by Hope Anika
Goddamn it.
Just another massive pain in the ass to go along with inheriting Charlie’s PI business, the Firm. A business she didn’t want and didn’t need and didn’t know what the hell to do with. Goddamn it!
“They’re fine,” she told herself. “Ruslan’s a survivor.”
Something else she recognized. Takes one to know one.
But these men...they were heavily armed. They’d come in numbers, with unflinching violence. And Butch wouldn’t have been any help at all.
“Shit on a stick,” she muttered.
They have to be okay.
Because Charlie would roll over in his grave if she managed to kill the one person he’d left behind who didn’t need saving. Not to mention—
Boom!
*****
“Get me outta this chair!”
Ruslan’s fingers tightened around the neck of the man he held; muscle shivered and veins compressed beneath his grip. The man struggled like a hooked fish; his hands clawed at Ruslan’s arm. But resistance was futile.
Ruslan was everything his prey was not: disciplined, experienced, and very, very strong.
“Who hired you?” he asked.
The man shook his head and gasped. He kicked and bucked and struggled desperately for freedom; Ruslan merely lifted him higher into the air.
“Tell me,” Ruslan told him patiently, “and you won’t end up like your colleague.”
The man looked down at his counterpart, who lay at Ruslan’s feet, arms and legs broken, his face bloated and bleeding. A rib stuck out from his chest like an errant tree branch.
“Ruslan!” Butch snarled, still fighting the ties that held him to the metal chair. “Goddamn it!”
Ruslan ignored him and shook the man, a sharp jerk that nearly snapped the fragile bones in hand. “Decide.”
“I hope they fuck her before they kill her,” the man hissed.
Ruslan’s hand tightened involuntarily; the dark, hungry entity that lived within him licked its lips. Feed.
But killing this man was not an option. They needed answers.
There are two more. Feed.
“You would die for this?” he asked, ignoring that feral voice.
“Gladly,” the man choked. He bared his teeth and snapped them together. A heartbeat later, convulsions shook him. His eyes rolled back into his head. White foam bubbled from his lips and slid down his chin.
Movement ceased, and he died there, hanging from Ruslan’s hand.
Wasted.
The darkness snarled.
Ruslan dropped the man and turned to look at the figure lying at his feet. Before he could move, seizures gripped the man; a scream escaped him as his broken limbs shook. White foam burst from his mouth, and he went still.
Eyes open, mouth gaping.
Cyanide.
Ruslan stared down at him, disturbed.
“Jesus Christ, they’re going Kamikaze,” Butch cried, “get me the hell out of here!”
Ruslan looked over at the bald man. He lay slumped and dazed against the concrete wall where Ruslan had kicked him, blood an ugly river down the side of his face. Ruslan turned and strode toward him.
“Ruslan!” Butch again. “Fuck!”
“In a moment,” Ruslan told him.
“Son of a bitch!”
Perhaps. Ruslan didn’t know. He’d never met his mother.
The bald man was trying to stand, but something had broken when he hit the wall. He groaned and rolled onto his back as Ruslan halted above him.
“Will you die for your cause today as well?” Ruslan lifted his foot and placed it on the man’s chest.
“Bastard,” the man choked out. “More will come for her. We’re just the beginning.”
Ruslan pressed his foot down and something crunched. “Why?”
A harsh gurgle escaped the man. He moaned. Ruslan leaned down and gripped his jaw hard. Squeezed. Tears welled in the man’s eyes. He whimpered.
“Not today,” Ruslan said.
Not without answers.
He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out the small, all-in-one tool he carried. He flipped it open, and the man whimpered again.
“What the hell are you doing?” Butch demanded.
Ruslan didn’t bother to explain. He merely thrust his tool into the bald man’s mouth and began to remove teeth. The molars would likely be the location of any cyanide capsule, so he started with those. It wasn’t hard; he’d done it before. But he had to be careful not to break the cyanide capsule, which would be embedded within—
“Good God, man. That’s...you’re...” Butch fell abruptly silent.
