Shattered: Running with the Devil Book 7

by Jasmin Quinn

  Rusya took her hand, threaded his fingers through hers. Rubbed his thumb on the back. “Tell me the story again, Esma.”

  She shifted a little. Thought about what to say, felt her throat close on her. Took a few quick gulps of air. It was good the way they were laying, she couldn’t see his face. It would make words come easier. “Is it okay if I start at the beginning?”

  Rusya squeezed her hand. She decided that was his yes. “I lied about being born in Istanbul. I wasn’t born there, not raised there.”

  “Why would you lie about that? It’s insignificant.”

  Esma thought about it. “I was raised in a small village. Easy to trace back through birth records that there would be no Esma Akkaya. But in Istanbul, no problem.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  Esma didn’t want to say, wasn’t going to say. “That woman is dead. My real name is Esma.”

  He let it go and Esma continued, glad again that she couldn’t see his face. “My parents were… are… very traditional Muslims, strict Islamic. Raised me and my siblings that way. None of us were spoiled, my brother was the favourite. Oldest, male. And me. I don’t know. The middle child. You know. Always in trouble, willful.”

  She paused to think of what she wanted to say next and he let her. Nothing from him but the steady caress of his fingers on her hand. “My father got frustrated with me all the time. Beat me, locked me up because I made him so mad with my behaviour. I was stupid then, not to back down even when I knew it would end with a slap or a punch, maybe more than one.”

  “I graduated from school a little early. My father had a friend, a professor at the university in Istanbul. He was in his 30s, not ugly. His name was Kerem. My father and he arranged a marriage between us. I was 16, excited about the prospect of leaving my boring little village, getting away from my strict, difficult parents. Eager that I would go to university and naively thinking I was in love with Kerem.”

  She stopped again, the memories flooding her. Barely a woman, her husband-to-be as old as her father. But charming and doting and at the time, caring. She couldn’t wait for the wedding, to be gone from the village. To start her new life. “After the wedding I went with him to Istanbul, to his little apartment on the university campus. I started my studies and I was happy for a while. To be a wife, to be a student. Kerem was difficult. Strict follower of Islam, which is okay except, like my father, he used the tenants as a means of control.”

  She felt Rusya tense, his fingers stilling. But his breathing was steady, still listening. Softly, “I am who I am, Rusya. Not intentionally so, but I know I have a temper, I know I can get a little crazy. I’m smarter now, and more mature, but there are some things even a strong man can’t beat out of a woman. We fought, he hit me. It was a difficult time because while I could get divorced from him, I needed him. I know that sounds self-serving and it was. What was I to do? I couldn’t go home. My father would have beaten me to death. I couldn’t leave and make my own way. I had no money and he was powerful, knew people, had high-ranking political friends. I tried hard to be a good wife but I was always fucking up. Always. I learned to keep my head down, studied as much as I could, as much as he would allow. Went through my programs quickly.”

  She felt the warmth of Rusya’s breath on the top of her head. Wished her hair smelled clean, wished it wasn’t matted with blood. “After I graduated, my husband secured a job for me as a cultural attaché for the Turkish Embassy in Russia. I think he wanted me gone too, needed a separation and I was happy to go. I didn’t miss him. Didn’t miss home.”

  Rusya was stroking her hand again. “What happened?”

  “Ah, the Turkish Ambassador made a proposal to me that I said no to. Perhaps a little too hard.” Esma thought back. She was lucky she hadn’t been arrested. But it was decided that it was better to sweep it under the carpet rather than give her a soapbox. “They sent me back to Istanbul. To my husband, who was enraged. It was the worst beating I ever experienced. After, I tried to press charges, tried to get a divorce, but was blocked everywhere I turned. I had disgraced my husband. I deserved what I got. I knew he would beat me to death someday.”

  “So you killed him.”

  Esma nodded, her fingers threaded through his now, hanging on. “I tried to run, but that was a silly notion. I was tracked down, arrested, thrown into prison to await the trial. I had no one in the world. Not a soul.”

