Shattered: Running with the Devil Book 7

by Jasmin Quinn

  He buttoned his shirt and drew his phone from the pocket. Tapped a number, let it ring, then, “Get the plane ready. We’re leaving tonight.” A pause. “One hour. I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  He hung up, turned to Esma who had not yet moved. “Get the fuck dressed.”

  Chapter 31

  Rusya thought he might explode as rage hammered him. The woman he loved had just devastated him. He was ripped to pieces, nothing left even for vultures to pick at. His pride, his dignity, his world. He’d been made the fool and worse, by that sonofabitch, Jackman. Dmitrii L’vovich Mikhalev.

  Motherfucker!

  And Esma. Fuck! He couldn’t think. Anything else he could have handled, anyone else but her. Finally, someone who gave his life meaning, unlocked his heart and she destroyed it, destroyed him in a few simple sentences.

  How could he trust her, believe the bullshit spewing from her lying mouth? The pain was so intense, burning him from the inside out. He wanted to rip his heart from his chest. And his rage. He could crush her, pulverize her, turn her into a small puddle of bone, blood, and cartilage. So close to doing that.

  But then she said something. The first goddamn thing that made sense. “Send me back to him.”

  Yes, that was exactly what he was going to do, he was going to fucking send her back to Jackman.

  He watched as she struggled to pull on her clothing, her fingers shaking, clumsy. But no tears, fucking, lying bitch. His desire for her crashed and burned. Little slut, on his lap, fucking him less than an hour ago and now this.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. As if that would change anything. He didn’t answer her, ignored her, beneath him. Yuri was fucking right. He inhaled to settle himself as he dialed his driver.

  When the man answered, Rusya said, “I’m going to the airfield. Bring the car around.”

  He made one more phone call for Jackman’s coordinates, then turned towards Esma.

  His control locked into place as his eyes swept her, steel reserve, always like this after the anger. Once he had a plan. This fucking woman, the one who prepped him for their talks with the Turks, who had let him and Yuri walk into two-day’s of meetings with a Turkish envoy set up by Jackman. She was about to get a lesson on why people feared him. It would be a short lesson, because after that she’d be dead, but Jackson would understand who he was fucking with now. Jackman wanted a war. The fucker was going to get one.

  “Dress warm,” he growled as Esma drew her jacket on.

  She said nothing. Didn’t cry, not once. Not even when he hit her. She was used to taking her licks, isn’t that what she said? Maybe he should give her a knife, see if she would try to carve him up like she did her husband. He felt the stab of betrayal, steeled himself against the hurt as he slid on his shoulder holster, slid his gun into it, keeping his eyes focused on her as she withered under his scrutiny. Then he drew on his tie, his suit jacket, his boots, his coat, hat and gloves. It was winter in Moscow. It was fucking cold outside.

  He held Esma’s elbow as they descended in the elevator, kept his grip on her as they walked through the lobby to the car. He looked at no one, his focus intent on his plan and she stayed with him, didn’t make a scene, didn’t try to run from him. Why not? he wondered. Why not at least attempt to save her own life. It wouldn’t do her any good and maybe she knew that. Even if she escaped him now, she couldn’t go far. She would be picked up by Yuri’s men and then her regret would begin in earnest.

  As they approached the car, the driver held the back door, and Rusya pushed Esma in first, then himself. He leaned towards the driver as they pulled away from the curb. “We won’t be returning. Have our bags sent to Vancouver.”

  The driver glanced at him through the rear-view mirror. “Yes, sir.”

  Rusya settled next to Esma. She was curled up against the door, facing away from him, head against the window, like she had done yesterday after the fight with the Turk, after Yuri’s insults. The eerie whiteness of the night reflected on the glass. Streetlamps lit the way to the highway, but the snow was starting to fall. Rusya hoped they could stay ahead of the storm, make a small stop at Jackman’s and go home. No not a stop. Esma was going to merely drop in. It would be a long trip, going home this way, but he didn’t fucking care. It was time to change the way he did things. Time to take the war to Jackman’s doorstep.

