by RC Boldt
Now, when I scan the area, my mind stays firmly lodged in the past, and I see exactly what happened.
I hold my mother’s hand as we cross the busy road while my father grasps her own. Someone yells out a split second before a Molotov cocktail is launched past us and crashes into the nearby storefront.
Glass shatters, and the explosion of sound has me freezing in place before I recognize it.
Gunfire.
A stampede of people pushes and shoves past us, frantically attempting to find cover. My mother wobbles as we’re roughly jostled by others.
“Victor!” my mother cries out. “Victor!”
I can barely see through the throng of people but manage to catch a glimpse of my father. We’ve been separated from him, but when more gunshots ring out, a collective gasp shudders through the people nearby. The pit of my stomach yawns open.
I’d heard about premonitions before, and this most definitely feels like one.
As if emerging from thin air, my father comes into view, turned to shield us as the gunfire continues. That’s when I notice his back and the bloody wounds there.
“Run!” his voice thunders just as his body shudders from the impact of another bullet. “Go, now! Run, both of you!” my father hollers.
Terrified, I stare up at my mother’s face and witness the instant change from shocked disbelief into determination.
We start running, our hands clenching each other’s tightly, and I know our aim will be to take cover behind the buildings.
“Run, Alexandra! Run faster!” My mother’s words are winded from exertion but still urgent. “Run, Alex, run!”
I press my fingers to the center of my chest in an attempt to assuage the searing pain there. My father—my birth father—had used his last breaths to urge us to safety.
I had been surrounded by gunfire, curled up in the cramped hiding space with my mother’s dead body. The knowledge that both my parents were dead whirred through my mind in a surreal loop.
That was where Papa found me.
It wasn’t until I was much older that he told me the story of how he came to be in that very spot that day.
It had been his final job for Mikhail—his final job for the Bolsevska Bratva—to do recon and determine whether there was any truth to the rumors. Allegedly, the Orekskaya Bratva had been trying to carve out a large chunk of money-laundering operations and illegal weapons dealings for themselves.
There had been a tedious truce between the two for years prior, an agreement not to tread on either’s territory. Where Orekskaya had been known to deal more with illicit drug smuggling and prostitution, money laundering and weapons smuggling were known by the Bolsevska.
Then a man rose up the ranks of Orekskaya and began to make a name for himself.
And that name wasn’t always favorable. He was hotheaded. Arrogant. He made too many waves, brought too much attention to himself and the Bratva.
Papa had witnessed this man direct the violent riot and kill people in cold blood. He returned to Mikhail with the information before saying his final goodbye.
He never mentioned me to Mikhail because he knew how the world worked. Though he may have trusted Mikhail, Papa couldn’t risk that, someday, that trust would dissolve. Yurchenko was a common last name, and to ensure that no one could trace me back to that tragic day, I’d gone from being Alexandra Chidozie to Alexandra Yurchenko.
Staring at the warehouse, I tighten my ponytail and draw in a deep lungful of air. It’s time to end this.
I need to be a Yurchenko. I may not be his true biological daughter, but Grigory Yurchenko molded me into the woman I am today. To do what is necessary. To draw on my inherent strength.
He was once a killer without a soul. A man with a hardened heart.
I can be the former, but I’m unable to be the latter.
I’m doing this for Papa and Liam.
For the two men who’ve shown me a plentitude of love that will see me through my last breaths.
Chapter 67
ALEXANDRA
Thick, chunky gravel surrounds the abandoned airplane hangar, crunching softly beneath my feet. My attention is trained on the two men standing guard on either side of the freight truck that’s backed in and parked, idling in the open space.
The truck’s diesel engine rumbles loudly while no one is behind the wheel or inside the cab. A helicopter sits a few short yards away, and I assume Sergei plans to use it to evacuate once the laundered money is loaded and shipped off.
