I take a small step forward and blink to reassure myself that I’m looking at the same person. When I reopen my lids, he is still there, glaring back at me. We are connected in a retinal showdown, icy stare verses icy stare. If looks could kill, I would be dead a million times over.
Nothing but pure evil lurks behind those steely, cold eyes. His black hair is in disarray as the rain drips from the ends. He blends in with the blackness of night yet sticks out immensely amongst this crowd, wearing an all black suit, shirt, and tie. He knows I can sense something.
I can feel the excitement start to rise as I refuse to break my stare from his. I chuckle to myself. If you’re going to catch a killer, you have to think like a killer, and unfortunately for him, I excel at this game.
The corner of my mouth rises slightly with my arrogant thought, but I can’t help it. Ladies and gentlemen, let the game begin.
Chapter Two
Nikolai
January 8, 2015 7:51 p.m.
My hands remain steady, my body cool, but if I feel anything inside, it’s not cold. On the exterior, I’m calm, yet my body is hot. Revenge will be at hand in the near future. I have hate so deep and so black all I can see is the color of vengeance, the blood red color of revenge. It’s a boiling, scorching inferno to know I will finally be able to fulfill my plan, one I’ve been methodically plotting for the past five years. It’s a plan that was derived due to the treachery of the one person I trusted in my life. He was my mentor and now is someone who can only be described as a Judas, the only person who has ever left me stunned.
Lying on my back, I run my hands over my chest and down my muscled torso. My skin is smooth under my rough, calloused hands except for the patch of hair trailing down my stomach and below my navel. An outsider would also feel the smooth, slightly hairy skin, but to me, all I feel is pain with each and every movement. It’s a pain that has come from a life of surviving in prison and on the streets, a life that has been nothing but agony from my very first memory.
Black ink covers my skin completely, telling a very intricate story. It’s an unspoken language among the criminals I’ve been incarcerated with. The tattoos are my lifeline, and over the years, they have become the roadmap on my journey through the hell that is Nikolai Petrov’s life—my life. Yet, in the criminal underground in Russia, only the privileged deserve these pictures. Fortunately, I have become worthy. Almost every single mark on my body was earned behind the walls of prison, and every single one got me closer to the man who claimed to be like a brother to me. He was my family. He is the Judas.
The springs in my metal bunk squeak as I stand to my feet then turn to look at the piece of stainless steel hanging above the toilet. My black hair has faded in the last eight years as gray hair became sprinkled throughout my strands. With a life as rough as mine, one might assume I would look much older than a thirty-seven-year-old man, but genetics must have been on my side. There are only a few faint wrinkles around my eyes and a little more gray hair in the stubble growing on my cheeks. Regardless, I still look like a man in the prime of my life.
My average six-foot-two frame remains lean and trim. I have had nothing to do with my time locked behind bars other than keep myself in the best physical shape. You can’t seek revenge if you’re too weak or too fat to function. I would be dead in a day.
However, as I study my body, it’s the tattoos that capture all my attention. The epaulette marked over my right shoulder was earned after I fulfilled several gruesome requests for my once adored family. I wanted so badly to be his number one, and I would stop at nothing to get it. When I finally was worthy, I become a leader amongst them. I finally earned my place.
Lifting my hand, I run my fingers over the top of my right shoulder and close my eyes. The only memory I really have of earning this tattoo swims in blood, pools worth of blood, all by my hands and all for the man who betrayed me. However, it’s the eight-pointed stars placed under my collar bones on either side of my chest that give me the most pain. They are reminders of the first time I felt like I belonged, like I had a purpose in my life. I felt like I had the direction a young kid desperately needs, and it was then I put my mentor on his undeserved pedestal.
It was the hardest tattoo to earn, but it was my gateway to acceptance in this criminal lifestyle. I shed less blood yet had to indoctrinate myself into the underground way of living. I knew what I had done to get the epaulette was rightfully deserved; however, what I had to do to get those stars was unspeakable. I can’t hate them, though. I can only embrace them. They have been my lifeline while doing this last stint in prison.