The bald man wept openly. Blood and spittle streamed down his chin. His fingers dug into Ruslan’s forearm; he clawed and pulled and punched. Desperate sounds escaped him.
“It did not have to come to this,” Ruslan told him.
“Christ,” Butch muttered.
The bald man shrieked, a loud, piercing, agonized cry, like a rabbit caught in a trap. Before Ruslan could stop him, he lifted his head and slammed it back into the concrete, hard. Hard enough to crack his skull like an egg, which Ruslan felt a moment before a flood of blood washed across the concrete. Death followed instantly.
He pushed to his feet and stared down at the man.
“Kamikaze,” Butch said again. “Shit.”
Indeed.
“Ashling,” Ruslan murmured, and the darkness swelled within him.
“Is tougher than she looks,” Butch retorted. “Now get me the hell out of this chair so we can save her.”
*****
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The asshole whose knee she’d shattered was shooting at her.
Ash dropped to a crouch, turned and fired. Blood sprayed like a cloud burst as she shot the gun from his hand.
Boom!
Another bullet plowed past her and shattered the lamp; she dove behind the small bar that separated her kitchen and living room.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Bullets thunked into the plywood; one passed straight through and shattered her oven door. She shimmied to the edge of the bar, pulled open the cabinet door underneath and grabbed the lid to her biggest stew pot—nice, shiny stainless steel—and held it carefully out, using the reflective surface to try and get a lock on her next target.
There you are, you ungrateful dick.
The one she’d kicked, staggering toward the bar—
She sent the lid flying toward him like a giant silver Frisbee and then fired twice—one for each knee. The lid clanged as it smacked him in the forehead; the bullets tore into his knees and he did a brutal face-plant into the oak floor.
“Fucker,” she told him and moved out from behind the bar to kick both his SIG Sauer and the mangled Glock down the hallway.
Her heart beat like a jackhammer; her blood roared in her ears as she surveyed them. She’d never shot anyone before—well, except her father, and he hardly counted—but any regret she might have felt was drowned out by the rage licking through her like the hottest flame.
They’d come into her home. Threatened her. Hurt her.
And they were still breathing. Lucky them.
The man whose hand was now less a thumb and forefinger was bleeding profusely. They all wore black suits—much like Ruslan—but these were flat black, not like his tailored and elegant apparel; narrow ties and shiny shoes. Shaved heads and expensive weapons. Hard faces, familiar with violence and death.
Not your average assholes.
Men who’d threatened torture to get answers. Who’d grabbed Ruslan—something she was mildly astounded was even possible—and Butch, who a blindfolded bunny rabbit could have taken down.
Had they gotten to Wylie? What about Wanda and Eva? Were they still safe in the Vault?
What the hell was going on?
She marched over and climbed on top of the man whose knees she’d blown apart and sat down hard on his chest, wedging his shoulders beneath her thighs. Then she bared her te
eth at him.
“Let’s talk,” she told him, and shoved the 9mm into the hollow just beneath his chin. Blood dripped from her nose and slapped his chest. “I want to know who you are, who you work for, and what the hell you want with Eva Pierce.”
Because none of this made any sense. The kid who the Firm had been hired less than four hours ago to protect—Eva Pierce—was only twelve, the daughter of a man on the run from a local loan shark, and said loan shark, while dangerous and persistent, was just a little fish, and these men...these men were sharks. This—whatever it was—went far beyond the collection of a marker.
“You should have given her up,” the man snarled. His gaze was wild. “You should have let us have her.”
Ash shifted her weight, pressing hard against his cracked sternum. “She’s just a kid!”
“She’s a goddamn abomination! You have no idea what she is. You protect her, you’ll kill us all.”
Ash stared at him, both furious and confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”
A harsh, ugly laugh rasped from him. “You’ll see. When it’s too late, then you’ll see.”
“See what?”
