by Lea Griffith
The man would undo her. Her rage rushed back in. How dare he try to protect her. This was war.
She was on her back and he lay within her guard. Their bodies were flush as their gazes met, his blue-black in the night and pleading. Bone ignored the unspoken request. She would neither break nor give in.
His full weight pressed on her. He was six feet four inches, two hundred fifty pounds of heavily muscled male and she was barely one twenty soaking wet. She relaxed, going limp and he took advantage, pressing his chin into the hollow between her neck and shoulder and grinding down. The pain was immediate but not such that she couldn’t function.
Instead she welcomed it—let it flow through her so it became strength. She twisted and brought her feet up to push against his hips. With a swift shift of her shoulders, she countered his attempt to subdue her and once again shoved up with her feet. He flew over her head and she was on him, taking his back as he rolled and wrapping her arm around his neck, leveraging the hold with her other arm.
He fell back and she was pinned beneath him but she folded her legs around his waist, squeezing to cut off his ability to draw in air as she did her best to choke him out. He tapped her arm desperately, a classic sign he was giving up, but she wouldn’t relent…couldn’t relent. This wasn’t a sparring session.
He went limp moments later and she released the hold before shoving him off. He fell to his side and Bone rubbed her chest at the pain there.
She glanced up again. Flakes of snow fell from the sky above her, a sanction from the darkness, and she knew a hurt she couldn’t counter. “I am not your Bone Breaker, Dmitry,” she whispered.
She had no time for this. There was another move to put into play and until she had Vadim Yesipov’s head in her hands, this part of her journey wouldn’t end.
She hadn’t held Ninka’s hands in the darkness like Bullet, so she would go after her betrayer with the fury of a million demons. She would rip and rend the one who sold her into Joseph Bombardier’s hands—the one who still catered to the devil who created them all.
She feared it would all be over too soon. What would she be without the hate and the kill?
Bone checked Dmitry’s pulse, found it steady and strong and then whispered the words she’d spoken to him two weeks ago.
“Do not follow me, Dmitry Asinimov,” she said at his ear. “Do not make me kill you.”
That would destroy her as nothing else could.
He groaned and Bone stood, grabbed up her backpack, secured it over her shoulders, and backed away.
Dmitry came to swiftly, standing in a smooth motion that spoke of the fighter he was. Had she time, were she a different person, she would have taken a few seconds to admire the shift and play of his body, the effortlessness he displayed.
But she was Bone. There was to be nothing more.
“Bone!”
She heard him yell but she was already flying, leaping off the building as fear locked her throat. The waters of the Griboyedov Canal flowed below. The air stroked her like a lover, but the distance to the water taunted her. She pushed through the terror, swallowed it like the bitterest pill, and met the water in a clean slice. She pushed deep, into the darkness of the frigid river that wound like a snake through St. Petersburg.
And she swam until she was far enough away he couldn’t reach her.
Chapter Two
Bone pulled herself out of the water and rested on the snow-covered bank approximately five kilometers from where she’d entered. She took a moment to scout her surroundings before she stood and began to walk west, back toward the city proper. By now, word of Boris and Anatoly Yesipov’s deaths would have circulated.
Vadim would be holed up in his mansion on the outskirts of St. Petersburg and there she would meet him face to face. The warning had been sent the moment she broke Anatoly’s neck. She wanted Vadim to feel panic. She wanted him to know she was coming.
If she was lucky, she’d beat Dmitry there. She knew he thought Vadim was his kill to make. He believed Vadim had put his father in the ground. The number of people who knew the truth could be counted on one hand. She would spare Dmitry that truth if she could, though she didn’t fully understand why.
Did she want him kept in the dark for her sake or his? She’d analyzed the thought endlessly and still the answer evaded her. The only truth that mattered right now was Vadim Yesipov was Bone’s.
Like Minton, Vadim’s death held a certain appeal for Bone. He had taken little girls and sold them for years. Young Ninka had been one of many. The difference between Ninka and the many was that Ninka was hers, Bullet’s, Arrow’s and Blade’s.