When men looked at my body, it was the stars that kept the others away because they knew. They knew I was not to be fucked with. After all, I am Vory V Zakone, and judging from the epaulette on my shoulder, the inmates know I not only killed to make my way into the Vory V Zakone, but I’ve massacred.
I open my eyes again and gaze down at my body to see the black ink and misery twenty years of this life has given me. Scars of my survival and pictures of my criminal journey are all I have left. The pride disappeared five years ago when I was left barely hanging on to life in the prison infirmary.
The next five years, I chose to spend in solitary confinement, willingly placing myself in the deepest, darkest cavern in this place. I needed to be out of sight from the other prisoners. I needed to be left with only my thoughts.
It makes me laugh to myself because all my mentor has done is leave me to fester in this godforsaken pit, plotting the perfect time to strike.
The reason for my attempted murder is still unknown to me. At the same time, it really doesn’t matter. I was betrayed, and the only reason I can think of is he was simply trying to eliminate me. After all, I’ve been locked away for eight years, and after three years of being in prison, he had probably found another dog to do his dirty work; hence, me having five years to plot my revenge on the man who attempted to have me killed.
The feeling of this betrayal is the equivalent of grinding coarse salt into an already gaping wound. The initial pain felt like my mentor was slowly digging his palm into my chest with an intense twisting motion.
But the worst part of all this is, when I was under my mentor, it felt like I had hope for the first time in my life. I didn’t wish for a better life, because I had found it. Among the criminals and thieves, I had finally found my family, so to be eliminated for no apparent reason infuriates me.
Of course, once I’m finished with my plan, what will my life be then? For the first time in my life, I won’t have something to prove. I will have no one and nowhere to go. That is a concern for another day, though. It will take time for me to get completely through my plan.
I bend down and grab the notice of freedom in my hand, simply staring at the paper. Soon, I think to myself. Soon.
Within the next six months, I will finally be released and be able to set this plan in motion.
The corners of my mouth rise slightly as I see red in the near future. It’s now time to serve justice to my mentor’s betrayal, the one person who said he would never doubt me, someone who said he was the only person I could trust. His time has finally come. Still, to simply kill him would not be enough in my eyes. Oh, no. He needs to lose the only thing that’s mattered in his life, and I vow I will take it down, person by person.
The first stop once I’m released will be to collect my belongings. Found amongst my personal documents and effects is the instrument I will use to singlehandedly take them all down—my knife.
I can feel the cold steel in my palm as I allow it to be an extension of my hand, and every slow, penetrating plunge of the steel will bring misery. They will be stripped of what they love, and then they will die. It’s the kind of pain one feels from a knife. In this case, my victims need to feel their existence wither away slowly, steadily, and then all at once. Each member needs to have fear.
I look up and turn my head, catching a glimpse of my reflection again, then look down at my hands, covered i
n tattoos. I turn them palm side up and close my eyes. Rubbing my fingers together like I can feel them covered in the sticky, warm blood, I mummer to no one, “When it’s time, brother, I will see you again.” I smile wickedly to myself. “I will feel you again.”
Chapter Three
Josslyn
August 4, 2015 8:45 a.m.
I finally arrive home five hours later. Traffic wasn’t bad since most people were making their way to work when I was leaving mine. My clothes are wet and my body cold, but my spirits are up. I have no doubt I saw the man responsible for the Smith murders tonight, but when I tried to pursue him through the crowd, he disappeared.
I did notice his left eyelid sagged slightly, like he couldn’t lift it all the way up, as well as a tattoo on his face under the same eye. I can’t get his black eyes out of my mind. They are familiar to me, ones I know I’ve seen before. Perhaps it’s because it’s the same look every killer has. I really don’t know, but I know they will haunt me until I can see them again.