“The future.”
He lifted his head and snapped at her like an angry dog; his body arched violently beneath her, and she almost fell off. He began to shake uncontrollably; his eyes rolled back into his skull. White foam spilled from his mouth, bubbled past his lips, and slid down the barrel of the 9mm.
Then he went still. Fatally still.
“Goddamn it,” she whispered, her heart beating with painful force.
Because he couldn’t be dead. He hadn’t lost enough blood; she knew where to shoot to inflict maximum damage without causing a bleed out. And she hadn’t hit him hard enough in the chest to perforate an artery. He couldn’t be dead.
She made herself reach out and check his pulse.
Yep. Dead.
She scrambled off him, turned and found the rest of his team in varying degrees of the same state. Twitching uncontrollably, eyes rolled back, white foam trickling from the corners of their mouths. And then—
Dead. All of them.
What fresh hell—
A fist slammed against her front door like a battering ram. “Las Vegas PD! Put your weapons down, and come out with your hands up!”
CHAPTER
-2-
“Hit me.”
Wylie Kyndal watched the blackjack dealer flip over his next card—a piece of shit five of diamonds—and ignored the insistent buzzing of his phone.
Damn it.
“Player bust,” the dealer murmured and swept the cards—and his chips—into her pale, graceful hands.
He’d chosen her because she was a new dealer, but so far, she’d skunked him. Wylie didn’t take it personally. The Golden Fan Casino used a six deck shuffling machine, which meant three-hundred and twelve cards, the odds of which sat firmly in the house’s corner, and until they’d worked their mutual way through most of those cards, in the house’s corner those odds would stay. But the further through that pile they got—provided that what they’d already blown through didn’t get reshuffled into the whole any time soon—the kinder those odds became to Wylie.
Blackjack was the most widely played casino banking game in the world, and it took powers of visual estimation and instant recall. A head for math and an eidetic memory didn’t hurt.
Wylie had both.
“Again?” the dealer asked, her tone moderate, as soothing as the murmur of a cold mountain stream. Dark brown eyes blinked at him, distant but patient. She was utterly still, no shifting or fidgeting or extraneous movement.
A professional.
“Let’s go,” Wylie told her and slid a small pile of chips across the table. His phone buzzed again.
Go the fuck away.
He didn’t care who it was; he was busy. Fighting his own personal war, waged in minute battles every chance he got. Most people gambled for money—total self-delusion easily undone by statistics—but Wylie gambled because he wanted to win.
Bzzzzzzzzz.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered and pulled his phone from his pocket. He checked the screen and scowled.
Where r u? Need u. Please reply ASAP.
And then: Hello? All hell breaking loose. NEED YOU.
Followed by: IMPORTANT. DO NOT IGNORE.
He didn’t recognize the return number, but he knew exactly who was on the other end, poking him. Ash. Technically his boss, and his last remaining family member. Also a huge pain in his ass.
He slid his phone back into his pocket.
Nine of clubs, three of hearts.
“Blackjack,” the dealer murmured.
“Shit,” he said, annoyed.
Bzzzzzzzzz.
“Again?” the dealer asked.
He nodded. More chips were anted.
Bzzzzzzzz.
What the hell was the problem? And why was she making it his problem?
Ace of spades.
Yes. Finally, a goddamn face card.
Bzzzzzzzz.
Jesus Christ. Since when did he matter? The only cases Ash had put him on since Charlie died were bail jumpers, and he didn’t particularly feel like chasing some asshole across the city—even if handing out a good beat down would go a long way in working off some steam.
No, she was going to have to call someone else. Someone who gave a fuck.
Eight of clubs.
The dealer turned over her second card: king of diamonds.
“Blackjack,” she said.
Motherfucker.
Bzzzzzzzz.
Growling, Wylie ripped his phone from his pocket and glared at it.
Dead men in my living room.
Ruslan and Butch in trouble.
Wanda in danger.
Wanda?
