Wreckless Intentions

by K. Marie

  What a fucking nightmare. And why did Garland sound so damn calm!!

  I didn’t know what was going on; all I knew was that my adrenaline was pumping like crazy as I tried to come to grips with the fact that we were just in a Call of Duty type shootout.

  Fuck calm!

  Garland was behaving like being shot at was an everyday occurrence for him.

  “Camry, stay here and stay down on that floor,” Garland instructed as he moved away, reaching for the door on the opposite side.

  “Garland—no! Don’t you dare get out of this goddamn car!” I shrieked as he opened the door, suddenly terrified.

  “Relax, sweetheart, I need to see what’s going on; I’ll be right back,” he said, climbing out of the car.

  I watched with dread as he lifted the floor mat and opened the compartment hidden underneath. Garland withdrew a gun that was smaller than his own and held it out to me, handle first.

  “If anyone or anything that is not one of us come towards this car, use it, don’t hesitate.” He was dead serious.

  I stared at him like he was crazy. Seriously?

  “You know how to use a weapon, Camry—take the gun, I’m not leaving you defenseless,” he told me in a stern voice.

  “You shouldn’t be leaving at all!” I cried in bewilderment, reluctantly reaching for the weapon.

  What if he didn’t come back? This shit was beyond bizarre and scary as hell.

  Garland didn’t respond as he shut the door. And, because I wasn’t so great at taking orders, I winced in pain as I got into a sitting position then twisted my body until I was on my knees. I wasn’t stupid—I stayed on the floor, but I wanted to be able to see what was going on. Besides, how was I supposed to defend myself if I couldn’t even see danger coming?

  Peeking my head up far enough to see over the dashboard, I didn’t see anything at first—only a dense stand of trees, because the car was sitting at a forty-five-degree angle to the road. But when I looked to the right, my breath hitched in my throat.

  Holy hell.

  A silver SUV lay on its side less than a hundred feet away. Its front-end was hugging a large tree that it had apparently crashed into. I watched as Garland walked over to where the other men were. Viktor stood with his gun drawn—aimed at the vehicle, while Joe had circled the car and paused in the grass with his weapon trained towards it.

  How in God’s name is this my life? I wondered frantically, feeling like I was trapped inside of a horrid nightmare.

  What average person found themselves in the middle of a shootout, in the middle of the night, on some dark, creepy road, on their frigging birthday?

  There was a sudden flurry of activity as Joe shouted then opened fire on the car.

  Crack-crack-crack-crack! Four shots rang out sharply in the stillness of the night.

  Jesus. Whoever was in that car was surely now dead.

  As Viktor approached cautiously from the other side, Garland aimed his gun out in front of him, presumably providing cover. A second later, I watched in horror as Viktor crouched down near the shattered back window of the SUV and forcefully dragged a man through the opening.

  My hand flew up to clamp over my mouth in dismay. The man was covered in blood and not moving. Possibly dead.

  Who in the hell were these men? And why were they shooting at us?

  Viktor patted the man down then withdrew something from one of his pants pockets. Perhaps a wallet? Whatever it was, he stuck it into his inner jacket pocket and stood. I watched the men briefly confer when Joe walked back over to them, then Garland turned and headed back towards the car.

  Before he was even halfway across the road headlights appeared from nowhere, their blinding light instantly illuminating the interior of the car.

  My heart slammed in my chest—exploding in panic as I feared more gunmen. Then, an all-encompassing fear turned my blood cold.

  Garland was outside of the car and vulnerable!

  I froze for only a second before scrambling—trying to find the safety on the gun I’d been gripping in my hand.

  Shit! Shit! Shit! Where the hell was it?!

  I fumbled with the damn thing—it was dark inside the car, and I couldn’t see jack-shit. Finally locating it, I pushed the pin back and clambered over to the opposite window and took aim. But I breathed a sigh of relief a second later as the black Range Rover came into view.

  Stack and Kerry. Thank God.

  My hand shook like crazy as I gratefully lowered the gun and collapsed onto the floor.

  Christ.

  I was a wreck—and just as likely to have hit Garland or one of the other men; than whoever could’ve been bearing down on them.

  The car door opened and my husband appeared in front of me. His face looked grim as he looked at me hunkered on the floor with my arms protectively wrapped around my bent knees.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, gentle voice belying the hard look in his eyes.

  “I’ll live,” I answered, freaking-out on the inside.

  Garland eyed the gun still clutched in my hand. “I should put that away before you hurt someone.”

  “I thought that was the point,” I half-ass snorted.

  The irony.

  “I’d prefer that someone not be me,” he said, taking the gun from my hand.

  I winced as Garland helped me from the floor; my shoulder hurt like hell as I gripped his hand. By the time he slid into the backseat next to me, Viktor and Joe had returned to the car, and we were pulling away.

  In the back of my mind, I acknowledged that we were leaving a crime scene and that there was likely a dead body or two left in our wake. Proper protocol required that we remained at the scene and filed a police report—among other things. But I didn’t care about proper protocol right now. As the adrenaline rush started to fade, the enormity of everything that had just happened was too much to comprehend. I just wanted to go home. I wanted to see my kids and to kiss and hug them. And to rejoice in the fact that I was still around to do so. That we were still around to do so. I had a million fucking questions—I wanted answers, an explanation. But for now, I just curled into my husband’s arms and silently cried.