One would think they’d have this location locked down much tighter and with much more manpower, but if I’ve learned anything when it comes to Sergei Vinogradov, it’s that his arrogance knows no bounds.
Two guards flank either side of the large vehicle, their view of one another obstructed by the sheer height and size of the truck. Their lack of bulletproof vests indicates that no one expects to encounter trouble.
With my weapons in hand, calmness descends over me at the familiarity of having them in my grip. When Saint had given me the Bowie knives, I’d nearly wept with gratitude and appreciation. I may not be skilled with handguns, but I am more than adept at using these as weapons.
The steel blades are razor-sharp for making quick work of slicing through flesh, but it’s the saw teeth along the top spines that guarantee more damage. Now, as I ensure my grip is firm but not too tight, I will my nerves away. I need to be at my best and most alert—prepared for anything.
Prepared to fight.
Prepared to kill.
Prepared to die.
It’s as if a fresh summer rain has cleansed my memory, refreshing it from its injury-induced slumber because I suddenly recall my PTK martial arts trainer’s voice.
“Remember: shifting from defensive to offensive, and back again, is a skill you must master.”
“Your left-hand jabs into the gut while your right-hand slices across the neck. Your goal is to never give your enemy time to recover.”
“Your use of dual weapons, and weaving them as you advance to attack, can distract and intimidate your enemy.”
The idling engine disguises any sound of my approach. Clinging to the shadows alongside the building, I quickly but quietly approach the first guard.
He faces the truck, his body at a slight angle, and I take advantage. Driving one blade between one of his lower ribs, I simultaneously drag my other across his neck. He clutches at his throat, but it’s too late.
I jerk the other blade from him, the saw teeth ripping through his flesh. His knees give way, body slumping to the ground. Blood spills from his carotid artery and from his lips as he aspirates on the fluid. In the faint traces of moonlight, life rapidly fades from his eyes. He’s no longer a threat to me, so I move on to the next guard.
Slightly crouched, I creep around to the front of the vehicle to assess him better, knowing the element of surprise is key in maintaining the upper hand. I pick up a medium-sized rock and toss it, waiting for his reaction when it lands near his feet.
His head snaps so quickly, I fear he’ll give himself whiplash. Hand moving to his holstered weapon, he doesn’t draw it but tips his head to the side. As if he entertains the possibility that a woodland creature was responsible for tossing the rock at him.
I barely suppress a snort. Evidently, Sergei hires brawn over brains.
He squints into the shadowed darkness, tentatively moving closer to my position. As soon as he nears the front bumper, I dart up, jabbing into his flank while I sink my other blade into the side of his neck and jerk it downward, ripping through his artery.
Quick.
Easy.
Painful.
Dislodging my knives from his body, I let his heavy form teeter off-balance before he falls against the truck, blood pouring from his wounds. He collapses to the ground, and I step over him, prepared to enter the hangar.
“Yuri.” I jerk at the sharp, commanding tone that booms from just inside the hangar. It’s loud enough to be heard over the truck’s eng
ine. “Иди проверь!” Go check it out!
It seems the real fun is about to begin.
Breathe, I remind myself urgently. This is it. This is for Papa. This is to keep Liam safe.
Rapid footsteps against concrete sound before I spot the shadows of two men as they approach. My fingers flex around my knives, their steel blades covered in blood. The blood of men who follow an evil bastard and willingly do his bidding.
When the first one spots his comrade’s body slumped near the front passenger side, he doesn’t call out but rushes toward the fallen man. I jump in front of him and jab him with my first knife, only to encounter resistance.
He’s wearing a vest. Adjusting to this challenge, I thrust out with my other knife, slicing his throat, carving a lovely path for him to bleed out. He slumps to the ground just in time for the other man to venture closer.
Even in the shadows, his eyes widen before narrowing viciously on me. “ты маленькая сучка.” You little bitch.