What the hell? Wanda was their IT nerd; how much danger could she be in? What, had the Windows update failed?
The Vault. Please go now. Take your gun.
Wylie stared at the screen, his heart stuttering to life.
“Again?” the dealer asked.
Shit, shit, shit.
Because his cousin was many things, but paranoid and melodramatic weren’t among them.
Something was happening.
“No,” he snarled and pushed away from the table. He tossed the dealer a chip and shoved the rest into his coat pocket before turning to stride through the darkened casino.
This had better be good.
Because he had no fucking clue what was going on.
Out of the loop, again.
And while he knew he had only himself to blame for that, it still irritated the shit out of him. Charlie had been one thing—he and his pop had never seen eye to eye—but Ash should have given him a chance. Hell, she’d inherited the business—wasn’t that enough to make her a little goddamn magnanimous?
Seriously.
Not that Wylie wanted anything to do with the business. Regardless of that, as Charlie’s son, the Firm should have rightfully gone to him, Wylie was no businessman, and the thought of being responsible to or for anything that convoluted—employees and clients and fucking taxes—gave him a serious case of hives. No, he liked his simple existence, thank you very much. Blackjack, bourbon and bail jumpers. Worked for him.
But not being trusted...that he had a problem with. Not knowing what the hell was going on—especially when their people were in trouble—was completely unacceptable.
He was part of the Firm. He’d watched his pop build the private investigation and problem resolution business from the ground up; when he’d returned from his stint in the marines, being one of the company’s runners had been his first job. It was the one place Wylie knew he belonged, and just because Charlie had gotten his ass run over by some dickhead busy Facetiming didn’t change that.
Goddamn it.
He blew through the Golden Fan’s front door, unwilling to think about that day.
The sun was fading into the horizon as he hea
ded toward his truck, the heat finally, mercifully ebbing, and a faint breeze ruffled the palms that lined the street. Around him, Sin City lit up and glittered like brightly colored gemstones, dazzling to the eye, but cold and hard and shaped by facets few ever came face to face with.
Vegas, the ultimate mirage.
But there was never any lack of work. Between the bond jumpers and the thieves and the serial cheaters, there were more problems than resolutions, and that meant a steady flow of cases. Charlie had built a business with a solid foundation of connections, and the unimpeachable reputation he’d worked hard to cultivate had lived beyond him. The Firm was one of the best.
Everyone knew it. Ash was going to have her hands full.
Better her than me.
Because in no way, shape or form did Wylie envy his cousin. He never had—even if she could shoot the head off a pin at twenty paces. She’d paid a hell of a price for the skills she had. Wylie knew, because he’d seen just a fraction of that price, and it was something he still couldn’t forget.
Charlie’s younger brother, the infamous sharpshooter Blade Kyndal, was a fucking nut job, and while Wylie and his pop had had problems, they were nothing compared to what growing up with that violent, narcissistic, crazy asshole must have been like. Uncle Blade, the Fucking Monster.
That Ash wasn’t a mirror of her father was a goddamn miracle.
Not that she was normal—hell, what was normal?—but she had grit and heart and there wasn’t much Wylie wouldn’t do for her. She was family; they were all each other had left. And while he might not want to run the train, he would help keep it on the tracks.
Even if she had inherited Charlie’s penchant for trying to save broken birds, a trait which had bypassed Wylie, and another thing that irritated the shit out of him.
Bzzzzzzz.
He climbed into his truck and pulled out his phone.
Wylie?!
DID THEY GET YOU TOO?
ANSWER ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
“Dead men,” he muttered.
Ruslan and Butch in trouble, which was easy to believe with Butch, but not so easy with Ruslan, who was a genuine bad ass. Wylie knew; Wylie had worked with him. Ruslan was not easy prey. And Wanda in danger...
Wanda, their tiny Indian computer expert, who was quiet and shy and so heartbreakingly beautiful that Wylie avoided her at all costs. An even bigger mark than Butch.