“You don’t understand,” he said, his voice cracking. “She knew.”
“Knew what?” Morgan asked, sitting down next to him.
His tortured brown eyes rose to meet hers. “You saw it in the prison report. The fight, the one that damned near killed me.”
What did that have to do with what happened tonight?
“Tell me what this is all about,” she said, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.
He stared at nothing for a long time, and Morgan made herself wait him out.
“When I was attacked,” he began, “two of the guys held me down while the third . . . When he was pulling down my pants, he told me what they were going to do to me. How I was going to like it.” Alex gulped air like he was reliving the assault.
“And then he . . . bit me right on the neck, like I was some dog’s bitch. Showing me I was his for the taking. It took twenty-five stitches to get it closed.”
Morgan’s stomach rolled over. “Jesus.” She’d known about the injury, but not how it’d been delivered. It explained the wicked, curved scar.
“When it happened tonight, I was too busy trying to get away from her to realize why she’d done it. Anya knew what had gone down in Angola. She was showing me that I’m just as weak, just as vulnerable out here as I was in there. That she was going to make me her bitch.”
Morgan took a deep breath, ensuring that her voice didn’t reflect her murderous fury. She’d channel that rage later, when she had her hands around Anya’s neck.
“But you showed her you weren’t vulnerable. You were just surprised. Next time, you won’t be. That’s what’s important.”
He didn’t seem to believe her.
“Let’s get you into the shower. You’ll feel better. Feel less . . . ”
“Violated?” he said.
The hell this man has been through.
His solemn brown eyes studied her. “The Russians will try to use me to assassinate your boss. You know that, right?”
“Then God help you. Because the last guy who tried to assassinate Crispin wasn’t successful.”
“You kill him?” Alex asked.
The question caught her off guard in its boldness. “Neil did. I would have, if it had come down to that,” she admitted.
“Which means that you would do the same to me, if needed,” he said, his voice hollow.
“Not if I can help it, Alex,” she said, caught by the thought that she might have to choose between her boss and this man. A day or so ago, it would have been an easy choice—she owed Crispin everything—but now . . .
Disturbed by what that might mean, she shifted gears. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and into bed.”
Despite all her soothing words, his eyes remained haunted. Anya’s brutality, her coldly calculated mind-rape, had shaken him to the core.
You’re dead, bitch. You just don’t know it yet.
*~*~*
There was a moment in the shower, as the water rushed across his neck and caused the pain to increase fivefold, that Alex nearly wept. He’d done so only a few times in his life: at his dad’s funeral, after his conviction, and after that fight in prison, while recovering in the infirmary. Each time, he’d made sure no one saw the tears.
Was this another one of Buryshkin’s games, sending his violent offspring after Alex to reinforce that he was just a pawn, one that could be crushed at will? Or was there something else going on that neither he nor Morgan was aware of?
A light tap came on the bathroom door. Not surprising, given how long he’d been in the shower trying to pull his head together.
“You okay?” Morgan called out.
He couldn’t hide in here forever. “Yeah. I’ll be out soon.”
He dried off and wrapped the towel around his hips. Any other time, he would have done it to entice Morgan one step closer to his bed. Not tonight. He found her waiting for him, bandages and ointment on the nightstand. Her eyes flickered to the towel, then away.
“Sit here,” she said, patting the side of the bed.
He did as she asked, then closed his eyes while she cleaned the wound and gently placed the Steri-Strips, one by one. Her hands were warm and caring.
“One edge is really rough, but I think it’ll heal smooth if the strips hold. If not, we can get you to a doc for a few sutures.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said.
“Yes, it does,” she said firmly. “There’s no way we’re letting this bitch win.”
It appeared that he wasn’t alone on this journey. “How’d you get so tough after what happened to you?”
“I realized I had two choices: Let that man ruin the rest of my life, or fight back. It was hell. It took me a long time before I could go back into a bar again, and they still make me uncomfortable. For a while, I was convinced every guy was a monster. Now I’m better at sorting out the evil ones from the regular folks.”
“So all guys who hit on you are monsters?” he asked, wanting to know if he fell into that category with her.
“No. It’s the ones who tell me I have no choice in the matter that are the problem.” She looked over at him and her expression softened. “Just because you want to get me into bed doesn’t make you a monster. You’re a lone wolf being reintroduced into the pack. You’ll find your place again, and then no one will jack with you because you’ll rip them apart.”
“You sound so sure.”
Morgan nodded. “I have good instincts. You’re a threat to the Russians, or they wouldn’t be effing with you like this.”
“I’m not used to having people in my corner.”
“You work for Veritas now. We’re different.”
“I also work for the Russians,” he reminded her.
“Not for too much longer.” Morgan delicately taped a bandage over the wound. “Too tight?”
“No, it’s good. Thank you.”
“Allergic to any antibiotics or pain meds?” When he shook his head, she handed him two different pills, along with a cup of water. He swallowed them, feeling the discomfort as they went down, while Morgan tidied up.
She hesitated in the doorway. “I can stay until you fall asleep. Just for moral support, you know. No threat to your manhood at all.”