When he reaches for his holstered gun, I raise a brow in a silent challenge, showing him my knives. His fingers flex over the holster an instant before he reaches for the knife clipped to his belt instead.
One knife against two.
One man who’s likely not as skilled at knife fighting.
As if I conjured his voice, I hear Papa’s whispered words from years ago in the recesses of my mind.
“Don’t let anyone intimidate you. You are a Yurchenko. Beautiful. Brave. Bold. And never to be underestimated. Believe in yourself, and you will never fail.”
The asshole flicks open the blade, and it gleams in the shafts of moonlight breaking through the clouds.
My smile is filled with evil glee as I taunt him. “Мои покрыты кровью. Твоя - ничтожная и неиспользованная. Как будто что-то еще?” Mine are covered in blood. Yours is puny and unused. Much like something else?
His features darken with fury, but that’s what I want. What I can use to my advantage. Unchecked emotions like rage can take hold and decrease a person’s skill set. Too hotheaded, and their movements turn sloppy. Fury can blind a person and overrule everything they’ve learned about fighting.
He doesn’t disappoint when he rushes me, blade clenched in his tight grip. I dodge him, moving to the side, and jab my knife in his thigh. I rip it out quickly and dart away, reveling in the moment he experiences the saw teeth on the blade’s spine. He lets out a harsh grunt of pain but powers through.
This asshole is determined to make me work for it.
When he lunges at me, I’m quick enough to dodge him. I jab out, landing a hit to his arm, and drive the tip of my other knife up into the tender part between his throat and underside of his jaw.
Lashing out, he slices my right arm near the elbow before I can dart away from him. I grit my teeth against the stinging pain. When he shifts to the side, his fighting stance thrown off by his leg wound, I move defensively as we circle each other. I know what he’s trying to do, but he doesn’t realize I’m prepared for it.
As soon as my back is to the truck, knife poised, he rushes forward in a driving motion. I wait until the last moment and twist my upper body to the side to improvise by using rapid, repeated hammer motions with both knives to his arms and the side of his neck. He crumples to a heap, clutching at his wounds.
There’s little to no chance he’ll survive the nick to his artery, but that’s not my problem.
I spin around, ready to advance inside the hangar, only to come face-to-face with the muzzle of a gun.
My eyes zero in, not on the bastard’s face but on his trigger finger. To move or not to move… Will his reaction time be quick or just slow enough that I can veer out of the way and kill him first?
Before I can find out, a second later, there’s a muted sound. The asshole’s head snaps back from the impact of a bullet, and both brain matter and blood spatter from the rear of his skull.
Chapter 68
ALEXANDRA
The body drops to the ground to display a backdrop of Sergei and his bastard assistant. Each has their guns trained on me.
Whoever took that shot from somewhere from behind may have helped me, but I can’t trust that they’re not playing their own game.
Because that’s all it is with these motherfuckers. A game of life and death and not an ounce of remorse to be found.
My eyes settle on the assistant, who rapidly advances on me. I assess him as he slows to a stop a few feet away. With two guns in hand, fingers on both triggers, I blink in shock as recognition bombards me.
He’s the bastard who shot me that night on the yacht. The one who taunted me the entire time.
“The agreement said you were to be alive. It never said you couldn’t have a few holes in you.”
His survey of me spawns the sensation of a million scorpions crawling over my flesh. My unsettling response doesn’t stop there, however. A gleam in his eyes gives me the impression he’s privy to something I’m not. And he can’t wait to lord it over me.
His upper lip curls in a snarl. “Drop your weapons.”
I hold the bastard’s gaze, half wondering if he’ll pump me full of holes once again. His finger flexes on the trigger just as Sergei speaks, tone commanding.
“Not yet, Dev.”
Dev. I’m betting that’s an abbreviated version of his name. A telltale tightening of his features, the tense lines bracketing his mouth, indicates he doesn’t appreciate Sergei telling him what to do. Not one bit.
