark isn’t what he appears.”
“Is anyone?”
“I get a feeling, just a feeling, that it’s deeper than him working for his boss.” There, she’d said it.
“What was the name again?”
“I didn’t give it to you.” Even as much as she trusted Nikko, she never gave him a mark’s name. Who knew how small the world could be, and she didn’t want complications. Number one rule—no complications.
This time he sighed. “You know, you’re supposed to mellow with age.”
She watched her surroundings, noted the group of co-eds in front of her. The guys were watching over the girls closely, except the one joker who seemed to be telling the girls how they could dress sexier. She smiled when the blond turned around and punched Mr. Laughs in the gut.
“Age? That would be you. Not me.”
“I’m relieved this is your last assignment. I’m ready for . . .”
“Stop. Not the man and marriage act, Nikko. Grandbabies and the like. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Who said it was an act?”
Instead of replying, she hung up on him. The man might know lots of things, but some even Nikko didn’t know, and if he did, well . . . She simply didn’t need the hassle right now.
She hailed a black cab and climbed in.
“Do you speak English?” she asked the cabby, then thought of the phrase in Czech. “Mluvíte anglicky?”
He turned around. “Yes.”
“Good,” she said and smiled. “How about the club Nero’s or Babylon’s Sins?”
He narrowed his eyes, and ran a quick gaze over her.
She arched a brow. She’d heard about the taxi drivers in Prague.
“Nice lady like you might not want to visit such a club, no? More like Sunsets? Or perhaps Roxy? Roxy is the best nightclub in Prague.”
Keeping her smile, she only said, “Nero’s.”
He shook his bald head, the lights from outside shining off it. “You pay, lady.”
“Děkuji.” Then she added, “But don’t try to overcharge or keep me in the cab. I know where the clubs are from here and you really don’t want to test me.” She met his eyes in the mirror. “Understood?”
He nodded and pulled away from the curb.
She watched the landmarks, noted the times they turned and where. Not that she didn’t already have a map in her head of where she wanted to go and how to get there. The narrow medieval streets gave way to the wider modern roads, old world charm to modern ramshackle warehouses and buildings lining the waterfront of the Vlatva River. She wondered if she would meet Mr. Petrolov tonight. It was time to learn his habits if he was to be her mark, and if not . . .
Up to this point, if she declined a job, she simply declined the job. Something told her this might be different.
The cab pulled up in front of a club, and the red and orange lights outside gave an eerie glow. A queue of people snaked down the side of the building, and bulging men in tight shirts walked the edge. How many. She ran her gaze over them. One at the door, two more on patrol. Looking up, she searched for . . . There, just there, she saw the small black box of a security camera mounted on the light pole. Strange. Gadgets were getting smaller and smaller. No use in advertising you were watching people. Then again, most didn’t look for the cameras and the smaller, less visible cameras were more expensive. And probably used indoors.
The driver pulled up to the front door and she got out.
Now she wished she’d worn her slapper heels. They’d get her in faster. Bugger it.
Climbing from the cab, she overpaid the driver and told him to keep the tip because as she figured it, he hadn’t overcharged her, nor had he been stupid enough to try and lock her in the cab.
The chilled, late October wind bit through her small coat. She pulled it tighter and looked up. A whistle drew her attention to the bouncer. He raised a brow and jerked his head to the front door. She looked down the queue, then behind her. Finally, feigning innocence, she studied the bouncer. “Me?” she asked.
He grinned, a flash of crooked white teeth and dimples. He carried a firearm, the bulge under his jacket gave him away. She smiled back and walked up to him.
He lifted the rope and let her in. “First time at Nero’s?”
“First time in Prague. Is this bloody marvelous or what?”
He laughed, his eyes appreciating her.
Men. With a forced giggle, she muttered thanks and walked past him, blocking out the mutters and curses of the people directly in front whom she’d just cut. Life was rarely fair, chickies.<
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Chapter 3
October 30, 9:00 p.m.
Dimitri sipped the wine and observed the nightlife of Prague. Headlights and taillights winked, like teasing young co-eds. He took another sip, the glass not much more empty than when he poured it over half an hour ago. He was to meet Viktor this evening and it looked like he just might be late.