When the detectives left, I finished my assessment of the crime scene, walking from room to room and jotting down the smallest details that might help me catch the killer. I went through drawers, looking at paperwork, and found passports for Ryan and Monica Smith and all their other credentials.
Jim will be working all day tomorrow, processing the bodies, so I have a day to get my thoughts in order and the questions I want to ask him ready. If you bother him when he’s working on a body, you might as well be talking to a brick wall. Jim will share nothing with you until he’s done and ready to speak. As annoying as it is to me, I can understand this completely. I hate being interrupted when I am working a case.
After a long night of investigating, my stomach is always dying for food. I don’t have much in my cupboards, but I always have a frozen pizza or burritos on hand. I toss a pizza in the oven and pull an ice cold beer from the fridge. I slam it down my throat, savoring the cold ale, and then release a huge burp when I’m done. I’ve never claimed to be a lady, and a refreshing beer tastes like heaven when you’ve been working a crime scene. While my pizza is cooking, I shed my damp clothes and hop into the shower to warm up.
My skin has been covered in goose-bumps, and my hair feels disgusting after being out in the rain all night. I take several minutes, letting the hot water warm my skin and revive me.
I want to get back to work as soon as possible, so I quickly wash, dress in shorts and a tank top, and then find my pizza is finally done.
The smell of hot pepperoni and cheese makes me drool and my stomach groan from hunger. I pull it from the oven and grab another beer from my fridge. I toss my notepad on the table and begin mentally studying the crime scene while shoving pizza in my mouth.
Before I know it, my entire pizza is gone, four empty beer cans sit on my table, and my mind is completely frazzled from looking at my notes and trying to pinpoint the man I saw in the crowd. I know what I saw, and I know killers. He is the killer. He has to be.
There’s a loud thump on my door, and I roll my eyes, knowing exactly who it is. Although he always visits at the most inopportune times, I just may need to use his expertise right now. I am wound tight, and the fact that I haven’t found a clue yet is really pissing me off.
“Hey,” Gabe says, standing on the other side of the doorway. He looks like he’s ready to workout at the gym, wearing loose basketball shorts and an old, worn T-shirt. He has is a Seattle Mariners hat flipped backward and a goofy grin on his face. He looks more like a twenty-year-old college kid than a police detective.
I simply shake my head and open the door to let him in.
There is only one reason Gabe is here right now, and I am happy to oblige. I walk deeper in the living room and grab the bottom of my tank top, pulling the fabric over my head then tossing it to the floor. My breasts are freed, my nipples hard from the cold air lingering in the room. I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my shorts, pulling them down, and stand naked, waiting for Gabe.
He wastes no time doing the same. Just as quickly as a college kid would do, he removes his clothes in record time then bends down, snagging my nipple in his mouth. I fist my hands into his sandy-blond hair, pulling him to my body as he teases my nipple between his teeth. My body instantly heats, my core melting with every flick of his tongue.
It doesn’t take us long to find my couch and fall onto it. In fact, it doesn’t take long for his expert tongue to find its way between my legs. The faint stubble on his face scratches against my inner thighs while his mouth works my clit. My body reaches its brink with his deliberate strokes. Then, like a crashing wave, I succumb to the intensity and melt into the couch cushions as my orgasm claims all my senses. Gabe only smiles, knowing he’s momentarily tamed my inner beast, but I’m about to rock his world.
Shaking off the tingles of my orgasm, I push Gabe to a seated position and straddle his lap. In moments, I feel his steel rod easing its way inside my body, and he releases a moan of pleasure at feeling me fasten myself to his body. Then I start to ride him.
Slowly, I move my hips, letting the intensity start to build again with every purposeful movement. Gabe’s head falls back against the couch, his palms running up my thighs, along my torso, and then landing on my breasts. His large hands cup my size C breasts easily, and he rolls my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. I move a little bit faster as he brings me closer to the edge once again, but I have control of the situation, and I love that about sex.