No one took what was theirs.
Vadim was one of two linchpins holding the Russian arm of Joseph’s Collective conglomerate together. Lose Vadim and Joseph could possibly lose control of the billions in oil in Crimea and the billions in human slave trade Vadim ran without conscience. The other entity that headed Joseph’s interest in Russia was a woman who had dealt more betrayal than any one person should be allowed in a hundred lifetimes.
Bone would save Dmitry from that reality as well, though she had a nasty feeling there was no way to do it. It was another insidious truth that would likely tear Dmitry’s world apart at the seams. She was to be Bone’s denouement in this Russian saga and Bone was looking very forward to killing that particular woman.
She had much work left to do.
One foot in the front of the other, she tracked through the small park toward the road ahead. Her soft footfalls marked the light snow, crushing the delicate crystals of ice and leaving a trace, a reminder she was alive. How much longer would that last? When would she have relief from this gnawing hunger to kill?
There were no clues to be found in the Russian night. They would remain questions without answers.
Her creator was here in St. Petersburg. She could feel Joseph’s presence like razor blades on her soul. He’d been visiting the most influential Collective members—the ones who left the last meeting in Arequipa less than assured Joseph had control of the First Team situation. Of course, he was also trying to guess where she and her sisters would strike next. It amused First Team to take the most obvious targets first. Bullet, Arrow, and Bone were responsible for a systematic decimation of the top brass of The Collective. But if their plays set The Collective into disarray, Blade’s upcoming moves would shock the world.
Bone knew Bullet had given Rand a list of their targets—there was one was missing though and it had been by design. No one could anticipate what was coming and Joseph was scurrying as he attempted damage control.
He was also looking for the boy. It was truth that with Minton’s loss, Joseph was now spread very thin. It was beautiful to witness.
A vehicle pulled up and stopped in front of her. “How long’s it gonna take you to get your ass in the car?”
She rolled her eyes at the long, slow Texas drawl. Grant Fielding had his place in her world but he got on her nerves like no other. Not that he wasn’t useful. For all his CIA contacts, the man was a wealth of information most of the time. And he had a secret that would either be his downfall or his saving grace.
It would be up to the woman dogging First Team as to which category he eventually fell in. Of course that was only if Bone let her close enough to explain what the hell she was doing and why.
“I can stand out here a little while longer if it pisses you off,” she answered in a clipped tone.
He barked out a laugh. “Sometimes I hate you, Bone. Get in the goddamn car and let’s get to Yesipov’s before your boyfriend beats us to the punch.”
Bone ignored the comment about Dmitry and got in the passenger’s seat. She then proceeded to peel the wet Gortex unitard off, pulling yet another from her backpack. She dressed in silence, never glancing at Grant, knowing the man cared nothing about seeing her nude.
She settled back. It was at least thirty miles from their destination, and she let the silence grow until it stretched taut.
&nb
sp; Then she questioned him. “Who is she?”
He glanced at her, blond eyebrow raised. She compared him automatically to Dmitry. Their coloring was similar, their heights close, their build the same but that was where the comparisons ended. Dmitry was classically handsome—broad forehead, sculpted cheekbones, and patrician nose. Grant was a bruiser. His face, while not ugly, was the farthest thing from handsome Bone could imagine. He looked like he’d been in more bar fights than his face could handle and his nose had two bumps in it from several breaks.
“Who you talkin’ about, sugar?” he asked slowly.
“The dumb hick cowboy act doesn’t work with me, Grant. I’ve known you too long now. You know who I speak of and trust me when I say that if you don’t tell me who she is, and soon, I’ll stalk her and take her life. Don’t make me cut her short.”
The car skidded to a stop. He turned to her, aggressive intent in every line of his body. “You won’t hurt her. I’ll kill you first.”