  Eighteen

  G A R L A N D

  I was just eleven years old when I first witnessed my father kill a man. Konstantin Federoff was his name. The man had worked for Romanovich as one of his loyal lieutenants for as long as I could remember. Konstantin was in charge of running one of Romanovich’s less than legal operations at the time, several gambling establishments.

  My father had always been an enterprising man, owning both legal and illegal businesses all over Russia and beyond. I had accompanied him to his legitimate business on that particular day, an oil refinery company. My visits were infrequent—Romanovich was a busy man and didn’t often get to spend quality time with his son, especially during business hours. So, I had been hyped; excited to be hanging out with the big boys. My father never traveled with less than four bodyguards, his boyeviks and bykis, all of whom I’d hero-worshipped.

  I was engrossed in playing Super Mario Land on my Nintendo Game Boy when Konstantin came into the office that day. I paid no attention as the men talked, my father, sitting behind his desk and Konstantin still on his feet out of a show of respect. However, my head shot up in alarm a few minutes later when I heard a loud grunt, followed quickly by a thunder-clapping sound that made the floor vibrate. Konstantin was on his knees with one of the byki, Nikolai, standing behind him with his arm wrapped around his neck.

  I watched as my father came from behind his desk and stood in front of Konstantin. He regarded the man like he was just a casual observer, facial expression as relaxed as if he’d been only perusing his dinner menu. But Konstantin struggled, likely from the lack of air that he was suffering from having his windpipe compressed. After a beat of silence, my father finally gestured for Nikolai to loosen his hold then began speaking.

  “Betrayal is often hard to accept, but there’s always an easy way t
o remedy it.”

  “Boss, please, this is all a misunderstanding—I can explain!”

  “No explanation is needed, your treachery is well documented, you couldn’t possibly defend against it.”

  “I would never steal from you! I’ve been set-up—they want me out of the way, if you do this, they’ll be getting exactly what they want!”

  “The only one who has been getting what they want is you, it seems. You broke my number one rule. Yesli ty ukradesh' u menya, ty umresh'!”

  If you steal from me, you will die…

  My father held out his hand in a silent request. Pavel, another of his byki, handed over an impressively large gun.

  “Dlya neloyal'nosti ya ne dayu nikakikh vtorykh shansov.” My father told Konstantin, right before he spat in the man’s face.

  For disloyalty, I do not give any second chances.

  The staggeringly loud crack from the gun discharging sounded like an explosion. My Game Boy crashing to the floor went unnoticed as I sat frozen with horror and fear, before screaming in a voice that I didn’t even recognize as my own.

  As Konstantin’s blood pooled rapidly out onto the floor, my father handed Pavel back his gun and came over to me.

  “Settle down, son.” He told me, crouching down in front of me and placing a gentle hand on my shoulder.

  Tearing my gaze away from the horrific sight of Konstantin’s scattered brains, I brought my eyes up to his.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that but felt it was necessary. The sooner you learn life’s hardest lessons, the better off you will be. Always expect unbending loyalty from those you entrust, but never put one hundred percent trust in anyone but yourself.”

  That day, I learned the penalty for crossing my father was always death. But it wouldn’t be the only valuable lesson learned. I was to turn twelve years old the following week, the age my father deemed old enough to start showing me the ropes of The Business. I tagged along more frequently and learned many more lessons. I saw many more deaths. I learned who my father really was. I learned what my legacy would be, and never had any intention of accepting it.

  But in the end…outrunning one’s legacy could prove futile.

  As I now stood looking down at my sleeping son, I wondered if my father had done the same with me when I was a baby. If he’d reflected on his son’s future after returning home from a day of violence. Was I the same as my father? Would my determination not to lead the same kind of life make a difference in the end?

  I reached quickly for my phone as it started to sound in my pocket, trying to silence it before the noise woke Roman. After reading the text, I leaned down to place a kiss on my son’s cheek before exiting the nursery. I made it clear that I wasn’t to be bothered unless and until someone had answers. I was in a murderous mood, so I hoped that criteria had been met.

  * * *

  The men were all gathered in the guesthouse that sat at the back of the property, adjacent to the main house. It was their base, where they hung-out, slept, exercised, etc. And though it was now 4 a.m., the seven men present looked hyperalert when I entered.

  “There was a tracking device found on the car,” Viktor said, walking over to me. “It’s hard to say how long it was there, but my guess would be since yesterday.”

  I thought back to where we’d gone the previous day. “The Art Center?”

  “That’s my guess, it would have been the only time the car was both unattended and on a public street. Sloan’s already working on the cams to see if he can get anything, as well as taking a crack at that cell phone,” Viktor answered.

  The men in the SUV carried no identification on them, but Viktor found a cell phone. Too bad they were both dead, I would’ve liked to have killed them personally. I guess I’d have to satisfy my rage with what we did manage to get.