  She remembered the night she was rescued. In a cell built for two but shared by 10 women. And she in a corner as two of the prison guards stepped in, pointed to her, told her to come with them. She did, asking, “Why?”

  One of the guards told her to shut up and she obeyed but she was dying inside, thinking this would be the end. They would beat her to death, throw her body back into the cell and blame it on the other women. But it didn’t happen that way. They took her out of the building, through the gates into the back of a waiting car. No words exchanged between any of them.

  There were three men in the car, the two in front Turkish, the one beside her, American. He told her his name was Anthony. He told her that he was taking her out of Turkey, to a safe place.

  Once again, she asked, “Why?”

  The man shrugged, smiled. “It’s a good thing. You’ll be safe, looked after.”

  Later she learned his name was Anthony West, one of Jackman’s agents. Fluent in Turkish, well fluent enough. She didn’t cross paths much with him after that, wasn’t saddened when she heard of his death. Didn’t know him well in life, didn’t need to grieve for him in death.

  “I was only in prison for a few months before I was rescued. Escorted to a car that took me out of Turkey to Greece. Then eventually to Moscow where I boarded a private plane and was brought to Jackman’s compound. At first, I was grateful, understanding that Jackman rescued me for a reason. In return for my freedom, I worked for him. Lots of training initially, and then some missions. Sometimes into Turkey, but mostly middle eastern countries. I went where he told me, did what he asked.

  “But it was hard for me. I’m not a killer. Wasn’t a killer. I am now, I guess. But not a good spy.” She paused. “Not very good at anything, not really. I drank too much, all the time. Was difficult, disrespectful. I wanted to run away, but I thought Jackman would kill me. Then last summer, I was drunk on the job. Got caught and reported on. Jackman locked me up in a cell and made me dry out. Forced me to. Maybe it was a good thing. Probably. But then after I was better, back on my feet, he sent me to you.”

  She stopped then. Rusya’s grip on her fingers was punishing. He knew the rest anyway. She waited for him to say something.

  Finally, his voice low and cool, his grip relaxing, “Why didn’t you tell me the minute you walked into my home?”

  She twisted her head so she could see his face. “I didn’t want to die, Rusya. I don’t want to die. How could I know how you would react? And then, when you showed an interest in me, when we… us… it snowballed. I’d forget why I was there, then remember, then forget again.” She brought her hand up to his face, felt the burn of his whiskers rough against her palm. “It wasn’t on his orders. I promise. It was always because of you.”

  She couldn’t see his eyes in the shadow of the firelight. Couldn’t read what he was thinking. After a stretch of silence, he said, “We should sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day.”

  Esma bit her lip, resisted kissing him. Turned her back, huddled against him as he dropped his hand to her waist. Quiet settled in the shelter, the crackle of the fire and their breaths intermingling. Sleep wasn’t coming.

  Finally, Esma said, “Tell me about you, Rusya.”

  Rusya hesitated. He always hesitated. Always thought of his words before he said them. “There’s not much to tell. My father is bratva, his father is bratva. It’s natural that I followed the family way.”

  “And Vancouver? How did you end up there?”

  “You know. I killed the man who killed my wife. Not gently, not quickly. My father thought it
best I leave Russia for a while. In Vancouver, I thrived, took leadership of the bratva there. It felt like home to me.”

  “And Jackman. What’s his involvement?”

  “The man I killed, the man who killed Irina was Leonid Petrovich Mikhalev, the father of Dmitrii L’vovich Mikhalev who hides behind an alias. Jackman.”

  Esma felt chills sweep through her at the implications. “Why did Jackman’s father kill your wife?”

  “He didn’t mean to. Or maybe he did. I was the target though, not her. You know what happened.”

  “But why?”

  “Old grievances between my father and him.” He stopped then. She understood that that was all he was going to share. She stopped talking too.

  She slept for a while, woke up to Rusya sitting on the end of the cot, staring into the fire. He had risen at some point and added more fuel, the fire burning low and keeping the room warm.

  “Have you slept?”

  His dark eyes swept her. “No.”

  She sat up. “I can keep watch for a while, so you can sleep.”