Bone threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, Grant, that’s funny. But if you’re worried, simply tell me who she is. She’s been tracking us since Bullet was in Arequipa, maybe longer. Then she showed up in China with Arrow. If she’s one of Joseph’s gone rogue, perhaps we can work together.”
Grant gazed forward. She watched him control his own need to strike. She was ready for anything and after the small altercation with Dmitry, she had a vicious need to expend more volatile energy. It didn’t matter who she took it out on at this point.
He exhaled and rolled his head on his shoulders. “It is not my story to tell and you’ll either accept that or we’ll get to the nitty-gritty right here, darlin’,” he bit out.
“I can’t kill you, Grant. I might hate that you’re a necessity, but you’re important to my sisters.”
He snorted. “I don’t like you much either, Bone. And who’s to say I wouldn’t kill you?”
It was her turn to snort. “I saved your ass, Grant. If Joseph knew what you’d done, he’d wipe you from the face of the earth. You can’t kill me because you owe me and I know that black heart of yours has a white streak in it. But let me reiterate—if she makes a move toward us, I will kill her. She isn’t as good as us and it shows. She’s held nothing back, but like you, she’s slower, less inclined to make a kill shot than we are.”
“Why do you think that is?” he asked conversationally, though he made no move to continue driving.
“She doesn’t hate as we do,” Bone answered him simply. She’d analyzed the situation for a while, had her own idea of who the woman was and why she was dogging them.
She would not share those ideas with her sisters, not yet, though she knew they too remembered the night that had changed everything for them. They’d been created in the light of a morning, but the darkness of a single night four years later had given them a purpose beyond death.
He laughed, and the sound was harsh in the silence. “She defines hatred, Bone. You and your sisters, as much as you’ve been through, have no idea what formed that one.”
The quiet grew again and Bone let it. “Keep her out of our line of sight and she’ll live. That’s my final warning, Grant. You are obviously tied to this woman somehow. Maybe she’s one you saved? You’ve saved a few over the years, haven’t you? I don’t know and I don’t care. Just keep her away.”
He said nothing, simply shook his head and finally put the car in gear.
“Asinimov will find out it was you,” Grant told her.
“He will,” she affirmed. She knew exactly what he spoke of and the deflection from his problem to hers didn’t go unnoticed.
“What will you do then?”
Grant seemed genuinely concerned. She couldn’t help but wonder at the reason. “Why do you care?”
“He is a killer. Oh, I know you and your sisters have seen a side of him others may not have. The side that protects and heals. Make no mistake, the man is just a breath away from being what his father was.”
She turned her gaze to Grant and studied his features. “You know something else you aren’t sharing, Mr. Fielding. That’s not very nice.”
He shrugged. “You only call me Mr. Fielding when you’re pissed. And yes, I know a lot I don’t share. It’s what makes me valuable.”
She rolled her eyes again. “I’m waiting.”
“Both Dmitry’s father and Dmitry himself were trained by the same one who trained Joseph.”
He dropped that bomb and Bone’s insides froze. The thought of Dmitry in the hands of Badr Abela made her skin prickle and her hands clench. Badr Abela had been a Dutch-born Moroccan mixed-martial arts master. Versed in kick-boxing, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, Jeet Kun Doo, Muay Thai and plain old gutter fighting, he had been a preeminent killer. If you wanted to learn a million ways to kill, or die, he was who you sought. He’d also been a sadist. He enjoyed pain—his, but more importantly, other people’s. If anyone had been born evil, it was Badr Abela.
“I see that caught your attention,” Grant mused. “Perhaps now you understand my concern when it comes to your safety once Dmitry finds out the truth of his father’s passing.”
Bone said nothing. There wasn’t anything to say. Her fight with Sacha Asinimov had been brutal and now she understood why. Badr Abela.
When her training at Joseph’s hands ended, he’d sent her to Morocco. For an entire year she’d trained under Abela. For an entire year she’d suffered. She’d been away from her sisters, but that had been the smallest of the pains she endured. The agonies, or as Badr Abela called them “lessons”, only ended when she’d taken his head into her hands and twisted the life from his body.