  “Vlad is on a plane to Russia as we speak—asshole conveniently departed five hours ago. But this shit has his stench all over it; he knew you’d be there last night,” said Viktor.

  “As did many others, dvoyurodniy brat,” I reminded him.

  I was by no means defending Vlad. Right now, I was ready to annihilate just about anyone I even suspected of having any involvement. However, focusing on the usual suspect was often an amateur mistake. Viktor knows that.

  “Did I come here for speculation, or for actual answers?” I asked in Russian, for his ears only.

  “Joe and Stack are awaiting us, let’s go get you some answers,” he responded back in Russian.

  When we arrived at the deserted warehouse building, the only illumination to be found was from the headlights of our three cars as they pulled into the loading dock entrance. Though once inside, row after row of overhead fluorescent lights came instantly to life, brightening the cavernous space. The warehouse was purchased three years ago and had no real functional purpose; other than serving as a damn convenient place for interrogations.

  After exiting the car, we made our way to the only area of the warehouse that showed any signs of life. Joe sat in a flimsy looking metal chair with both his feet planted firmly on the floor, and with his arms folded across his broad chest. The menacing look on his face as he stared at the man sitting across from him would frighten even the bravest of men.

  “This little bitch keeps crying for his mama,” Joe said in disgust, “I told him his mama was unavailable, but his daddy was on his way.”

  I looked at the man sitting secured to the chair across from him. He had a bloody gash on the side of his head, his face was smeared with blood, one of his eyes and lips were already swollen, and he was bleeding from a leg wound. He was actually at his best right now, because it would only get worse from here.

  “Then, I guess daddy has arrived…” I said, stepping closer to the man.

  I had been working damn hard to keep my rage under control, but the sight of this asshole had my blood instantly boiling. I wanted to hurt someone, and he was the only one available at the moment.

  “Have you gotten anything useful out of him?” I asked.

  “He’s been playing hard to get, but I figured you didn’t want him dead before you made it here,” answered Stack.

  He figured right. Because every time I remembered my wife’s frightened face, I wanted that particular pleasure to be all mine.

  “I’m certain we can work something out,” I said, looking over at the assortment of tools that had already been laid out on the table.

  Walking over to it, I grabbed a claw hammer and two six-inch-long nails. The man’s eyes widened with terror as I approached, his frantic words coming out muffled with the tape still in place. At my nod, Stack went over and ripped the tape from the man’s mouth.

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Yakov,” the man answered, face contorted with pain.

  That was easy.

  “Who do you work for, Yakov?”

  This time he hesitated, his one still functioning eye watching me as if weighing whether or not the truth would do him any good. It wouldn’t. He had to know that. But, it might lessen his burden of pain.

  At his hesitation, I speared one of the nails through the closest hand that was bound to the wooden armrest of the chair. The man howled like a wounded wolf, his body writhing in agony as blood quickly pooled and started to drip from his fingers and down onto the floor.

  “I’m a huge fan of having my questions answered when asked, Yakov. So, for every hesitation you give in providing answers, I use this hammer on that nail.”

  “Who do you work for?” I asked again.

  “I-I work for no one! I’m a hired gun—the same as the others,” he grunted out.

  An ear-piercing cry filled the room as the hammer came down hard on the head of the nail. Driving it all the way to the wood.

  “That’s just not good enough, Yakov, the next nail goes into your skull,” I warned.

  My father might not have been an ideal role model, but he did teach me one thing most fathers failed to teach their sons. How to prol
ong a man’s agony until I got what I wanted.

  “Okay, okay…I-I don’t know who hired the hit, b-but—we were contacted through Vadim Savin,” he said through trembling lips.

  Savin. A familiar name.

  “Who’s he working for?”

  Yakov gave me a helpless look. He was merely a foot soldier—as was likely the case for the other three men. They were all amateurs—it was an utterly laughable slap in the face to send them after me. Assassins? Did someone’s hit budget get slashed?

  Another pain-filled yowl sounded as I struck the nail once more.

  “I asked a question,” I reminded.

  “I-I don’t know…please…Savin works for many people—he never s-said.”

  “Please? My WIFE was in that goddamn car!” I roared, driving the second nail through his other hand. The so-called assassin couldn’t possibly be looking to me for mercy.

  Giving in to my rage, I struck the nail several times with the hammer, knocking it all the way through and crushing all the bones in his hand in the process.

  I felt better already.

  Walking back over to the table, I grabbed a couple more nails. There were several more questions needing answers, and this little exercise was proving therapeutic.

  “Who is Savin working for?” I asked again, positioning the nail over his kneecap this time.

  I watched in loathing as Yakov groan-whined in agony, sweat, snot and what looked to be tears all mingling with the blood on his face as it slid down to soak his shirt.

  “I-I don’t know. Wait! Please wait!” he urged, as I moved to destroy his kneecap. “Last I h-heard, he was working for the Ostrovsky’s…but, t-that’s all I know.”

  Yakov’s tortured cry reverberated off the rafters as the nail impaled the bone of his kneecap with force. Who gives a fuck if he’d answered? I gave zero fucks.

  However, I at least now had most of my answers. Just a couple more questions…and I would drive the final nail into his brain with satisfaction.