  He glanced at his watch, slipped behind her, pulled her to him. “We have two hours before it’s time to go. We can both sleep. The room’s warm enough.”

  As they settled in, he said, “How can you want me, Esma? I’ve choked you, thrown you, slapped you.”

  Esma let the words roll over her, seep into her. They were true and yet, each time her actions led him there. She understood why it was hard for him to believe her. Her story contributed to his mistrust, because how could someone with her history fall in love with a man as controlling as Rusya? She had no answer.

  Chapter 38

  Anto was tired, edgy, impatient. He took it out on everyone around him, barking orders, issuing commands as they unloaded the plane and readied the search party. There were no problems using the logging camp’s landing strip as a runway. No problems with interference by Jackman. Anto thought perhaps Jackman still believed him an asset. Or possibly it was Jackman’s opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Three birds, he amended as he thought of Esma.

  He watched as the handlers unloaded the dogs, Sint and Oscar. Rusya loved his dogs. At the country estate, there were several, all trained, and when Rusya had time, indulged by him. The dogs in Vancouver guarded his property, a lethal extra layer of security. But they understood that Rusya was their master, adored him even over their handlers.

  In the end, Anto brought both handlers with him, Eduard and four of his men and two pilots. One of the men and the pilots would remain with the plane in case Jackman thought to show up. They were all well-armed with semi-automatic rifles.

  They had snowmobiles too, but Anto doubted they’d be of much value in the forest. Still, they were Russian Buran’s, utilitarian, not the silly recreational ones that Canadians bought. Each one could carry up to three men and tow a trailer, which he wanted in case Rusya was injured and unable to walk. His mind corrected him, in case there was a body to haul out. But Anto veered away from the thought. Rusya was more than a boss to him, he was the family he’d never had, and he couldn’t cope with the idea of his death.

  As they suited up for the elements, packed more cold weather gear, Anto talked with his men. “We won’t be going to the downed plane. If Jackman’s aware of the crash, then his search party will start there. Rusya will realize this too, so if he’s alive and able to walk, he’ll have left the wreckage and likely headed north, away from Jackman’s compound.”

  One of his men shook his head, “But if he can’t walk, he’ll be at the plane.”

  Anto narrowed his eyes at the stupid man. “Yeah. And Jackman will have him by now. We use the dogs to track his scent. Either they’ll take us to the plane, or they’ll find him coming to us. If they take us to the plane, then our plans change.” He didn’t tell him what the plan would be if Jackman had Rusya. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  They set out on the snowmobiles, the dogs running ahead, barking joyfully. They were well trained and when their handlers called them back, they returned, rode on the trailer for a while, then bolted off again. The team followed a southern path on the sleds as far as they could go, then when the trees became impassible for the snow machines, they left them and walked in. Rifles over their shoulders, dogs barking.

  “Can’t you shut them up?” Anto growled.

  One of the handlers shrugged. “It’s what they do. They’re excited to be on the job. It tells each other where they are, tells us where they are.”

  “And tells Jackman’s search party where they are,” Anto groused.

  Chapter 39

  Anto was right. Dean Copeland heard the barking as they tramped through the snow. They’d arrived at the crash site the day before. Their snowmobiles taking them only so far into the heavily wooded area before they had to abandon them and walk in. Finn McQueen and Mack Welling were with him along with several of Jackman’s men.

  Finn, the man who saved the day when Savisin took Nika and tortured her. A former cop, good and smart, hard like him, but a better man. Treated women respectfully. Nika for sure, his wife, but also Kelsie, Dean’s partner. She was now at the compound with their baby girl. Dean wanted her close, thought she was safer. She and Nika had become close friends and so, by extension, he and Finn spent more time together. Jackman respected Finn and that’s what mattered to Dean. As long as a man had Jackman’s respect, Dean trusted him.