  Esma didn’t challenge him, didn’t struggle once, not until they were at the airport. He felt her tense under his arm as he pulled her from the car, but he flipped her around, slammed her against the hood, a cruel grip on her wrist, a savage twist to her arm. “I don’t know what you’re thinking,” he said with menace. “But stop thinking it. You’re getting on that plane with me. We’re going to visit your boss.”

  She whimpered as he yanked her up and pushed her in front of him to the plane, up the stairs and inside. But not a word, not anymore. She’d used them all back at the hotel and none worked. Perhaps she decided it was futile or couldn’t think of anymore lies.

  The pilot was in the cockpit. Just one. Evan. He pushed a button, bringing the stairs up, sealing the exit.

  Rusya glanced at the empty co-pilot’s seat. “Where’s Rudy?”

  Evan kept his eyes focused on his manifest, making a few notes. “He wasn’t expecting to fly tonight. Out with friends, drinking.”

  “Then you pilot alone.”

  Evan nodded, no argument. He was a smart man. “I have to file a flight plan, sir. I need to know the route.”

  Rusya looked back at Esma who was already seated and buckled in. Such a good little girl, maybe couldn’t wait to get back to Jackman. He climbed into the cockpit, sat on the co-pilot’s seat and leaned in towards Evan. “We’re going east first, to these coordinates.” He showed Evan his phone, the third call he’d made, the follow-up text message. “When we get there, you’ll open the emergency hatch at the back of the plane. I have a small package to drop off. Then you’ll turn around, fly to London, stop for a refuel and take me back to Canada. To Toronto to refuel. Then home.”

  The pilot penciled the coordinates onto his flight plan, listed the stops and nodded. “Understood, sir. I’ll lower the airspeed as I approach the coordinates. If you want the package to drop on the house, there will be a short window to do so. I’ll warn you ahead of time, so you can be ready.”

  Rusya nodded. “File the plan and let’s go.”

  Chapter 32

  They were on Rusya’s plane again, back in the air and Esma was as unsettled as the first time. She kicked herself mentally as she thought this. Her death was imminent and she was more focused on the buffeting wind on the aircraft. The angry gales were battering the plane, tossing it around like it was a small fish in a big sea. And she was clinging to the armrests, trying to stay calm.

  Then she forgot the weather as Rusya drew her attention, sitting in the seat across from her, his dark eyes on her face. “You have a small window of opportunity to share everything you know. Maybe I’ll knock you out before I throw you out of this plane.” Still angry, his tone hostile.

  She shuddered. The man across from her, could she take him? She had no weapons and even if she did manage to bring him down, what then? Kill him? It would save her life for a few minutes, a few hours. But the plane would have to land eventually. And when it did, there would people waiting for her. Yuri’s father, maybe Anto. They would take her away and torture her to death.

  No. She was better off trying to talk to Rusya. Try to make him see the truth. Or dying here on this plane, trying. “I love you.” Soft words, her eyes gripping his, trying to find a way back to his heart.

  He grabbed her by the throat and snapped her to him as much as he could. “Do not say those words to me.”

  She tried to swallow, tried to breathe, her hands reaching to his wrist without her will to stop them. Pulling at him, trying to stay alive. Futile and she flailed, hit out at him, connecting with his cheek. He shoved her back in her seat as he let go.

  She brought her
hands to her throat as she crumpled. “There’s nothing else to say. Jackman and I were not on speaking terms. Your playing into his hands by killing me.”

  “I don’t give a fuck! You conned your way into my house, into my bed.” Rusya clenched his fists and she saw his restraint as he held himself from punching her. She didn’t know why. A punch from him might be a good thing right now. It might shock her out of the lethargy that was spreading through her body. Her inability to think, to move, to protect herself. She needed all that back. A sudden wish for a drink, but she banished the thought quickly.

  “I didn’t, Rusya.” Her voice cracked on his name. “It was genuine, what we had. Still have even if you kill me. You’re angry. But you won’t stay angry. Then what? At least take me back to Vancouver. Give me a chance to prove myself to you.”

  Rusya’s eyes darkened and the plane bucketed viciously. He grabbed for the armrests as Esma lurched to the side and caught herself. “You think I’m angry? If I were angry, I would have beaten you to death in the hotel room. This isn’t anger. You have no idea. I’m done with the fucking games Jackman plays. I’m done ignoring him. He wants a war. It’s time to give him one. You’ll be the first casualty.”