Eyes turning arctic, his curt command lashes like a whip. “I said, drop your weapons.”
Dev doesn’t resemble the typical member of a Russian Bratva. His accent possesses an odd quality, and his nose is more bulbous at the end, while his jawline is more rounded and far less striking.
With fury burning in my gaze, I hold his glare and fling my knives away. He clearly underestimates me, assuming I’m not better prepared this time around.
Dev’s eyes narrow on me as though he’s examining an intriguing new specimen. “You chose knives over guns yet again, even knowing it’s a risk.” Tone introspective, he gives the impression he’s thinking aloud rather than speaking to me.
With a subtle lift of his chin, Dev silently gestures to another man I hadn’t noticed lingering at the far edge of my periphery.
His henchman’s rapid, determined footsteps advance on me while Dev’s tone is filled with what can only be described as evil glee. “Surely, you understand the need to search you for more weapons.”
The henchman removes the lone handgun from the holster at my lower back and tucks it in his own waistband before frisking me. His hands linger between my thighs, and when I tense, his grin displays a missing eyetooth.
Rising, he roughly rips at the Velcro fastening of my vest, tugging it up and over my head so violently I’m nearly thrown off-balance. He tosses it aside, and it lands with a thunk on the dusty concrete a few feet away.
But he fails to check near my feet, specifically my ankles, assuming my barefoot presence indicates my amateur preparation. For that, I’m grateful.
Silently, Dev ventures closer, gun still in hand, eyes locked on me like a hunter tracking its prey. I notice he lines himself up directly facing me. It makes me wonder if he’s using me as a human shield against whoever took that shot moments ago. When he directs the man to “go check,” curiosity piques at me as to whether this other person will prove to be friend or foe.
Sergei maintains his hold on his gun, now lowered at his side. “You are impressive and resourceful.” He appraises me from head to toe, lingering on my bloody knives that litter the ground. A small pool of red gathers beneath them, staining the concrete.
“I suppose I should consider your arrival better late than never.” Sergei’s voice takes on a frostier, more menacing quality as he arches a brow. “Perhaps we can even go so far as to call this a reunion.”
“Fuck off—” My response is cut short when Dev pi
stol-whips me, and fiery pain radiates along the right side of my face.
The impact sends me stumbling against the wall, my shoulder taking the brunt of it. Assaulted by blinding pain and the sensation of wetness trickling down my cheek, I reach up gingerly, and my fingers come away covered in blood.
Sergei gives an exaggerated frown. “Such unsuitable language for a lady.” His snide tone has me barely quelling the urge to launch myself at him and claw his damn eyes out. “What on earth would Yurchenko think of you now?”
I grind my teeth, despising the sound of Papa’s name falling from his foul lips, but refuse to respond to his taunt.
His beady eyes linger on me, and the icy threat glittering in the depths acts like gnarled claws sinking into my chest. “You don’t know who you’ve been dealing with, do you, Miss Yurchenko?”
He lets the question hang in the air between us, but if he expects me to answer, he’ll be waiting around forever. I refuse to play along with his fucking game.
Eyes still trained on me, Sergei adopts a strange, languid pacing. Two steps, then a pause. Two more steps and another pause. All the while, his expression turns prideful.
“Once upon a time, there was a mercenary called The Boogeyman.” Another two steps before he pauses again. “He was sought after by everyone until he appeared to suddenly grow a conscience.” He wrinkles his nose as though detecting a foul aroma. Taking two more steps, he pauses a fraction longer before his tone turns darker, more nefarious. “Then he chose to retire.”
He continues his odd pacing rhythm. “He disappeared for a time, but then we discovered his whereabouts.” Sergei’s features morph to display both confusion and disgust. “Living on the coast of Panama, in part of the jungle, playing doctor.”
The bottom of my stomach drops out as invisible fingertips perform an ominous dance along my spine. Liam. He’s referring to Liam.
Liam is The Boogeyman.