There was a time he wouldn’t have dared to insult Viktor Hellinski, but those days were long past. He glanced around the expensively furnished loft with its sleek, modern and very empty lines. There was nothing of him here.
Or perhaps that was all there was of him anymore . . . Nothing.
The only mirror in the entire apartment was in the bathroom. To look in the mirror was to see one’s self and all he saw anymore was a lie. Someone who didn’t know who they were any more than the people he was acting to deceive.
He set the wine aside and rubbed a hand over his face, scratching the stubble he kept short along his jaw and lip.
How the hell did he get to this point?
The bullets and blades were headed his way if any knew the Reaper was a farce . . . a complete farce . . . well, not entirely. It wasn’t like he’d never killed anyone, but his marks had usually deserved it, and those he was ordered to kill he simply didn’t think about. The target was an order to be followed. Period.
The end was coming for his tour and he wasn’t about to let them decide when he finished. He’d be damned if he turned into one of those rogues who had to be put down like a rabid dog.
Shaking off the anxiety and fatigue, he stood, rubbed his hands over his face again.
The triple chirp from his cell had him reaching for the little silver piece of technology. The LCD screen showed him who it was.
“What do you want?” he asked without preamble. He patted his pocket for a cigarette.
“This phone still secure?” John asked, his British accent clipping the words.
“As secure as I can make it. Why?” Damn it, he was out of cigarettes. He took a deep breath and wondered how he’d missed that one.
“We’ve picked up chatter.”
“What would the intelligence communities do without chatter?” he muttered.
For a moment the man on the other end was silent. Then, “Something happen?”
“No, why do you ask?” Dimitri rummaged through one of the kitchen drawers where he also kept an extra pack, relieved to see he hadn’t even opened that one yet. One thing about Europeans, they weren’t as health crazed as Americans.
He ripped the package open and shook a cigarette out, reached into his pocket and pulled out his silver lighter. The click echoed over the line.
“You were supposed to quit that disgusting habit.”
“If you called to tell me the important chatter is the fact I’m still smoking, then I do believe your boys need some updated equipment.” The nicotine hit his system on his first deep drag. “Or perhaps you need new boys.”
“You’re even more caustic tonight than normal. What happened? Did you kill a defenseless animal?”
Dimitri ignored the remark from one of the few men he honestly considered a friend and trusted with not only his life, but that of his family.
“What do you want, Johnno?” he asked, using the nickname John Brasher hated.
“What the hell is going on?”
“Why”
“Who are you about to take out?”
Dimitri frowned, took another drag and studied the cigarette as the paper slowly disintegrated from the burning tip. On a deep breath, he asked, “Who says I’m marking anyone?”
“Sources.”
“And those would be?”
John’s chuckle grated on his nerves. “Look, our bosses both want to know who the mark is and . . .”
“And?”
“And we believe the Raven has been sent after you.”
That was news. The Raven. Dimitri smiled. He was marked? Wasn’t that refreshing? And he knew ahead of time.
“Well . . .”
“The powers that be are not pleased. One, they hear you’re marking someone, and then that you’ve been marked. Now, me—I don’t think you’ve marked yourself.”
“Yes, that’s always a concern, isn’t it?” Idiots.
“Who’s your mark?” John asked.
“We don’t discuss that, you know.”
“Yes, but some are worried.”
He leaned up and stabbed the cigarette out in the ashtray on his glass coffee table. Dimitri sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Johnno, I have no idea who my damn mark is. Hellinski hasn’t told me yet. I’m to meet the man tonight to find out.”
Neither man said a word for a bit.
John cleared his throat. “Any ideas?”
“Yeah, Elianya.”
This time John’s silence was filled with more than quiet. Dimitri knew what the man wanted, and had vowed to give it to him.
“When?” Rage snapped the word over the phone.
He sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t know for a fact that it’s her, Johnno, and . . .”
“You swore to me, Ian. You swore and if you take this from me—”
“Do you honest to God think I’d do that?” Anger sharpened his own words. He knew Elianya’s name sent his friend into a black rage. The fact John had used his real name, Ian, was evidence of just how far the woman still pushed Mr. Brasher.