She clenched her fists as she struggled to contain the hate.
She had learned so much under the man who called himself Master. Abela taught her to channel her rage. He taught her to be quicker in mind and body than her opponents. He was the one who taught her lusting for death was as natural as breathing and if she accepted it, took it inside her and succored that desire, she would become death in whatever form she chose. What her father began when she’d been a baby, had found fruit and manifested first under Joseph then Abela. Master, had given her a target and she’d taken everything he taught her and utilized it perfectly.
His last look had been one of surprise.
She’d been nine years old when she stuffed the head she’d ripped from his shoulders into a knapsack and hopped a plane to Arequipa. Bone had hitched a ride to the compound and walked through the woods, avoiding all the booby-traps and cameras, until she walked into the main house and found Joseph sitting at his dinner table, a slew of guests dressed in shimmery clothing and shiny jewelry fawning over the bastard, listening to some story he was telling them.
She had taken Abela’s head from the knapsack and placed it on Joseph’s ivory dinner plate before she stepped back and stared at him.
He had clapped in delight and then had Minton string her up from the highest cliff in the mountains. She had soiled his dinner plate, spoiled his grand party, and should be punished after all. He left her in the hold of those fraying ropes for three days. It had taken fifteen men to overcome her and she’d sworn she’d never be caught that way again. Yet another lesson Abela taught her—this one from the grave.
“I killed Abela at the age of nine, Grant. Dmitry may have trained under him, but I am him.”
Grant winced, rubbed his chest and nodded. “We’re about five minutes out now. Are you ready?”
She simply looked at him.
He nodded again and said, “I’ll drop you off and you’re on your own. I hope to see you around, Bone.”
“Hope is for fools,” she said in return.
The car stopped and she hopped out. He drove off, and she watched the red lights disappear under the blanket of snow falling from the sky. The cold wasn’t a deterrent tonight. The material of her unitard was such that she was insulated against the weather. She tucked her hair under the hood and secured it over her head and face.
She made her w
ay through the dense forest that surrounded Vadim Yesipov’s mansion and stashed her backpack in a secure place. The waterproof bag held everything she valued with the exception of her sisters. She covered the area with leaves and dirt and then stood and glanced up into the night sky.
“Zeh mah sheyesh,” she whispered to the twinkling lights piercing the blackness. This is what there is; there is no more. The Hebrew rolled off her tongue effortlessly.
Her father had once whispered it as she’d watched him kill a man. She’d been born to follow in her mother and father’s footsteps. They’d been little more than glorified terrorists wrapping their own need to kill all who didn’t believe as they did in the cloak of righteousness.
How life had come full circle for Bone. Her parents could have never imagined what she would mature into. They’d be delighted she was sure.
Bone opened the floodgates and let the rage that always burned under her surface consume her. The taste of it was sweet on her tongue. The feel of it in her blood was potent. The demon in her soul delighted in being freed.
She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply and once more spoke the words she’d said over Ninka all those years ago.
“Baruch dayan emet, aval n’kamah hayah mokesh,” Bone whispered. “Shalom, achot.”
Chapter Three
Vadim had been expecting him. Dmitry was ushered into the main salon and offered a heavy crystal snifter of Vadim’s finest vodka. Dmitry tossed it back and let out a loud groan. The vodka chased away the headache he sported since being choked out by Bone.
Vadim laughed and clapped him on the back. “How is the son of my blood-brother?”
“I will be better soon,” Dmitry said vaguely.
The game was in play. When he’d recovered after watching Bone jump off a five story building into the canal below, he’d straightened his clothing and headed to Yesipov’s mansion outside St. Petersburg.
“Yes,” Vadim breathed out heavily. “Once we find the bitch who did this, we will all be better. My brother lies dead and my nephew had his head nearly taken off. Did you see it?”