  Esma blinked back tears and opened her mouth to respond when the plane lurched again, this time violently. She reached out to grab onto Rusya. He caught her with his hands, held her steady for a few seconds until the plane settled, then pushed her back into her seat.

  The pilot’s voice came over the speaker. “Mr. Savisin. We’re about 50 kilometres north of the target. I’m trying to hold the plane steady—” The plane bucketed suddenly, lurching to the right, then the left as the pilot overcorrected. Then the pilot again. “We’re going down! The weather is sucking her down!” Panic in his voice, panic as Esma gripped the arms of the seat and closed her eyes. She was going to die. Rusya was going to die. Fuck, fuck.

  The pilot again, “There’s a logging camp with a runway north of here. I’ll try to bring her down there.”

  Rusya started to unbuckle his seat belt and Esma shouted at him, “No! You can’t help him. Stay seated!” Then the plane hit something. She saw a wing shear off and then the ground, landing hard, landing fast, bouncing into the air, then slamming back to the earth. Then nothing…

  Chapter 33

  Anto was home and happy to be there. He’d missed Marisol, missed everything about her. His home was what it was because of her. She’d decorated for Christmas while he was in Russia, their first Christmas together and he was excited, like a little boy who still believed in Santa Claus. Colourful lights inside and outside the condo, candles and pine-scented baskets, artfully wrapped presents stacked under the big, well-lit tree. He couldn’t wait to open his present from her. And he couldn’t wait for her to open her present from him.

  She was gonna love it.

  His penthouse was all glass, at the top of the world, looking down on Vancouver. Everything lit up for Christmas. The first time he’d noticed how beautiful the city was, how perfect it was.

  Then he got the call from Katerina to come down to the war room. Her voice panicky as her words rushed out. Adrenaline surged through him as he took the elevator down one floor, to the suite of condos owned by Rusya. He entered, saw his men, loud unconstrained conversation, Katerina seated at her computer, her fingers fluid on the keyboard, then a map of Russia opened on a large monitor that hung on the wall.

  Everyone turned towards Anto. One of his men said, “Rusya’s plane has gone down.”

  Anto froze. “Rusya’s in Moscow, staying for Christmas with his parents.”

  “No. The pilot set the flight plan. Rusya was coming home.”

  Anto stared at the map, a red dot pulsing on the screen. “It doesn’t make sense. If he was coming home, why would he be flying east?”

  Katerina pushed a few buttons. “This is the flight plan Evan filed.” More red dots lit up the screen, connected to each other by green lines. Anto took a few steps forward, stared and shuddered. It had been years since he’d been at Jackman’s compound, but nothing else was there, where the one dot was. The one closest to the crash site. Rusya was flying to Jackman’s compound. There was only reason he’d do that.

  Esma.

  He turned to Katerina. “Can you get a satellite image of the crash site?”

  Katerina nodded. “Already on it.” It flashed up on the screen. Eerie to see it, dark in Russia right now, middle of the day in Vancouver. But Katerina zoomed in, changed angles. The plane seemed almost intact, hull resting on a flat snowy plain. The pilot had managed to crash land it. They could have survived.

  “Where’s the nearest airfield to the crash site?”

  Katerina’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “50 kilometres north, there’s a logging camp with an airstrip.”

  “Good. Get a private plane readied for us. Get tracking and winter gear – five of us.” He pointed to the four men he wanted.

  “And call Eduard,” he said to one of his men. “He comes too – tell him to bring Rusya’s dogs and a handler.”

  A flurry of activity as the men moved out. Anto turned to Katerina. “Call ahead to the logging camp. Any amount of money they want. I need snowmobiles. Enough for all of us. We’ll bring him back one way or another.”

  The little Russian woman’s face was serious as she pulled up information on the monitor, started sending rapid texts. He turned to the remaining three men in the room. “Go to the airport, make sure we have what we need on the plane. First aid, stretchers. Whatever. We don’t know what we’ll find when we get there. Goggles, infrared binoculars. Make sure there’s enough winter gear on board. It’ll be fucking cold.”

