by Jaycee Clark
From under his brows, Dimitri merely stared at the brash, rude college kid. The kid, blond, blue-eyed and maybe twenty-one, gulped and stumbled back a step.
Knowing he sufficiently put fear into the brat, he turned to Ivan and said loudly, “Ivan, have this person removed from the premises. I find he offends me.”
Ivan nodded and moved to do his bidding. “Y-yes, sir, Mr. Petrolov.”
The air from the club hit him as it always did, thick and sweet with pumping music and fogging smoke from too many cigarettes and enough recreational drugs that a patron could get high simply standing in the doorway.
Dimitri made his way through the throng of bodies.
“Hey, sweet thing,” one of the regular girls said to him.
“Olga.”
“When you going to ask for a massage that will take you to Heaven?”
He flashed her a smile. “Not tonight. I have a meeting with the boss man.”
“Pity.”
“Isn’t it though.”
As he wove through the people dancing, laughing and talking, to the band screeching on the stage, a tingle prickled up the back of his neck.
Slowly, he put his right hand on the butt of his SIG and made it to the staircase. She wouldn’t hit him here in the middle of a club. Too crowded, though if memory served, Raven preferred crowds—was it crowded streets or parties? He’d have to look her up as soon as he returned home. Walking up the stairs he scanned the crowd. A woman. She never disguised herself as a man. Rumor had it she was beautiful.
And with her profession, she wouldn’t be drinking or getting high. At least not staking out a mark.
Damn it.
There were four women watching him. A blonde with another guy over in the corner. From her glazed eyes, she probably wasn’t it, and unless he was mistaken, the man was giving her a nice little present under the cover of the table. Give them a couple more hours and people would be fucking against the wall.
Two redheads were candidates, but red hair was memorable. And they were too . . . something. Too flighty, happy. Not his image of the elusive Raven.
Maybe that one. Over at the bar, trying to ignore the man beside her. She had short black hair and skin the color of a frothy café mocha. From here he could see the muscles of her shoulder as the sweater dipped off one. Looking down he noticed she was wearing boots. Not lace up to the thigh boots, like many in here, not even platform boots. No, unless he was mistaken, the woman was wearing very practical boots. He ran his gaze back up her, watched as she crossed those long legs and wondered what her calves and thighs looked like. Her eyes did surprise him. With her coloring, he’d assumed they’d be brown, but even from here he could see they were light. A blue? Or gray maybe? Green. Interesting. Soft jawline, straight nose, arched brows. Rather beautiful actually.
He narrowed his eyes and smiled at her.
Something in him clicked and he knew, knew the woman at the bar was Raven. Perhaps it was the awareness that tingled like a quick jolt of electricity through him. Whatever it was, he would almost bet she was his assassin. Almost.
If she was, he wanted to know who the hell had hired her. And if she wasn’t . . .
He grinned wider as he walked up the rest of the stairs. Time to see who Viktor wanted him to kill.
• • •
Raven watched the man walk up the stairs and had to admit he was even more handsome in person than he was in his photographs. Must be his shadowed beard. Or the eyes.
And in that one quick assessment he’d given her, she’d gotten the feeling he knew who she was and why she was here.
Which was bloody stupid, but there it was. She still hadn’t accepted the job, but she decided she would. Probably.
Whether or not she would kill him would depend on him and what he was really doing. If she was right and he was something other than he appeared, then she’d cross that bridge when she got there, but . . .
But if he was only the Reaper, a cold-blooded assassin who worked for one of the most brutal crime bosses in Europe, then she’d happily take him out without a second thought.
Then again, he might not be so easy to take out . . . She had the distinct impression she might have finally met her match.
Just her luck, the last assignment she accepted would kill her. Maybe she waited too long to get out. Probably. Maybe she never should have started on this career path, but that was beside the bloody point and freaking pointless.
“Come dance with me,” the man beside her asked yet again.
Raising a brow, she only looked down at the hand he’d placed on top of hers.
“Luv, you really want to move your hand.”
He quickly snatched his hand back. “You don’t have to get testy. A dance isn’t a reason to be rude.”
She stood, grabbed her drink and walked away. She found a quiet place—as quiet as she could in a raving club—and watched the wall of mirrors above the stairs.
Just who was Mr. Dimitri Petrolov?
She should just kill him and be done with it, take the money and retire. But something stayed her, and if she’d learned anything at all, she knew to follow her instincts. Where they were concerned, she wondered if she’d kill the man at all.
• • •
Dimitri stood at the wall of mirrors and looked out onto the club below. Again it was packed, bodies so close together that Hellinski would have even the bribed police all over him if a fire ever broke out. But Hellinski was never one to worry about such things. He scanned the crowd again and saw the woman had moved from her perch on the bar stool. Methodically, he glanced over the occupants below.
There she was, leaning against the wall, taking another sip of the drink, but the amount of pink confection stayed the same.
Nice front, love, but you need to actually drink a bit.
Her eyes rose to the windows, and again their light stare caught him off guard.
“I can’t believe I’m asking you this,” Viktor said for the third time
Dimitri sighed, kept his hands loosely at his sides. “Who? It’s a name, Viktor, just a name.”