He could hear John grinding his teeth. “She’s mine.”
“You don’t need to remind me.”
Something on the other end crashed.
He patiently waited. “Look, Johnno, it’s only a feeling I have. When I know for certain, I’ll let you know.”
“She’s mine.”
Again, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I will never dispute that fact.”
“But some things are out of your control, aren’t they?” John asked, tired.
He stood and walked to the window. “If, and that’s a damn big if, Johnno. Then she’s yours. Somehow she’ll escape or . . .” God, he was so fucking tired. “I don’t know. We’ll come up with something.”
“I should have just killed the bitch years ago,” John snarled.
“Yes, but then you’d be behind bars. Sanctioned marks are one thing. Vendettas are equivalent to murder, my friend.”
“Bullocks, that. And you bloody well know it. As if you’ve kept the lines separate.”
True. He twisted his wrist, pushed the sleeve of his shirt up to check the time. “I’m late, Johnno, and since you’ve informed me that I’m marked, I’d rather get my meeting with Hellinski over with, if it’s all the same to you.”
Again the silence stretched. “I’m in Prague at the safe house. When we heard you were marked, I was sent down here. I think they’re going to take you out soon.”
“Cheery fucking thought, eh?”
The line went dead.
• • •
10:30 p.m.
Dimitri realized how rattled John had been to use his real name. No one called him Ian anymore. No one but Johnno, Pete, and his brothers—when he actually saw them. Which was rare, though more so in the last couple of years than in the dozen since he left the family. Last he knew, everyone was faring well. But then he hadn’t checked in the last couple of months. Things had been too hectic and dangerous here and he wanted no one, no one connecting Dimitri Petrolov, the Reaper, to anyone remotely connected to Ian Kinncaid.
He’d taken chances when the need arose and there were more of those than he’d cared to feel comfortable with. He’d had to use Johnno twice. Once to help him out in Colorado and again last year when a bastard congressman had been after Brayden’s wife, Christian. Only his brothers had ever realized who he was and that he was helping, and even then he’d been in disguise.
His sleek BMW cut through the late-night traffic as he made his way to Nero’s. The noises from outside were muffled through his car. He rarely listened to music—music lulled and he cou
ld never afford to be lulled.
Constant watch. Constant guard. If he was a civilian, he’d be neurotic. But as it were, this was all part of the job. Focused attention, a gun in his shoulder holster, an extra 9-millimeter under his seat and a couple of cans of tear gas in the console.
He was thirty-six years old, trusted very few men and knew he’d probably die as alone as he’d been forced to live for the last few years.
He vaguely wondered if the Raven were successful and blew his head off, if anyone would notify his family. On that realistic but macabre thought, he picked his phone back up and redialed Johnno, who answered on the first ring.
“What?”
“If Raven’s successful, I need you to do something for me.”
Silence. Then, “She won’t be.”
“She’s good or she wouldn’t have been hired and you know it.”
“What is going on with you?”
Dimitri sighed. How to explain that he’d lived so long playing this game, had taken so many out that he knew his time was up? “Just listen. If she succeeds, I need you to notify . . .” He trailed off. Last time he checked, his car was bug-free, but then he hadn’t checked in a couple of days.
“I understand. You concentrate on your end and I’ll look for her.”
He hung up and pulled into his parking space in front of the club. Alighting quickly, he ignored the swarm of people out front and cut through them, heading for the door. He narrowed his gaze at Ivan. “Problems tonight?”
Ivan smirked, but the smile slipped and he looked away as Dimitri continued to stare at him . . .
“Problems?” Dimitri repeated.
Ivan shook his head. “No, Mr. Petrolov. No problems.”
Dimitri watched him and leaned close. “How many pretties have you let in tonight, Ivan?”
The man actually blushed. Would wonders never cease. “Three. No, four. Wait.” His eyes got big. “Five. It was five, no?”
Dimitri slapped him on the shoulder and walked inside. One of the men at the front of the line muttered about cutting and going to the end of the line.