He was touched by her offer. “I’d rather you be lying next to me tonight.”
“Alex—” she began.
“I wasn’t . . . Never mind. Good night, Morgan. And thank you for taking care of me.”
As she closed the door behind her, Alex stripped off the towel and crawled into bed, hands behind his head to better stare at the ceiling. He found himself replaying what had happened tonight, right up to nearly being stabbed. Doing the “what ifs,” because it was the best way to generate guilt. It was his own damned fault. He knew better than to go off alone with a Russian in this town. Once again, his dick had been doing the thinking for him.
There was a tap at the door and it opened slowly. Morgan crossed to the other side of the bed, where she placed her gun and cell phone on the nightstand. She was wearing a long T-shirt, one that hit mid-thigh.
As she pulled back the covers on her side, she hesitated. “I’m here for support, not for sex,” she said, but he heard the nervousness in her voice. Like she wasn’t completely sure of this herself.
“All right. I am not wearing anything, though.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve slept next to a naked man.”
Morgan slid into bed next to him and moved over until she could lay her head on his shoulder. She gingerly placed her arm across his lower chest.
“Is this okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, it’s good. Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice near a whisper.
It took a while for her to answer, like she was having difficulty finding the proper words.
“After I was nearly raped, I couldn’t trust any man at that point, even those I knew really well. And asking a girlfriend to curl up with me would have been awkward. So I slept alone. I lay there staring at
the shadows night after night, replaying it over and over. I was too much in my own head.”
“Doing the ‘what ifs’?”
“Exactly.”
Alex felt the need to change the subject, for both of them. “How did you get the nickname Valkyrie?”
Morgan shifted, looking up at him, her fingers featherlight on his chest.
“In Norse mythology, a valkyrie chooses who lives and dies in battle, then carries her chosen heroes to Valhalla so they can prepare for Ragnarök. The end of the world.” She laid her head back down, her sandalwood scent surrounding him, comforting him.
“So now I’m a chosen hero?”
She chuckled. “You’re getting there.”
“You know, I swore I’d never hurt a woman. But after tonight, I’d love nothing more than to break Anya Buryshkin into pieces.”
Morgan snuggled into his chest. “Lucky for you, I never made that vow.”
He looked down at her. “So . . . in battle, which is more deadly: a batshit-crazy vampire, or a valkyrie?”
“We’ll be finding that out real soon,” her voice chillier now.
For the first time in years, he felt safe. Unwilling to let the feeling slip out of his grasp, he closed his eyes, savoring the soft touch of Morgan’s hair on his skin. Her very presence soothed away the pain, the fear, the anger. Just like a valkyrie, as a warrior’s life was nearing its end.
Chapter Fifteen
September 19th
Miri’s House
Miri woke from an unpleasant dream, one about dead cats and bloodstained hands that came out of the darkness to hurt her. She turned over, trying to get comfortable, but the mattress-on-the-floor thing wasn’t doing its usual magic.
The window air conditioner was off at Neil’s request, because he said it made it hard to hear the night noises. whatever that meant. The ceiling fan was just moving stale air with each turn. It didn’t help that her babysitter insisted she sleep fully clothed, except for her shoes. She’d gone for a tank top and shorts to take the sweating down a notch. He’d also insisted that they not be brightly colored or white, and she’d grumpily complied, wondering what kind of mind it took to think of things like that.
But the real reason she was having trouble sleeping was because the other person in the house was a male, and not her brother. A male that was as ripped and hunky as they came. A total stud. The universe was cruel. If only she’d met him at the bar, then everything would be cool. But no, he had to be her bodyguard. Which made him off limits, if she wanted to stay alive.
The Iceman had proven to be just as advertised: short on conversation, long on vigilance. He could ghost from room to room without making a single sound, and had scared the hell out of her more than once. He ate in silence and slept sitting upright in the living room, his position precisely calculated so he could cover both the front and back doors. He was always armed, a fact she’d realized when she caught a peek of him in the bathroom after a shower, towel around his trim waist, gun within reach on the counter.
Despite all that, Neil intrigued her because he was so unlike anyone else she’d ever met. A killing machine who hadn’t even told her his last name, though she’d asked. Twice.
At least he’s on our side.
Miri had just closed her eyes when she heard something move outside her window. It was faint, but there. A cat, maybe. It came again, more distinct now.
She bolted out of bed, but even before she made it to the door of her room, Neil was there, alert, his presence filling the doorway, Glock in hand.
She kept her voice low. “I heard something outside. It’s too big to be an animal.”
“I did too. Stay put. I’ll check it out. Can you shoot a gun?”
“Sure can.”
He bent over and pulled his backup weapon from an ankle holster under his jeans.
“It’s a SIG Sauer, so there’s no safety. There’s already a cartridge in chamber.”
Miri took the firearm. “I’ll watch your back,” she said.
“When’s your birthday? Month, date?”
Startled, she rattled off, “October tenth.”
“Then ten ten is the password. If I give you the wrong number, it means I’m a hostage. In that case, barricade yourself in the bathroom and call 911. Even if someone threatens to shoot me, do not open the door. You understand?”