Viktor’s dark blasphemy made him turn from his study of the mysterious woman below and study his boss. Viktor was pale, dark circles under his eyes, eyes normally as cold and unfeeling as the devil’s heart. But now, they were worried, creased. The man sat on the couch and leaned up on his knees. Dimitri merely waited, knowing there was no rushing his boss.
Viktor’s shoulders rose and fell as he clasped and unclasped his hands. In a low voice, he said, “Elianya. I need . . .”
Dimitri’s eyes slid closed. Taking a deep breath, he said quietly, “I understand.”
Viktor’s head whipped up, sharp and predatory, his slanted eyes as threatening as a wolf’s. “No, you don’t. She’s . . . She’s not . . . I thought as she grew older.” Viktor thumped his fist on his thigh and stood. “Damn it all. What I do is one thing. Business is business, but Elianya . . .” He shook his head and raked a hand over his queued hair. “Children, now, Dimitri. The stupid bitch will be the death of me. She’s pimping out children and God only knows what else.”
For a moment, Dimitri could only stare at the man who, if he was ordered, he’d have to kill. Viktor Hellinski wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination a nice man, but even the crime boss apparently had his limits.
“I heard she was opening up negotiations behind my back to the American bosses as well.”
“The deal you nixed last December?” Dimitri asked.
Viktor nodded and paced. Dimitri waited.
“Stupid. So damn stupid. I knew something was wrong with her. Even the doctors she saw as a child warned me she was dangerous, but I never wanted to . . .” Viktor looked at him, his face stamped with pain. “I thought I could help her.”
The woman had been raised in a world where vice and crime were a normal means, brutal as it was, and she learned she liked the nice things that benefited her from others’ pain. Of course other crime bosses were married,
had sisters or daughters, and Dimitri had never met anyone as wicked and depraved as Elianya. No matter her upbringing, something was twisted within her.
Dimitri shrugged and decided to be honest. “I’ve never cared for your sister.”
Viktor glared at him. “You liked her enough to fuck her.”
He didn’t deny it. “Some things one learns one can live without. No man needs a blow job that badly.”
“You think I don’t know that? She asked me to have you castrated when you turned her down and told her to leave your apartments.”
Dimitri almost crossed his legs. “Thank you for not following through on her request.”
Viktor shook his head. “Children, Dimitri. Interpol will be all the fuck over us. You take care of this. Clean it up. Her photographer called me. Leos. He is a good man. I don’t want him hurt.” Those slanted, amber eyes pierced him again. “I mean it. The man is decent and talented and I can use him.”
Dimitri shuffled through his memory of Elianya’s entourage and clicked on the neatly trimmed man with the ponytail. Quiet, but temperamental, always behind a camera or computer. New age porn producer . . .
“They are to meet tomorrow night for a session. I will find out where, and tell you. I want her . . .” He fisted his hands. “Just clean it up. I can’t . . . I won’t.” Viktor raked his hands over his head, and a long blond strand fell to his shoulder. “I know some of the girls here are young, but damn it. I’m not a child molester for Christ’s sake.”
That might be debatable, but Dimitri didn’t think Viktor wanted his opinion on the semantics of law and minors.
“Give me your word, Dimitri. Give it to me in blood that you’ll handle this matter.”
Shit.
Dimitri straightened from his perch against the desk, grabbed the wicked sharp letter opener off of Viktor’s desk and pricked his finger. “I swear to you, Viktor, I will take care of the matter.” He wiped the knife off on his pants leg, tossed it on the desk, then smeared his blood on Viktor’s palm. “Contact me with a location.”
“I should just let you take her out tonight, but I can’t find her.”
“Do you want her found tonight?” Dimitri asked.
Christ, kids. Why was it, just when he thought he was deep enough in the filth of society, he realized he could still sink deeper?
Viktor stood at the windows and waved him away. “I don’t care what you do. Or when. I just want it done. Please, just . . .” His shoulders rose on an inhale. “Make it fast, clean.”
Viktor’s back was to him and Dimitri didn’t know if he should pity the man or admire him. No way could he sanction the death of one of his siblings, but then his brothers were more white bread and butter than seedy underworld negotiators.
“Yes, sir.” Dimitri turned and walked out of the office, his nose tingling with cigarette smoked laced with the sweet tang of hash.
Grow up in a world of drugs, prostitution, and kills and what the hell did Hellinski expect?
Time to contact Johnno, and he still had to find out who the hell the woman was downstairs.
Kids. Nausea twisted his stomach.
Chapter 4
11:16 p.m.
Raven watched the man leave the club. Carefully, she walked out behind him, weaving through the dancing people. One girl in a sequined top slammed into her and Raven tried not to throw the clearly drunk girl away. Instead, keeping her eyes on Dimitri, she turned the girl around and gave her a small push toward the dance floor.
Her eyes stung from the smoke and she had the impression her pulse matched the beat of the music pumping through the air. Dead good time everyone seemed to be having though.
At the doorway, Ivan asked, “Leaving so soon, babe?”
She only flashed him a smile and pointed to her mark. Dressed in dark clothing, a long black overcoat, he looked the part of a crime boss’s hit man.