I love the control. I’ve never enjoyed a man lying on top of me, smothering me with his body, not since that horrible night when I was fourteen. The weight of a man enrages me. I simply can’t handle it.
My college years were interesting as I tried to work out my sexual issues and suppress the much needed desires a young woman experiences. The first man I willingly had sex with left with a black eye after he tried to lie on top me. I remember feeling like I was being choked or crushed. I couldn’t catch my breath.
After a year of therapy, I sought out the nice guys on campus. I found the guys who were easily persuaded to allow me to have control of the situation, and to my surprise, that wasn’t many guys at all. Mostly, men don’t mind you riding them, but they still want to control the situation by talking dirty or slapping my ass or something weird. Therefore, when I found that Gabe simply wanted to be worshipped by a woman and has no interest in commitment, I was more than willing to cross that line with my partner.
When we’re working, Gabe is a hard-nose investigator, very intimidating. Who wouldn’t be? His biceps are as big as cantaloupes. He’s at least six-foot-five and has the darkest brown eyes, but once he smiles at you, it’s quite apparent he is a teddy bear underneath. I picked up on that immediately and was instantly attracted to him.
When we are interviewing suspects, I am always the bad cop because I don’t know how else to be. Gabe can charm people into confessing using his I-wanna-help-you approach. I simply spell out the facts, which always show truth, with zero emotion, telling them, if they don’t confess, I will make sure their life in prison equates to hell on earth. It usually works … usually.
“Jesus, Stowe,” Gabe groans, no longer able to take the assault from my hips. I know he’s close. His eyes are completely glazed over with pleasure, and he’s gritting his teeth as he tries to hold on until I come with him.
I run my palms up his muscular chest, through the faint patch of hair between his pectorals, and cup either side of his face then connect my eyes with his. “I’m … almost … there …” I say between each pump of my hips.
I drop my hands to his shoulders and wrap them around his neck. Gabe encases me in his grasp as I start to ride him hard. I clear my mind of any other thoughts then find the top of the mountain again as I slam my pelvis into his. I push myself down hard, getting him as deep as I can and moving as fast as I can.
Gabe starts to moan, and I start to ignite in an all-consuming heat. Moments later, he groans out a gut wrenching roar as his orgasm d
evours him, and the second I hear him release, I find my own, going over the edge once again.
August 4, 2015 10:07 a.m.
It took a good fifteen minutes to move again. Exhausted from Gabe, I shooed him out the door shortly after and passed out in bed. Our relationship is what it is—work and sex, nothing more. As a result, when I start to get dressed, it’s his cue to do the same and find his way home. He’s never disputed, and even if he wanted to, I don’t think he would.
Gabe is a nice guy who knows a little about my past. He knows I can never have a real relationship with a man, because I am incapable.
The night my father was murdered, he wasn’t the only thing that died. My mother recuperated for the most part, but she was never the same mentally. I know, if it weren’t for me, she would have fallen into a deeper depression, or worse, she would have committed suicide. She knew she needed to be strong for me, and she was. However, when I looked into her eyes, it wasn’t hard to see her sadness. Subsequently, when she died of breast cancer three years ago, I was incredibly sad yet happy. After the years since my father’s death and the tough year of battling cancer, I knew it was her time to go. She had suffered enough in her life and deserved to have peace.
My humanity died that night, too. All that is left is the hate I still carry for those assholes. I was a fourteen-year-old girl who was raped and my soul left for dead.
The visible memory of that night is a one-inch, crescent-shaped scar on the apple of my right cheek, left by the asshole who punched me in the face. I would hate to see what scars on your psyche would look like if they were visible.
I was no longer a happy teenager, nor did I want to do anything other girls of fourteen did. I was terrified of men for a long while. Then I hated them. Then I wanted to unman them. It wasn’t until we moved away from Brooklyn that I finally felt tolerable of them. I’m not sure if it was moving out of the apartment where it all happened or the city itself, but I started to feel a little better. Regardless, I was never happy again.
Pay Dearly Page 3