  As they hurried out, Anto entered his office and pulled a cell from his desk drawer, then to a safe, opening it, pulling out a stack of cash and a couple of credit cards. He returned to the ops centre, sat down on a computer chair and wheeled it close to Katerina. “When everything’s in place, take this burner cell, a gun and extra ammo and get Marisol out of Vancouver. Hide her. She’ll fight you on this, but don’t let her talk you into taking her to her parents. Force your will. Tell her I’ll come to her. I’ll call you. I have the number.”

  Katerina sucked her lower lip between her teeth, her big round eyes staring into Anto’s face. “Okay.”

  He dropped the cash and credit card in front of her. “Use only this. The credit card can’t be tracked. Nothing else. Don’t let her take anything with her, not even her purse.”

  She nodded, her face a shade paler than before as her eyes flicked to the cash. “Got it.”

  He studied the small, pretty, Russian woman. The one who not so long ago saved Jackman’s life. “Don’t come back for anything, not even me. If I call and say come back, you ignore me, understood? You hang up.”

  “Yes.”

  He sat back, felt despair, loss. Fear. “I’ll come to her as soon as I can. If I never do, then you never come back. You take her somewhere far away from here and both of you, you become someone else.”

  He left then. Not back to the condo, not to Marisol. He couldn’t see her, face her, say goodbye. He didn’t know what he’d find when he got to the wreck, but if Rusya was flying to Jackman’s, that meant he knew about the little Turk. Rusya was a hard man and he’d want the information. All of it. He’d make Esma give it up. Then Rusya would know about Anto’s duplicity and no one would be safe.

  His driver was waiting for him in the lobby.

  Chapter 34

  Esma opened her eyes slowly, blinked. Her head was splitting, like she’d been on a drunk the night before, like she’d had six too many shots of tequila. Her foggy mind floundered for a few minutes, grasping for memories. She brought her hand to her forehead, something sticky on it. Had she been drinking? She didn’t drink anymore. Maybe she forgot to not drink. Her fingertips, she couldn’t see them for some reason, she tasted the tip of one, it was blood. Blood on her fingers, blood on her head.

  Then the cold wracked her and she rea
lized she was freezing. What the fuck? She tried to sit, felt pain radiate down her side, something pinning her to the floor. She concentrated, focused. Groped around. She was buried under something, a seat. An airplane seat. Fuck! The plane they were on, the pilot… they’d crashed because of the storm. They were going to Jackman’s.

  Rusya!

  Grief shook her for a second, but then she rallied. If she was alive, then maybe him too. She shifted her head, felt the wetness trickle toward her eyes… right… she was bleeding. But not too badly, it was a slow trickle, not a gush. But she was cold, fucking freezing. She heard the howl of the wind against the hull of the plane. A storm, the storm. Right, but it helped that the snow was falling. It kept things a little warmer. It was when the skies were clear that it really got cold. She shook herself.

  Focus Esma.

  It was dark in the cabin. Night and they were out in the middle of nowhere. She’d have to find a light source before she could do anything. She let her brain rove over her body, looking for pain points, wiggled her feet, they were working. Not broken and moving so her spine was probably okay too. Not frozen yet, so she can’t have been unconscious for long. Her right arm, fingers seemed okay, but her left pained her, past her wrist. Maybe bruised, maybe fractured. Ribs seemed okay. At most, bruised. So her head and her arm unless she had internal injuries. But she didn’t think so.

  She shoved weakly at the wreckage on top of her, tried to rise, realized she was still buckled to her seat even though the fucking seat was no longer bolted to the floor. Something wrong with that, seatbelts stronger than bolts. She fumbled with the buckle, her fingers feeling the pinpricks of the cold on the metal, making them clumsy, making her panic a little. But then she was free and she thudded onto the floor, the cold seeping into her back, pain hitting her like a freight train. She lay there, let herself breathe for a minute. Another hard shove at the seat on top of her, and she could move. She rolled to her belly. She was still in the plane. In the body of it, but there was a small hole in the side. Blown open and cold air and snow blasted into the cabin.