“Ah . . . okay. Be careful.” What else could she say?
Her bodyguard gave her a stern look, as if that warning really didn’t apply to him. Then he was out the back door in full stealth mode.
How do you do that? Even better, could he teach her that skill? Miri locked up behind him and wedged a chair under the doorknob for good measure. She’d barely turned toward the bedroom when something shattered the front window and rolled inside. The stench of gasoline reached her nose the instant before flames blossomed across the old wood floor. Some sort of homemade incendiary.
“Oh my God!”
Miri pounded at the flames with a couch cushion, but it only seemed to make them spread faster. She danced back so her clothes wouldn’t catch fire, then dug under the kitchen cabinet for the fire extinguisher. It had been discharged. She flung it away in disgust.
As the fire gained ground, gray-black smoke climbed upward. Ducking into the bedroom, Miri grabbed her purse, looping the strap across her body. While she called 911, she looked around, trying to decide what she could save. Then she saw it: the picture of Alex and her together at the park. She was five, he sixteen. It was the only photo of them from when they were kids. Miri grabbed it and jammed it in her purse.
The 911 operator came on the line.
“My house is on fire! Someone threw something in the window. I can’t put it out!”
Two distinct pops came from the backyard. Gunfire.
Holy shit. “Someone is shooting at us! You’ve got to send the cops!” She gave the address, just in case the operator didn’t have it.
“Please stay on the line, ma’am.”
“I can’t. He might be hurt.”
She ditched her phone inside her purse and fled to the back door. Pulling the chair out of the way, she shot a look toward the front of the house. The couch was fully engulfed, and smoke rolled across the ceiling in a thick wave.
She had no choice—she had to go outside. She’d just pulled away the chair and unlocked the door when she heard more gunfire.
“Miri!” Neil called. Then, “Ten ten!”
She threw open the door, and her bodyguard rolled inside. Before she could move to close it, he was on his feet, kicking it shut and shoving her toward the bedroom. Seconds later, the back door was riddled with bullets.
“Jesus! What the hell?” she said.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. What’s going on?”
“We got three tangos. One’s down, but I couldn’t take the others out before they started the fire. You call 911?”
“Yes. They know we’re being shot at.”
“Then we hunker down as long as possible and hope the cops get here fast,” he said, his eyes watering from the smoke. A line of blood ran down his arm. He led her back toward the bathroom. The fire grew faster now, fumes and smoke roiling like a black serpent.
“You need to wet some towels and—”
“The door!” she said. The one behind all of Alex’s boxes that led to the other unit. “I can get us out of here.”
“How?”
She didn’t bother to answer, flying into her bedroom. She began tossing her brother’s storage boxes out of the way, sending his clothes and possessions in all directions.
“What are you doing?” Neil asked. He had his back to her, gun pointed toward the living room, though it was unlikely their hunters would bother to come inside. All they had to do was wait for her and her body guard to choose between being roasted to death, or being cut down in a hail of bullets.
“There’s a door to the other unit behind all this stuff. It isn’t locked.” Which was why she’d piled
all the boxes in front of it.
“You never told me about that,” he said sternly.
“Yeah, well, I’m telling you now.”
Miri kicked the last of the boxes out of the way, Neil at her side. A fast glance toward the front room told her that the fire was about to go into a flashover: the point where the contents of the house became so hot everything inside the structure would spontaneously combust. Including them.
I’ll never date a fireman again. You learned too much of the scary stuff that way.
“Me first,” Neil said, slowly edging open the door with a booted foot, his gun gripped between his two hands. His grim, soot-stained face promised swift death to anyone who got in his way. “Run silent, or they’ll figure out what we’re up to,” he whispered. The portal pushed away debris, leading to a spongy floor, rodent skeletons, and black mold.
Miri closed the warped door behind them, hoping it would offer a brief barrier to the flames. When she turned and walked through a spider web, she clamped her lips to keep from crying out.
“Is this side the same as yours?” Neil asked.
“Probably a mirror image. I’ve never been over here before.” The only reason she’d gotten the rent so cheap was because no one wanted to live next to a rotting hulk.
They crept through the semi-darkness, only patches of moonlight through the ruined roof lighting their way. Something crashed behind them, accompanied by a shuddering whomp as the fire outgrew the confines of Miri’s apartment. The beams above them began to groan in protest.
“This whole thing’s coming down,” Miri said.
Neil paused at the front door. “I’ll go straight out, you go left. Get off the porch and onto the ground as quickly as possible. If you see someone with a gun who isn’t in uniform, shoot them. Can you do that?”
“I’ll try.”
“On three.” He moved forward to the front door. “One . . . two . . . three.”
Neil kicked the door and rotting plywood out of the way, then rolled out onto the porch and onto the ground, coming to his feet with a grace that defied description.
Miri didn’t try that move, but sprinted out, moving left and off the porch as he’d ordered. She instinctively lowered her stance, trying to see where their assailants might be hiding. Was there one by the neighbor’s car?
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