  Mack Welling though, he was like Jackman’s lapdog. Hanging around, Jackman indulging him, keeping him close. Quiet, unobtrusive and a little off-centre. Always doing things a little differently, like when he wandered off to bed while the rest of the search party made preparations. And even now, as they followed the impressions in the snow left by Rusya and Esma, he strolled a little aimlessly, looking around at the scenery, refusing to carry a weapon. He’d shrugged when Dean challenged him, said, “It’s overkill for all of us to be armed, don’t you think? I’m not going to riddle Savisin full of bullets. You be my guest if that’s what you want to do.”

  It took them most of the day to get to the wreckage of the plane. The plane itself was fairly intact, and as they searched it, they found the pilot’s body. He’d bled to death despite the best efforts of someone. The two passengers, Rusya and Esma, were no where to be found. They were a day ahead of Dean’s search party and Dean thought about continuing the search through the night.

  Mack again, objecting. “We’re moving faster than they are, they don’t have snowshoes. We can get up before sunrise and go. But I’ll be fucked if I’m going to tramp through these trees in the dark. I don’t want to freeze to death in a gully or get eaten by wolves.” He said it all mildly, not aggressively, like it was a typical conversation between colleagues at lunchtime.

  Dean almost decked him anyway for being so insubordinate but Finn, the voice of reason, sided with Mack. He took Dean aside and, keeping his voice low so he couldn’t be overheard, said, “It’s been a long day, we all need a rest. Mack’s right about what could happen out there in the dark. We’ll leave early, catch them.”

  Finn wanted to get his hands on Rusya, maybe more than any of them. If he was willing to stop, Dean was willing to concede. They stayed the night inside the shell of the plane, hunkering down in the cold. Then early, before the sun was up, resumed their search. Two men stayed behind at the crash site. Armed, ready in case Rusya and Esma returned. Or anyone else showed up. Orders were to capture, but if they were shot at, shoot to kill. Jackman didn’t like to lose trained men.

  The sun was fully up when they heard the baying of the dogs. But out here in the snow and the trees, sound travelled. He couldn’t tell how close they were. But they were dogs, not wolves and Dean knew they were Rusya’s dogs, which meant Rusya’s men were also on the hunt for the mob boss. He hoped Anto was leading the search party. He hoped Anto was still loyal to Jackman. And even if he wasn’t, Dean knew Anto was loyal to him. That would be enough.

  Chapter 40

  Rusya and Esma left the
shelter as soon as the sun crept up past the crest of the trees. Rusya hoped for another clear cut, a sign that they were headed in the right direction. He’d been impatient to get going, tired, cold. His shoulder paining him. The going became more difficult than the day before, uphill, too steep in spots to climb and littered with forest debris. Esma was falling behind and Rusya slowed his pace so she could keep up. They had to climb at times, fighting for handholds and footholds, Rusya supporting Esma, who had only the one good arm.

  Two hours in, Rusya stopped, looked around as he waited for Esma to catch up. Wasn’t there something about moss growing on trees, only in one direction. Was it north? He couldn’t remember. He was not a woodsman, not a survivalist. He didn’t camp, wasn’t a boy scout as a child. He fully admitted that he embraced the material things in life. The five-star hotels, the good vodka, the warm fireplaces.

  Esma finally tramped up beside him. He saw the exhaustion in her face, black circles under her eyes and guilt filtered through him. She was the strongest woman he’d ever met and if she was telling the truth about her past, she was unbelievably resilient. How does a woman treated like she had been retain such a spirit?

  And he’d done the same to her. Hit her, intimidated her. Tried to control her, maybe even would have succeeded. Except now, he didn’t want to. Now, he wasn’t sure what he wanted.

  That’s when he heard them, the baying of the hounds. His hounds. He knew without a doubt. “Anto’s coming.”

  Esma heard them too. “How do you know the dogs belong to Anto?”

  “They don’t. They belong to me.” Rusya smiled, his cheeks cracking a little in the cold. “Those are my dogs and they’re coming to find me.”

  Esma didn’t smile back, nodded, her eyes dull, her face sad.

  Rusya couldn’t find the words to reassure her. He didn’t know if reassurances would be a truth. “Let’s go.” He turned, headed up the hill, feeling a renewal of energy. The dogs would find them. Anto was coming.