“Do you know him?”
Ivan’s eyes widened as he watched Dimitri Petrolov stop by his car. Without warning he said loudly, “Mr. Petrolov! This fine lady here wants to know who you are.”
The man paused and pierced her with eyes, a wicked blue, dark from here, but maybe cobalt? She wasn’t certain. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he studied her and those eyes narrowed. Squinting slightly at the edges. His hair was a bit on the long side and his features appeared even more unforgiving than they had in the photograph she had of him. Her heart did a slow flip. He put his arm up on top of the car and continued to study her, one long languid gaze down her body and then back up to her eyes. One dark eyebrow cocked.
She notched her chin up and stepped closer.
His smile could coax angels to sin. “Does she?” As could his voice, gruff and deep, as if he smoked. He opened his door and gave her wink. “It seems you just informed her, Ivan.”
With that, the man climbed into his sporty BMW and sat for a few moments before the engine purred to life.
She stood there and watched the car. To go back to the hotel or . . .
She turned to Ivan. “Where does Mr. Petrolov live?”
Ivan’s eyes widened. Then his face creased in that same gap-toothed crooked smile he’d given her earlier. “You do not want to go to that man’s place.” He nodded. “Trust me.”
She only raised a brow.
“Really, he’s not a nice man. You don’t cross him. No one cross him.”
“His place?”
Ivan’s eyes narrowed on her. Then he shrugged. “First off, I don’t know. I don’t even know if the boss knows.” He shook his head. “But even if I did, I’d never tell anyone. I value my life way too the hell much to spread that sort of information. Even to a pretty little thing like you, yes.” His gaze ran over her. “Now, you staying out here or going back in? I must know, people want in, lady.”
She sighed and shook her head. “Let ’em in, Ivan. I believe I’ll go back to my hotel.”
Ivan’s smile was one that would probably give children nightmares. “Where’s your place?” He nodded to the black car that pulled away from the curb when the traffic let up. “Mr. Petrolov might call back and ask for it.”
She gave him her own chilling smile and hailed a cab. Turning she said, “Nice try, Ivan, but I’m not that big an idiot.” She hurried to the cab and climbed in.
“Can you follow that black BMW in front of us? But discreetly. Stay at least three cars behind.” She flashed several extra koruna at him.
The cabbie stared at her for a moment, then nodded as he jerked away from the curb and cut off an oncoming car.
One thing was certain. Mr. Dimitri Petrolov was a . . . a . . . Bloody hell. He was dangerous. So was she taking him out or not?
That was the question. She kept thinking of him putting his arm on top of the car. What about . . . Something had been in his hand . . . What?
Bugger it.
The databases had yielded nothing on one Dimitri Petrolov, which she knew was just impossible. No one just appeared on the scene a grown man. She wondered if he’d ever been fingerprinted. A facial scan? She’d have to wait on that.
Chewing on her thumbnail she wondered . . .
The car turned left and her driver did as well. As they waited on traffic, she looked down the street and saw Dimitri’s car was also waiting in the jam.
What was she doing? She’d probably turn the job down, so why was she following him? Well, if she took the job, or needed to know more information on the man, then she had it.
They made several more turns and she realized they were heading into a quieter part of town. Bloody great, he’d probably make them. The traffic would thin and then what?
She watched as he turned down another street, and told the driver to keep going straight. She glanced down the street he’d taken. His taillights came on as he braked. There was a building at the end of the street. She’d come back later. As the driver went past, she gave him the address to her hotel and watched the Prague nightlife blur by outside.
• • •
“What?” John asked without preamble.
“Got a computer?”
“Does Britain still have a queen?”
“I’m sending you a photo.” He blared his horn as he swerved around a car parked in the middle of the damn road.
“Of?”
“If I knew that I wouldn’t be sending it to you. A woman I saw tonight in Nero’s and then she followed me out. I want an I.D.”
“I’m on it.”
Silence stretched between them.
“Fuck it,” he muttered. “Call me back in twenty. We need to discuss something.”
With that he hung up. Taking a deep breath and maneuvering through the late-night traffic he wondered how he’d gotten caught up in all this shit. He came from a world of privilege, and though he knew his family knew of heartache and suffering . . . they had no idea how twisted things could truly become. How depraved some were.
He wished he didn’t know.
He was tired. He hadn’t been this tired since Green Hell. Twenty days with little sleep, long treks in the jungle, pouring rain, rationed food and evasion tactics. For whatever reason, since then, everything since, he’d always reminded himself he could have been back in that jungle with the boys wishing for the end of the damn training. It wasn’t so much the training itself as the unknown. The mind games.
But here he was a world away and he’d almost trade places with one of those new Ranger recruits to be able to get out of this hell. God, how long had it been? He was too tired to think. He hadn’t lasted too long with the Rangers. After a couple of missions brought him to the attention of a certain man, he retired and went to work for a different division of the government. And here he was. Still on missions, still evading. One jungle for another.
He shook off the thoughts and paid attention to the world around him.
October in Prague was quiet. The festival was already over, though the atmosphere of celebration still hung in the air as surely as the independence banners and posters reminding all of freedom.